Moose Ear, the silent, wrinkled old Indian, with lighted candles made of
buffalo tallow, guided Big Pete and me up the broad skilfully built
puncheon stairway to the upper story of the surprisingly large ranch
house, where he showed us to our rooms, rooms which were a joy to look
upon. Each was furnished with a heavy, hand-made four-posted bedstead,
which in spite of the massiveness was beautifully made, and I wondered
at the patience of the Wild Hunter in teaching the Indians their
craftmanship.
The other furniture in the room was also hand wrought, as were the fiber
rugs on the floor and the checked homespun blankets on the beds. There
was a harmonious and pleasing effect; the rooms were cheerful, abounding
in evidences of Indian handicraft. Beadwork and embroidery of dyed
porcupine quills were prevalent, even the tester which roofed the
four-post bedstead was ornamented with fringes of buckskin and designs
made of beads and porcupine quills. The chairs and floors were
plentifully supplied with fur rugs, and the quaint, old-fashioned
appearance of the room in nowise detracted from its comfort or even
luxury.
If it had not been for the uncomfortable thought of that pack of black
wolves outside, I am sure I would have been supremely happy at the
prospect of once more spending a night between clean and cool sheets and
a real feather pillow on which to rest my head. Eagerly and almost
excitedly I threw off my clothes and donned the long, linen nightshirt
with which old Moose Ear had provided me. Then I put the buckhorn
extinguisher over the candle and dove into the feather bed as gleefully
as a child on Christmas Eve.
I expected to immediately fall asleep, but there is where I made a
mistake; my mind would not cease working, the wheels in my head kept
buzzing and would not stop. I was as wide awake as a codfish; the bed
was comfortable, too comfortable, but tired though I was I felt no
inclination to sleep. I thought it was the strangeness of my
surroundings which kept me tossing from side to side, but I soon
realized that the trouble was to be found in the fact that for months I
had only had the sky for my roof, never using our tents or open faced
shack except in bad weather; but here, the ornamented tester of the bed
and the ceiling itself seemed to be resting on my chest; in spite of the
wide open windows the room seemed stuffy and oppressive. I felt as if I
would suffocate.
Twice I got up and sat by the open window and gazed out at the black
landscape. The sky was cloudy and there were no stars; this combined
with the pine trees about the ranch house made the darkness so black and
thick that it seemed as if one might cut it in chunks, with a knife. The
air felt good to breathe but I did not propose to sit by the window all
night so at last I arose, put moccasins on my feet and, taking my
blankets with me, stole stealthily down the stairs, opened the front
door and made my bed on the floor of the broad piazza. I had not
forgotten the warning to keep indoors, but I thought I would rather risk
the wolves than to smother all night.
In the darkness I discovered another occupant of the piazza also rolled
up in a blanket taken from a bed in the house. Feeling with my hands I
discovered that it was Big Pete. Comfortably settling myself in my
blanket I felt the breeze from the mountain blowing over my face and
through my hair, and it soothed me until I dropped off into gentle
slumber; but during the months I had been sleeping in the open I had
learned the art, as the saying is, of sleeping with one eye open. In
this case, however, if the eye had really been wide open it could have
seen nothing because of the darkness, but the darkness did not interfere
with my ability to hear, and after I had been sleeping awhile I found
myself suddenly sitting bolt upright in my blankets with beads of
perspiration on my forehead and that terrible sensation of horror which
one experiences in a nightmare. I knew that I had heard something, but
what?
The oppressive silence of the wilderness made the valley appear as if
Nature was holding her breath for a moment before giving voice to an
explosion of sound. I sensed impending disaster of some sort. What it
was I could not guess, but was convinced that something was about to
happen.
As I held my breath and listened, the ranch house was silent; even Pete
had not, apparently, awakened, but I could not hear his regular
breathing. Now I thought I could detect a soft and very faint noise as
of some large body creeping over the puncheon steps. I also imagined I
detected the noise of padded feet and the scraping noise of claws on the
wood. A shudder ran through me. Was a panther, a mountain lion, about to
spring upon me? No, I abandoned the thought and instinctively I knew
that it must be one of the black wolf pack. Then I remembered hearing
the cracking and breaking of sticks or timber while I was trying to
sleep in the bedroom, and I felt that Pluto had broken out of the pen
and was creeping up on us slowly and stealthily as I have seen a fox
creep up on a covey of quail.
Would the beast presently hurl its terrible form upon me, or on Big
Pete? I attempted to warn my friend, but my tongue clung to the roof of
my mouth and for the moment I was powerless and speechless, subdued by a
combination of fear of the real beast and superstitious fear of the
fabulous werwolf or loup-garou,[4] but the next moment I pulled myself
together, mastered my trembling limbs, rolled softly out of my blankets,
and gun in hand wormed my way toward the spot where Big Pete lay,
determined to sell my life dearly. With Big Pete beside me, now that I
was thoroughly awake, I would fight all the werwolves of the old world
and all the loup-garous of Canada. I reached out and felt for Pete but
he was not there, the blankets were empty; once or twice I thought I
detected the glint of the wolves' eyes, but the night was very dark and
in the shadow of the roof I could really see nothing.
[Footnote 4: A werwolf, or loup-garou, is a legendary man who,
it was formerly believed, could at will take on the form and
nature of a wolf.]
Closer and closer sounded the stealthy, dragging noise, and I heard a
hand feel softly for the latch of the front door and could hear fingers
scraping ever so softly over the wood surface of the other side. A
slight rattle told me that the hand had found the latch and that
presently the door would be flung open. With my revolver ready I waited
developments and braced myself for the attack.
The door flew open wide, and the voice of the Wild Hunter cried,
"Pluto, you fiend, down! down! I say!"
But this time the huge brute did not obey and the command was answered
by a low rebellious growl, a scratching of feet on the puncheons, and a
heavy thud of someone falling told me that the final struggle for the
leadership of the black wolf pack had begun.
Then burst upon the stillness of the night such an uproar that for a
moment I thought the whole pack was mixed in the fight, but at length I
heard Pluto's snarling, rumbling growl, answered by the distant howl of
the wolf pack, followed immediately by a close-by yell that chilled my
blood; after this came Big Pete's war cry, then the crash of falling
objects, shrieks and growls and savage yells.
I had flung myself forward, and there in the pitch darkness of the
doorway of the hall I felt and heard rather than saw the lean twisting
bodies of the Wild Hunter and Pluto clasped in a life and death struggle
on the floor. I feared to use my revolver, as it would have been
impossible to tell whether I was shooting the hunter or the wolf.
Suddenly a light burst upon the scene. Big Pete's absence was
explained; he had secured a lantern and holding it aloft with his left
hand, with a six-shooter in his right, he paused a moment over the
struggling figures. By the light of the lantern one could see that the
Wild Hunter was on his back struggling with the giant beast which he was
trying to choke with his two hands, while the wolf's teeth were seeking
the throat of the man. It was a terrible scene but it was no time to
waste in horror. The efforts of the hunter to free himself from his
terrible assailant would have been of little avail but for the
assistance of Big Pete, for the wolf was shaking the wild man from side
to side with terrific force, very much the same as a bull-terrier might
shake a cat.
Pete wasted no time but placing the muzzle of his gun against the wolf's
head he fired, then shouted to me, "Look behind you."
As I wheeled about I found that I was facing the rest of the pack. Pluto
reared upon his hind legs, clawed the air frantically in his death
struggle, and fell with a thud across his master's body, but Pete and I
were now concentrating our fire on the snarling, leaping bodies of the
wolf pack. Fortunately the death of Pluto and the silence of the Wild
Hunter seemed to discourage the pack, they evidently missed their
leaders and this gave us the advantage, for if they had rushed us we
undoubtedly would have fallen victims to their savage teeth.
In the melee the lantern was upset and the struggle ended in darkness as
it began, but when things quieted down and Pete relit the lantern there
were only two wolves which were alive and they were fiercely attacking
each other. We soon dispatched them, however, and then devoted our
attention to the Wild Hunter over whose body Big Pete was now bending.
"By the great horn spoon, Le-loo!" cried he, looking up for a moment,
"we've wiped out the pack, and now that the scrap is over here comes the
Injuns. I calculate our friend here is a dead one; Pluto has chewed him
to pieces. Come, lend a hand and we will see what we can do for the poor
old man; he certainly did put up a glorious fight."
Reaching down I gathered the old man's legs in my arms, and with Big
Pete supporting his head and shoulders, we carried him into my room and
laid him on the feather bed under the savagely ornamented tester.
Big Pete was all action then, and I helped as best I could. The Scout
ripped one of the homespun sheets into ribbons and with these made
bandages and proceeded to stay the flow of blood from the old man's
lacerated throat. He worked hard and long and now and then he would
shake his head dubiously. Presently he muttered, "'Taint much use, Ol'
Timer, I guess yore a goner. Yore goneta pass over t' Divide this time,
I guess. That tha' Pluto fiend done chewed you up fer further orders."
At this the old man opened his eyes, and a grim smile wrinkled his now
ashen face.
"I knew he'd do it some day, and I think he got me this time. The Mewan
Indians call the giant wolf "Too-le-ze" and that is also the name they
gave me, but I am not a werwolf, a loup-garou or a Too-le-ze. I was only
their master but now their victim.
"I feared that Pluto, as I call him, or Too-le-ze, was strong and
treacherous and that is why I ruled him with an iron hand. He's got me
this time. I guess it had to end this way--give me a cup of water."
He then fixed his gaze on me and I noticed that he no longer had that
worried, haunted look which had heretofore characterized him.
"So you are Donald's son--well, when I heard Pluto stalking you I knew
that it was you or your uncle that the beast would get; it was fate that
made me slip and fall, and once down the wolf saw his long-looked-for
opportunity and instantly availed himself of it. But the good Lord was
not going to allow me to bring bad luck to both you and your father,
boy. Yes, I am Fay Mullen and I caused the death of your father, and my
brother. I bear the brand of Cain.
"We were crossing a steep bank of snow at the foot of a cliff, and being
both tired and hungry we were bickering and quarreling over nothing. I
should have remembered that your father was but just recovering from an
attack of nervous prostration, but I did not; we had been months in the
mountains prospecting and the unprofitable toil and loneliness must have
got on my nerves. At any rate, after some hot, unbrotherly language, we
agreed to part company.
"We sat down on the snow and divided our outfit by lot. I got the
flint-lock Patrick Mullen, the fierce Great Dane and the gentle little
donkey; your father got the packhorse and the Winchester rifle.
"We--we--parted without saying good-bye, and just then an elk came out
on the snow bank. Instantly your father fired and I fired, the elk fell,
but the simultaneous concussion of the reports of the two rifles started
the snow to moving. The Great Dane and the donkey sensed the danger and
fled to the right. I turned to warn your father and motioned him back,
but he came on a run toward me and I fled at the heels of my outfit. The
burro and dog escaped to safety, I was caught in the edge of the slide,
knocked unconscious and buried in snow, from which the dog rescued me.
"A fragment of stone struck me on the head and I have never been the
same since then. Your father and his outfit are buried under five
hundred feet of snow and rocks. I camped nearby for days but could find
no trace of my brother and all the time a voice seemed to cry, 'You
killed your brother; you are marked with the brand of Cain.'
"This thought has haunted me night and day and I have never quarreled
with a man since then; for fear that I might do so, I have avoided white
men ever since and buried myself in these mountains. I found this valley
and I hid here and with the aid of the Great Dane and the wolf dogs I
bred, as beasts of burden, I built this ranch. I--I--was afraid--all the
time, though--afraid someone would--find out about--Donald's death and
blame it on me. When you--said--you--were--Donald's son I was
frightened--I thought you'd come to get me--for killing your--father
and--I--I--I was going to kill myself. But Pluto got--me--and saved me
from further guilt. I--"
He said more, but neither Big Pete nor I could understand him. Indeed,
he kept mumbling incoherently for an hour or more while we watched over
him and did all that we could to make him comfortable until the death
rattle in his throat put an end to his mumbling. But despite our
efforts, he passed on at dawn. Just as the first warm light of the sun
glowed above the mountains, he breathed his last.
* * * * *
Now you know why my private den is just cram full of the things you
fellows like. You may also guess where I procured the black wolfskin
rugs and the rare bead and porcupine quill decorations. Yes, that
long-barrelled rifle hanging on the buckhorn rack is the famous Patrick
Mullen gun. It is a rifle that Washington, Boone or Crockett would have
almost given their scalps to possess, because it is the same pattern as
the ones they themselves used but more scientifically and skillfully
made. It's a flint-lock, too, and that is the funny part about it that
interests all the Scouts of our Troop. It is my good-turn mascot, for as
long as it hangs there I am under the influence of my wild uncle and can
quarrel with no man.
Now you know why the gun is preserved as a trophy for my old Scouts and
is an object of veneration upon which they love to gaze when they sit
cross-legged on the skins of the black wolf pack before the crackling
fire of their Scoutmaster's private den.
Big Pete? Oh, he now runs the Pluto Ranch in Paradise Valley.
THE BEARD BOOKS FOR BOYS
_By_ DAN C. BEARD
THE AMERICAN BOY'S HANDY BOOK. Or, What to Do and How to Do It
_Illustrated by the author_
Gives sports adapted to all seasons of the year, tells boys how
to make all kinds of things--boats, traps, toys, puzzles,
aquariums, fishing-tackle; how to tie knots, splice ropes, to
make bird calls, sleds, blow-guns, balloons; how to rear wild
birds, to train dogs, and do the thousand and one things that
boys take delight in.
THE OUTDOOR HANDY BOOK. For Playground, Field, and Forest
_Illustrated by the author_
"How to play all sorts of games with marbles, how to make and
spin more kinds of tops than most boys ever heard of, how to
make the latest things in plain and fancy kites, where to dig
bait and how to fish, all about boats and sailing, and a host of
other things ... an unmixed delight to any boy."--_New York
Tribune._
THE FIELD AND FOREST HANDY BOOK. Or, New Ideas for Out of Doors
_Illustrated by the author_
"Instructions as to ways to build boats and fire-engines, make
aquariums, rafts, and sleds, to camp in a back-yard, etc. No
better book of the kind exists."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
SHELTERS, SHACKS, AND SHANTIES _Illustrated by the author_
Easily workable directions, accompanied by very full
illustration, for over fifty shelters, shacks, and shanties.
BOAT-BUILDING AND BOATING. A Handy Book for Beginners
_Illustrated by the author_
All that Dan Beard knows and has written about the building of
every simple kind of boat, from a raft to a cheap motor-boat, is
brought together in this book.
THE JACK OF ALL TRADES. Or, New Ideas for American Boys
_Illustrated by the author_
"This book is a capital one to give any boy for a present at
Christmas, on a birthday, or indeed at any time."--_The
Outlook._
THE BOY PIONEERS. Sons of Daniel Boone _Illustrated by the
author_
"How to become a member of the 'Sons of Daniel Boone' and take
part in all the old pioneer games, and many other things in
which boys are interested."--_Philadelphia Press._
THE BLACK WOLF-PACK
"A genuine thriller of mystery and red-blooded conflicts, well
calculated to hold the mind and the heart of its boy and, for
that matter, its adult reader."--_Philadelphia North American._
THE BEARD BOOKS FOR GIRLS
_By_ LINA BEARD _and_ ADELIA B. BEARD
THE AMERICAN GIRL'S HANDY BOOK. How to Amuse Yourself and Others
_With nearly 500 illustrations_
"It is a treasure which, once possessed, no practical girl would
willingly part with."--GRACE GREENWOOD.
THINGS WORTH DOING AND HOW TO DO THEM
_With some 600 drawings by the authors that show exactly how
they should be done_
"The book will tell you how to do nearly anything that any live
girl really wants to do."--_The World To-day._
HANDICRAFT AND RECREATION FOR GIRLS
_With over 700 illustrations by the authors_
"It teaches how to make serviceable and useful things of all
kinds out of every kind of material. It also tells how to play
and how to make things to play with."--_Chicago Evening Post._
WHAT A GIRL CAN MAKE AND DO. New Ideas for Work and Play
_With more than 300 illustrations by the authors_
"It would be a dull girl who could not make herself busy and
happy following its precepts.... A most inspiring book for an
active-minded girl."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
ON THE TRAIL
_Illustrated by the authors_
This volume tells how a girl can live outdoors, camping in the
woods, and learning to know its wild inhabitants.
MOTHER NATURE'S TOY SHOP
_Profusely illustrated by the authors_
How children can make toys easily and economically from wild
flowers, grasses, green leaves, seed-vessels, fruits, etc.
LITTLE FOLKS' HANDY BOOK
_With many illustrations_
Contains a wealth of devices for entertaining children by means
of paper building-cards, wooden berry-baskets, straw and paper
furniture, paper jewelry, etc.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK