A SHOT IN THE DUSK
Day breaks in the great forest in a hushed solemnity, as if all nature
bowed in silent worship. The very leaves hang motionless. The voices
of the night are stilled. The prowlers in the dark have slunk back to
their lairs. The furred and feathered folk who people the mighty
woodland through all the hours of light have not yet awakened. The
peace of the perfect stillness is at once a benediction and a prayer.
It was at just this hour that Walter awoke. There was no sound save
the heavy breathing of Big Jim. For a few minutes he lay peering out
through a break in the bark wall of the shack. Swiftly the gray light
threaded the forest aisles. A rosy flush touched the top of a giant
pine and instantly, as if this were a signal, a white-throated sparrow
softly fluted its exquisite song from a thicket close by the camp.
Another more distant took up the song, and another and another until
the woods rang with the joyous matins. A red squirrel chirred sharply
and his claws rattled on the bark of the roof as he scampered across.
A rabbit thumped twice close at hand. Cautiously raising himself on
one elbow Walter discovered the little gray-coated fellow peering with
timid curiosity into the opposite lean-to.
As if this were the morning alarm Big Jim yawned, then sprang from his
blankets. Brer Rabbit dived headlong for the underbrush, but the
guide's quick eyes caught the flash of bunny's white tail, and he
laughed good-naturedly.
"Why didn't you invite him t' breakfast, son?" he inquired.
Walter grinned as he crawled out of his blankets. "Felt too bashful on
such short acquaintance," he replied.
"Prob'ly them's his feelin's, too," said the guide, producing two
rough towels from the depths of his pack basket. "Now fer a wash and
then breakfast."
There was a sharp nip to the air that made Walter shiver at the
thought of what the water must be like. He dreaded that first plunge,
but he said nothing, and followed Big Jim's lead down to the lake. To
his surprise he found the water warmer than the air, as if the heavy
blanket of mist in which the lake was still shrouded was indeed a
coverlid provided to hold fast the warmth absorbed from the sun of
yesterday. A brisk swim followed by an equally brisk rub-down banished
all thoughts of chill, and just as the first low-flung rays of the
rising sun burned a hole through the slowly rising vapor they started
back for camp and breakfast.
"You start th' fire while I rastle round th' grub," said the guide, as
he once more dug down into the pack. "How will flapjacks and th' rest
o' them trout hit yer fer a lining fer yer stomach, pard?"
While the guide prepared the batter Walter showed how well he had
learned his lesson in fire building the night before. Between the two
big bed-logs he placed two fairly good-sized sticks about a foot
apart. Dry twigs and splinters were laid loosely across, and on these
at one side some strips of birch bark. Two more sticks were now laid
across the twigs at right angles, then another layer of small sticks.
The next layer of larger sticks was laid at right angles to the
former. So the pile was built up, log-cabin fashion, good-sized split
hard wood being used for the upper layers.
Touching a match to the birch bark he had the satisfaction of seeing
the whole mass leap into flame in less than a minute because, built in
this way, air had immediate circulation to the whole mass, free access
of air being essential to a brisk fire. Then again the whole would
burn down together to live coals, the object to be obtained for
successful cooking.
In the meantime Big Jim had stirred up the flapjack batter and gone in
quest of the trout, which had been left in a pail hung on the stub of
a dead branch of a pine near by. He returned with a look of chagrin on
his good-natured face.
"Reckon, pard, thet we've had more visitors than thet leetle
cottontail we ketched a glimpse o' this mornin'. If yer ain't no ways
pertic'lar you an' me will have bacon stid o' trout with them
flapjacks. Ought t' known thet if leetle ole Mr. Mink really wanted
them fish he wouldn't mind takin' th' trouble t' shin up a tree. If
I'd hung thet pail by a wire as I'd ought t' hev, Mr. Mink wouldn't
hev th' laugh on us now."
Walter laughed at the rueful face of the guide. "How do you know it
was a mink?" he asked.
"'Cause thar's no other critter in these here woods likes fish well
enough t' use his wits thet way t' git 'em. Besides, he wasn't
pertic'lar 'bout coverin' up his tracks. Left 'em 'round most
promiscus and insultin'. Say, son," he added, his face brightening
with a sudden thought, "you take thet tin dipper and hit th' trail
past th' big pine over yonder. Keep a-goin' till yer strike a patch o'
old burned-over ground. Yesterday I see a lot o' early blueberries
over thar. Pick th' dipper full and I'll give yer somethin' t' tickle
yer ribs so thet yer'll fergit all about them trout."
Walter took the dipper and following the trail shortly reached the
burned land. Sure enough, there were the berries, so plentiful that it
took but a short time to fill the dipper. Before he reached camp he
smelt the bacon and his mouth watered. A pot of steaming cocoa hung
from one of the pot-hooks, and a plate of crisp bacon rested on one
end of the fore-log where it would keep warm.
Big Jim took the dipper with a grin of satisfaction and stirred the
berries into his kettle of batter. Then into the sizzling hot
frying-pan, well greased with bacon fat, he poured enough batter to
cover the bottom, and placed it over the glowing coals before which he
squatted, watching the bubbling cake with a critical eye. Suddenly he
lifted the pan, and with a dextrous twist of the wrist, so deftly
executed that Walter did not see how the trick was done, the flapjack
was sent into the air, where it turned over and was caught in the pan,
brown side up as it came down. It was returned to the fire all in the
one motion and two minutes later, buttered and sugared, was on its way
to "line Walter's ribs."
"Well, pard, how do yer like 'em?" inquired the cook, sending another
spinning over to Walter's plate.
"They're just the best ever!" exclaimed the boy enthusiastically. "I'm
going to teach cook to make 'em when I get home. Wish dad could have
one of these right now. Say, Jim, it's my turn to fry now."
The guide tossed one more to begin on while Walter was frying the
next, and then turned the frying-pan over to the amateur cook. Big
Jim's eyes twinkled as the boy reached for a knife with which to turn
the cake. His big hand closed over the knife first.
"Nobody can be a side pardner o' mine who has t' take a knife t' turn
a flapjack," he drawled, "and, son, I kind o' think I'd like you fer a
side pardner. Thet bein' so, up she goes!"
Walter grinned sheepishly and gave the frying-pan an awkward toss. The
required twist of the wrist was wholly lacking and, instead of turning
a graceful somersault in the air, the cake shot out at an angle and
landed soft side down on the very spot the guide had occupied a second
before. That worthy, with wisdom born of experience, had shifted his
base at the first motion of the frying-pan, and was now rolling on the
ground in huge glee, his infectious laugh rolling through the camp.
Walter, his face crimson with more than the heat of the fire, bit his
lips in chagrin which he could not hide, but being blessed with a
strong sense of humor he joined in the laugh and straightway prepared
to try again. This time, under a running fire of comment and advice
from Big Jim, who solemnly assured him that in his humble opinion "the
landscape ain't really a-needin' blueberry frescoes t' improve its
beauty," he succeeded in sending the cake into the air within catching
distance of the pan, but it lacked the impetus to send it high enough
to turn completely over, and fell back in the pan in a shapeless mass.
Big Jim cast an appraising eye at the batter kettle and, evidently
considering that his chances of a square meal were in jeopardy,
reached for the pan and gave Walter a practical demonstration. Holding
the pan slanting in front of and away from him he gave it a couple of
preliminary easy flaps to get the swing, then flipped boldly and
sharply. It seemed the easiest thing in the world, and in fact it is
when you know how. Returning the pan to Walter he had the latter go
through the motions several times until he was satisfied. Then he
bade him pour in the batter and go ahead.
Slowly at first, then faster the bubbles broke to the surface.
Presently the edges stiffened and with a little shake Walter felt that
the cake was loose and free in the pan. Getting the preliminary swing
he gave the pan a sharp upward flip and a second later the cake was
back over the fire, brown side up.
The guide nodded approvingly. "Reckon yer goin' t' be a sure enough
woodsman," he said. "Nobody what can't toss a flapjack has any
business t' think he's th' real thing in th' woods."
Breakfast finished it fell to Walter to wash the dishes while the
guide went out to look for deer signs. Cleanliness is next to
godliness in camp as well as at home, and hot water is as necessary to
wash dishes in the one place as in the other. Walter had finished his
work and was hanging the towel to dry when he heard a queer noise
behind him. Turning, he was just in time to see a bird about the size
of a blue jay, but gray and white in color, making off with the cake
of soap which he had left on a log.
Flying to the nearest tree it started to sample its queer breakfast.
But one taste was enough. With a harsh scream, which was a ludicrous
blending of disappointment, disgust and rage, it dropped the soap and
vigorously wiped its bill on the branch on which it was sitting. Then
scolding and protesting in a harsh, discordant voice, it flew to the
next tree, stopping long enough to give the bill another thorough
wiping on a convenient branch, only to repeat the performance on the
next tree, and so on until it disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Walter laughed heartily, disgust was so clearly manifest in every
motion of the bird and the torrent of invective being poured out was
so very plainly aimed at him personally as the author of its
discomfiture. The boy had never seen a bird of this species before,
but he recognized it at once from its markings, the fine silky plumage
and certain unmistakable characteristics in general appearance and
actions, as a member of the jay family. It was, in fact, the Canada
Jay, Perisoreus canadensis, first cousin to the blue jay, and a
resident the year through of the north woods, where it is often
called the moosebird.
Big Jim returned just in time to witness the last of the performance.
"Whisky Jack seems t' think yer ain't been usin' him just right, son,"
said he. "What yer been doin' t' rile him up so?"
Walter told him the incident of the soap, and the guide chuckled with
enjoyment. "Serves th' old thief right," said he. "Why, I've had one
of them fellers sit on my tent just waitin' fer me t' go out so's he
could go inside an' steal somethin'. He'll swipe a meal out of yer
plate while yer back's turned. Just th' same, it's kind o' sociable t'
have him neighborly if yer happen t' be all alone in th' deep woods
fifty miles from nowhar, 'specially in winter."
"Where did he get the name of Whisky Jack?" asked Walter.
"Don't know, son, unless it comes from an Indian name I heered a half
breed in a Canada lumber camp use once. He called one o' these jays
thet hed got caught tryin' t' steal th' bait from a mink trap he had
set a 'whis-kee-shaw-neesh.' When yer say it quick it sounds
something like 'Whisky John,' an' I reckon maybe thet's where th'
trappers and lumbermen got th' name 'Whisky Jack.' Anyhow, thet's what
they all call him. Ever see one before?"
"No," replied Walter, "but I knew it was a Canada Jay as soon as I saw
it. You see I had read all about it in a bird book," slyly putting
just the least emphasis on the word book.
Big Jim grunted and then abruptly changed the subject. "Been a-lookin'
fer signs o' Mr. Peaked Toes, an' they ain't none too plentiful. If it
was two months later I should say this country hed been hunted hard. I
wonder now----" he paused abruptly to gaze into the fireplace with an
air of deep abstraction.
"What do you wonder?" asked Walter when the silence became oppressive.
Big Jim reached for his pipe. "I wonder," said he slowly as with his
fingers he deftly transferred a hot coal from the embers to the bowl
of his pipe, "I wonder if some o' them sneakin' low-lived poachers
ain't been a-killin' deer out o' season right round these here parts.
Durant's lumber camp has been havin' a right smart lot o' fresh
'veal' all summer, an' some one's been supplyin' it. You an' me will
have a look around on th' ridges this morning--take a kind o' census,
mebbe. This afternoon we'll have another try at th' trout t' make up
fer those Mr. Mink had fer breakfast."
While the guide exchanged his heavy boots for a pair of moccasins
Walter slipped on a pair of sneaks, for he realized that this was to
be a still hunt, the highest form of sportsmanship, a matching of
human skill against the marvelous senses of the most alert and timid
of all the animals that live in the forest. It was to be his first
deer hunt, for the jacking expedition of the night before could hardly
be dignified by the name of hunt, the advantage lying so wholly with
the hunters. Now, however, the advantage would be reversed, lying
wholly with the hunted, with ears trained to detect the smallest
sound, suspicious of the mere rustle of a leaf, and with nostrils so
acutely sensitive that they would read a dozen messages in the
faintest breeze.
It was still early and Big Jim at once led the way to the foot of a
series of low ridges above a swamp that flanked one side of the pond,
explaining as they went that deer are night feeders, coming down to
the lowlands at dusk and spending the night in the swamps, and along
the watercourses. "'Bout now they'll be workin' back t' higher ground,
till along 'bout ten o'clock they'll be well up on th' hardwood ridges
where they'll lay up fer th' day, snoozin' behind a windfall or thick
clump o' evergreens. Then 'long 'bout four o'clock they'll git movin'
agin, an' pretty quick begin t' work back t' low ground and a drink,"
said the guide.
"Now, pard," he continued, "yer watch them feet o' yourn, and put 'em
down 'sif this here ground was made o' egg-shells. Look out fer twigs
and dead sticks. Snap one o' 'em and it's good-bye Mr. Peaked Toes!
When I stop jest you stop, freeze in yer tracks, till I move on agin.
Guess yer larned yer lesson yesterday 'bout sudden movin'."
By this time they were skirting the foot of one of the ridges and Big
Jim moved forward slowly, his keen eyes searching the ground for
signs, and sharply scanning the thickets. It was wonderful to the boy
a few feet behind to note how without any apparent attention to where
he was stepping each foot was planted surely and firmly without the
rustle of so much as a leaf. It seemed as if the big moccasins were
endowed with an intelligence of their own, and picked their way among
the scattered litter of dead sticks without attention from the man
whose huge form and heavy weight they bore so lightly.
Walter himself found that it required every bit of concentration of
which he was capable to watch his path and at the same time keep an
eye on his companion that he might be prepared to "freeze" should the
latter stop suddenly. It was a nervous strain that rapidly became
fatiguing in the extreme. He could not relax for an instant to look
about him, lest in an unguarded moment there should be a fateful snap
underfoot. He wondered if it could be possible that he would ever
acquire that seemingly instinctive art of still walking which is
inborn in the Indian and has become almost a sixth sense in the
trained woodsman.
It was a relief when Big Jim suddenly stopped and pointed to a bit of
soft ground just ahead of them. There, clearly defined, were the V
shaped imprints of sharp-edged little cloven hoofs. The guide studied
them a moment.
"Doe crossed here within five minutes," he whispered.
"How do you know?" asked Walter, imitating the guide's guarded
whisper.
"Know it's a doe by th' size." He stooped and pointed to a slight film
of moisture on the edge of one of the prints and even as he did so a
tiny particle of wet soil loosened and fell. Had more than five
minutes elapsed the edges would have slightly dried out, and Walter
was enough of a scout to realize this and understand the significance
of what he saw. The guide scanned the side hill to the right.
"Watch that old windfall," he whispered.
Walter looked in the direction indicated and studied the tangle of
fallen timber a hundred yards away, but for the life of him he could
make out nothing that in any way resembled an animal. A slow smile
dawned on the good-natured, sun-browned face watching him. Then slowly
Big Jim stooped and picked up a good-sized stick, which he broke in
his hands with a sharp snap.
Instantly there was a startled whistle, followed by a sudden crash at
one end of the fall, and Walter caught a glimpse of two slim
reddish-brown legs and a white "flag" ridiculously like a magnified
edition of the little bunch of cotton which had been his last glimpse
of Brer Rabbit early that morning. There were two or three diminishing
crashes beyond the windfall and then all was still.
Walter turned to look at the guide, whose mouth was broadly stretched
in a hearty but noiseless laugh. "Did you see her all the time?" he
whispered.
Big Jim nodded. "Sure," he replied. "Yer see, son, yer was lookin' fer
somethin' thet wasn't thar--Mrs. Lightfoot right out on full dress
parade like yer've seen 'em in a park, mebbe, and o' course yer didn't
see her. Now I was lookin' fer jest a leetle patch o' red, which
couldn't nohow be leaves at this season o' year, and I see it right
away. Yer most generally see what you're lookin' fer--if it's thar. In
the woods th' thing is t' know what t' look fer."
His face clouded suddenly as he continued. "I don't nohow like th'
way she dusted out. If it was th' huntin' season I wouldn't think
nothin' o' it. But it ain't, and she ought not t' hev run more'n a
couple o' hundred yards afore she got so blamed curious thet she'd hev
stopped and then come a-sneakin' back t' see what had given her thet
sudden attack o' heart disease. She was sure scared, and she's been
worse scared quite lately."
They resumed their tramp in the same cautious manner as before,
finding several old tracks and two or three fresh ones, to none of
which Big Jim gave more than a moment's attention. Then they ran
across a trail which, from the size of the prints, Walter knew must
have been made by a big buck. The guide wet a finger and carefully
tested the direction of the wind, which was so faint as not to be
perceptible to the dry skin. Satisfied that the trail led directly
into the wind he started to follow it, explaining as they went along
that had the trail led down wind it would have been useless to waste
time following it, for the game would have scented them long before
they were near it.
The course now led up to higher ground and only such trained eyes as
the guide's could have picked it out. As they approached the top of
the ridge Big Jim suddenly left the trail and made a wide détour to
the left, then circled back to the top of the ridge, along which he
led the way with the utmost caution, stopping at every step to study
the landscape in front and below. Finally in the shelter of a young
hemlock he stopped and nodded for Walter to join him.
"Look in thet thicket o' young hemlocks a couple o' hundred yards down
from th' top o' the ridge," he whispered.
Walter looked as directed, but for a few minutes could make out
nothing unusual. Then he recalled his lesson earlier in the day and
looked for a "patch o' red." Almost at once he saw it, low down under
the hemlocks, and by looking intently soon made out the form of the
buck lying down in unsuspicious contentment.
"Foxy old Mr. Peaked Toes has been clear up on top o' th' ridge an'
then doubled back and laid down whar he can watch his back track,"
whispered the guide. "But we've fooled him this time."
For a few minutes they watched him. Then the hush of the great forest
was abruptly broken by the alarm notes of a crow, so close at hand
that Walter instinctively looked up, expecting to see the black
mischief maker above their heads. But no bird was to be seen, and a
glance at Big Jim's grinning face told him that the crow was none
other than the guide himself.
When his glance once more returned to the buck it was to behold a
lordly animal standing with his magnificent head, crowned with ten
point antlers still in the velvet, thrown up, his sensitive nostrils
testing the wind for trace of possible danger. For a few minutes he
stood motionless, ears forward to catch the least sound, big soft eyes
searching the hillside, delicate nostrils expanded and a-quiver in the
effort to read some warning in the air. So the king stood, suspicious
but not alarmed, a royal animal in the full vigor of maturity.
Satisfied that ears and eyes and nose could detect no danger, but
still suspicious, he suddenly bounded behind the hemlocks, clearing a
fallen tree with a leap which was a marvel of lightness. The thicket
shut him from their view, but presently Big Jim called Walter's
attention to a slight movement of bushes far up along on the ridge.
"He's making a sneak t' high ground whar he can have a better look
around. Then he'll make a big circle t' try the wind from all
quarters. Did yer notice that scar on his shoulder? He's been burned
thar by a bullet or had an ugly tear in a scrap with another buck.
Son, you've seen th' King o' Lonesome Pond. I've tried fer him for th'
last three years in th' open season, but th' old rascal knows as well
as I do when th' huntin' season begins and he's too smart fer me. No
walkin' up on him then like we did to-day! I'd like t' get him and
yet--well, fact is I'd hate t' see him dead. He sure is a king! Now
fer camp an' lunch an' then a try fer them trout. Son, yer'll make a
still hunter one o' these days, and, son, don't yer never fergit thet
still huntin' is th' only real sportin', square deal way o' huntin'
deer."
These few words of approval from his companion amply rewarded the boy
for his long effort to "keep his feet in the way they should go" and
now as they tramped rapidly toward camp he felt within him for the
first time the sense of mastery and self-reliance which is ever the
woodsman's best reward.
In the afternoon fishing Walter failed to equal his record catch of
the day before, but nevertheless landed some handsome trout, and they
soon had all they could use. After an early supper the guide led the
way to a deer run only a short distance from camp, where, he said, the
animals were in the habit of coming down to drink. Here at one side in
a position to command an unobstructed view of a part of the run Walter
set up his camera, masking it with branches broken from the
surrounding trees. A flash was arranged to be exploded by an electric
spark from two dry cells which had been brought along for the purpose.
A stout thread was fastened across the run in such a way that an
animal passing up or down must strike it and the adjustment was such
that the least pull would make the necessary contact and set off the
flash.
"Thar's a couple o' other runs close by, and it's all a chance
whether a deer will take this partic'lar run, but I think th' chance
is good," said the guide.
Back at camp the guide put out the fire lest the smell of smoke should
alarm the game. Then they sat down to wait, Big Jim whiling away the
time with stories of hunting and adventure which set the boy's pulses
to faster beating. Swiftly the shadows crept through the woods and
dusk settled over the landscape. Through the tree tops Walter caught
the gleam of the first star.
"Ought not t' be long now 'fore thar's somethin' doin'," said the
guide.
Almost with the words the report of a rifle rang out from the lake in
the direction of the run where the camera was set, and rolled in heavy
echoes along the mountain. Big Jim was on his feet in an instant, his
face contorted with rage, while he shook a brawny fist in the
direction of the shot.
"You hound, I'd wring yer blasted neck fer two cents!" he muttered.
Then he turned to Walter and shook his head sorrowfully as he said,
"It ain't a mite o' use t'-night, son. Thet shot hit th' narves o'
every deer within two miles o' here. Might as well go bring in th'
camera. I been sartin all day thet some such mischief as this was
afoot. We didn't see half th' number o' deer we'd ought to this
mornin' and them was so skeery thet I suspicioned they was bein'
hunted right along. Guess when we git back t' Woodcraft we'll hev t'
notify th' game warden and do a little still huntin' fer bigger game
than Peaked Toes. Reckon I could guess who th' feller is, but I ain't
got no proof, not a mite. If yer was t' leave thet picter box out all
night yer might ketch one 'long just 'fore daybreak," he added as an
afterthought.
Walter agreed to this, and they set about preparing for the night,
when both were startled by a distant flare of light.
"The flash!" cried Walter joyously. "You guessed wrong that time, you
old croaker!"
Big Jim's face was a study. "Reckon I did, pard," he drawled. "Must be
one deer round these parts what is plumb foolish in her head. Well,
we'll go bring in th' camera."
In a few minutes they reached the run. Sure enough the thread was
broken and the flash sprung. Walter at once slipped in the slide, and
gathering up the apparatus they returned to camp, the boy in high
spirits, but Big Jim in unwonted soberness.