THE HEART OF THE FOREST
Linda Ingmarsson was standing at the door when Hugh and Carl came up the
path. She did not seem to be at all surprised to see him.
“I met Jethro Brown at the station,” he explained briefly. “He told me,
oh, quite a lot of things. I decided not to take the train, to go into
the woods instead.”
Linda shook her head gravely.
“I think I know what he told you,” she said. “It is a mad plan. You
ought not to go.”
“But I’m going,” returned Hugh, and she smiled.
“Yes, I believe you are going,” she answered, “and perhaps I would not
stop you if I could.”
The children came clattering in and Ingmarsson appeared by the door, so
there was no more discussion just then. Later, however, when the various
members of the family had set off to work or to school, Linda came up to
Hugh’s room bringing an armful of things for him, a pack such as hunters
carry, heavy boots, thick wool socks, a mackinaw coat.
“You will need all these,” she said. “It may be that you will be gone
some time.”
She advised him as to which of his own possessions were the most
necessary to take with him and showed him how to pack them in the
smallest possible space.
“Leave all of your other things here,” she directed, “and most of your
money, too; you will have little need of it where you are going and—you
might meet Half-Breed Jake in the forest.”
“Does he do that kind of stealing too?” Hugh asked.
“He does every kind,” was her brief reply.
Hugh accomplished the rest of his preparations in silence except for one
question.
“Is your brother Oscar old?” he inquired.
Linda laughed.
“I am not so very old myself,” she answered, “and he is much younger
than I, not a great deal older than you, I should think. You are not
quite a grown man yet, and he has only just ceased being a boy. That is
all the difference.”
She put the last thing into his pack and helped him to pull the straps
tight.
“We are ready now,” she said, “and I know you would like to go at once,
but it is not wise. It is a long day’s journey even to Two Rivers, and
if you set out now you could not reach there until hours after midnight.
So you had better start at daylight to-morrow.”
It was before dawn next day when she knocked softly at his door. When he
had slipped downstairs and had a hasty breakfast in the kitchen, she
went out upon the steps with him and gave him the most explicit
directions as to how he was to go. She had never been so far as Jasper
Peak or the end of the lake where her brother lived, but she could tell
him, almost mile by mile, the way to the Indian encampment where the
Chippewa boy, Shokatan, could put him on the next stage of his journey.
“You should not go,” she said again at the last, but the light of
excitement danced in her eyes as plainly as in Hugh’s.
He shouldered his pack, adjusted the straps and held out his hand to say
good-by. The spotless house, as he looked about it for the last time,
seemed a very homelike little place even though he had known it for only
a day. The white, scrubbed floor, the bright blue cupboard, the picture
on the wall of the Edmonds boys and their great white dog—how soon would
he see them all again?
Even in early-rising Rudolm there was no one yet abroad to see him go.
He went out the gate, past a half dozen houses, across a stretch of
meadow, came out at last upon the road, Oscar’s road, and set off up the
hill.
The sun was just coming up over the ridge to the eastward, the birds
were beginning to chirp in the thickets and the tall, scattered pine
trees were bowing their heads in the autumn wind. Very little of all
this did Hugh notice for he had eyes of wonder and interest only for the
road upon which he was traveling. It wound up the slope, grass-grown in
many places, as though very few feet had trodden it in the past year. It
was built of stone and gravel, well built too, as he could easily
perceive, for it mounted the hillside in easy grades with wide, even
curves, and it still showed the weed-filled ditches that had been dug to
drain it and it spanned a little stream on a high, stout bridge. Hugh
tramped on up the slope, crossed the summit of the hill and was about to
descend on the other side when—
“Oh!” he cried suddenly and stood still in surprise.
He had known that the road would not carry him far, but he had not
realized that it would end as abruptly as though sheared off with a
knife. The dense wall of trees and underbrush that had hemmed it in on
both sides had closed together before him and completely blocked the
way. He could actually see the sharp line where the gravel roadbed ended
and the soft leaf-mold began, while just before him he spied in the
grass a broken ax and a rusty pick, as though the last workman had
ceased his labors so suddenly as to have even left his tools. Hugh had
to stand and look for some minutes before he could distinguish the
narrow trail threading its way off among the trees, the path that he
must now follow.
Down the hillside it led him, over great tree trunks, under low-hanging
branches, through thickets that seemed almost impenetrable. The noonday
sun began to feel hot, even among the trees, and the air seemed close
and heavy as he progressed further and further into the valley. It was a
great relief to hear suddenly the cool patter of what sounded like
falling water and a great disappointment to find that it came only from
a grove of quaking aspen trees where the wind among the leaves made just
the sound of rain. Once past these, however, the going was a little
easier, for on the next hill the birches and poplars gave way to solid
pine forest and the trail led upward between black trunks and over a
carpet of fallen needles. He came out, at last, on the summit of the
slope and stopped a moment to look back. Nothing but hills beyond hills,
forest beyond forest could be seen; the little town of Rudolm had
utterly disappeared. Only a sharp glint of blue at the end of the valley
and the rising bulk of the mountain to the westward showed the familiar
landmarks of Red Lake and Jasper Peak.
He sat down here to eat his lunch and to rest a little, for his knees
were beginning to weary and the pack was heavy on his unaccustomed
shoulders. When he arose at length and trudged on he found that he could
no longer make such good time; he had perhaps set too fast a pace at
first and worn himself out too soon. It was a long, long way over the
next ridge and down into the valley beyond, so long that the sun had
disappeared and the hollows were beginning to fill with shadow when he
came finally to the foot of the steep incline. The long, gray northern
twilight held, however, so that he had no real difficulty in following
the trail, faint as it was, that led him to the edge of a stream,
skirted its bank and brought him, just as heavy darkness fell, within
sight of a row of fires that must belong to the Chippewa encampment.
Indian dwellings are far more picturesque than imposing, so at least
Hugh concluded as he approached the huddle of teepees, mere shelters of
skins and blankets stretched over birch poles. A woman was cooking by
the nearest fire; she sat back upon her heels and gazed at him stolidly,
but made no answer when he asked for the boy Shokatan. Some children
came crawling out from one of the tents and also stared at him but not a
word could he get from them. He stood irresolute, not quite knowing what
to do, when another squaw, who sat at the second fire, holding a baby,
suddenly turned and greeted him with a strange, vacant smile, which he
recognized at once as Laughing Mary’s. Again he asked for Shokatan, and
she pointed silently at a boy who was coming toward him from the edge of
the stream where he had evidently been fishing.
“Jethro Brown sent me to you and gave me this letter,” began Hugh, but
he received no answer, only the same stolid stare. The boy held out his
hand for the paper, turned it over and over without making even a
pretense of reading it, then grunted, “No English,” and, turning, walked
away.
It was an awkward moment for Hugh and a most discouraging one.
Apparently he was to get no help here for the continuing of his journey,
while the thought of trying to go back, through the dark, in his present
weary state was quite too appalling. Almost without thinking, he
unbuckled his pack, laid it down on the grass and seated himself at the
nearest fire. Two children and an old man moved over to make room for
him, yet no one said a word or regarded his presence with the least
surprise. Presently a woman, he thought it was Laughing Mary, but in the
uncertain light could not make sure, came over and put down some food
before him.
He was hungry enough to have eaten anything, but he thought then and
long afterward that it was just as well that he should never know of
what that savory stew was made. It might be—no, he concluded firmly, he
would make no guess as to what it was—nectar and ambrosia was what it
tasted like and he ate it all. Afterward he went down to the river to
wash his hands and to have a long drink of the cool, running water.
Looking back at the camp he thought what a curious picture it made with
the leaping fires, the shadowy teepees and the black figures moving
noiselessly to and fro.
Somebody startled him by touching his arm as he sat staring. It was the
boy, Shokatan, carrying Hugh’s pack which he had left beside the fire.
Not a word did the Indian speak, but he motioned to a canoe that lay
bottom upward on the grassy bank, and, by a grunt, indicated that he
wished Hugh’s help in lifting it. With some wonder, Hugh arose to assist
him, and in a moment had set it afloat on the rippling shallows of the
little stream. The Indian produced two paddles and slipped into his
place in the stern; Hugh laid his pack in the bottom of the boat, took
up a paddle and knelt in the bow, as they launched forth through the
reeds and out into the current. Another stream flowed into the first
just below the camp, making quite a wide brawling little river that
swept away into the dark.
Nothing had yet been said, but Hugh began to realize that this was the
second stage of his journey. Shokatan, feigning complete ignorance of
all English speech, as is the obstinate Indian habit, had nevertheless
read the letter unobserved and had agreed to help Hugh on his way.
Silently the canoe slipped out into the stream, was caught by the
current and with the aid of the two steady paddles shot swiftly onward
upon its course. There was no talk as they sped along, as the dripping
paddles rose and fell and mile after mile of river and forest dropped
behind them.
The stars began to come out above them and lay reflected in long drifts
of shimmering light as they crossed a quiet pool. Hugh began to see more
and more clearly the white birches on the shore, the reeds and rocking
lily-pads and the two lines of ripples that slanted outward from their
swiftly moving bow. There was a long, long reach of steady paddling
while the river grew ever wider in its twisted course toward the lake.
Hugh’s blade rose and dipped with the weary regularity of a machine and
his eyes were falling to with sleepiness. But he was startled suddenly
broad awake when they rounded a sharp bend and came full upon a gigantic
moose, its great shoulders, bearded chin and wide sweep of antlers
outlined sharp and black against the starlit water. The huge creature
stood knee deep in the cool flood, a long string of wet lily pads still
hanging from its dripping jaw. It looked so big as to seem scarcely real
and, for a second, stood as still as though carved in stone. Then, with
so mighty a splashing that the spent waves rocked the canoe, the great
beast plunged to the shore, scrambled up the bank and was off through
the forest with a stamping and crashing that could have been heard a
mile away.
“Ah-h-h—!” sighed Hugh, letting out the breath that excitement had
imprisoned within him for a full minute.
Again they went on in silence, the sound of the paddle behind Hugh being
the only proof that he was not alone in this whole forest-covered world.
Past one curve and then another they went, until they began to hear a
new sound ahead of them, a dull muffled roar that he did not in the
least understand. He was about to ask what it was when the Indian spoke
at last, a single inarticulate word which was evidently meant as a
warning. For in an instant they began to move faster and faster, the
sound grew louder, and they plunged, all in one breathless second, down
a foaming slope of shouting white rapids. Great black bowlders
shouldered up through the water, threatening them in a thousand
directions, but somehow the frail canoe threaded its way like magic in
and out among the rocks and came safe into the calm pool below. Before
Hugh could speak they had swept into another reach of tossing water and
then another, the canoe staggering back and forth in the furious
current, but coming finally out into the quiet stream again.
Then at last, warmed to friendliness perhaps by Hugh’s calm acceptance
of the dangers of the rapids, the Indian behind him spoke. His English,
learned at the Indian school near Rudolm, was nearly as good as Hugh’s
own, yet had the guttural burr of all Chippewa speech.
“You are going to Oscar Dansk’s?” he asked.
“I wish to,” answered Hugh without looking around. “Can you take me
there?”
“No,” was the immediate answer; “the white deer has been seen in the
woods near Jasper Peak and we Chippewas will not go where the white deer
goes.”
“But I must go on,” insisted Hugh. “How can I ever find the way without
you?”
“I will take you to the lake,” was the reply, “and around Harbin’s
Channel into the upper end of the lake you can paddle alone. You can
keep this canoe; it belongs to Oscar Dansk; he left it at Two Rivers,
for his last journey he made overland.”
They went on and on, until Hugh, knowing long since that it was past
midnight, began to feel that morning must be close at hand. They passed
more rapids, threaded narrow stretches of river, then wider ones, but
still the dark held and the journey seemed never to come to an end. At
last the Indian spoke again.
“That squaw whom you whites call Laughing Mary told me to tell you, I do
not know why, that the man of Jasper Peak passed through Two Rivers only
a few hours before you, and must be camping in these woods. I think that
is his fire now.”
Far off through the black tree trunks there could be seen a faint red
glare that grew brighter as they went along.
“Do you mean Half-Breed Jake?” inquired Hugh anxiously. “Was he alone?”
“There were two Indians with him,” replied Shokatan. “Yes, that is their
camp. It is better that they should not see us go by.”
They came nearer, saw the firelight flickering among the trees, saw two
black figures stretched upon the ground rolled in their blankets and
sound asleep. One man only was sitting upright, his back against a pine,
his face toward the stream, but he, too, seemed wrapped in deepest
slumber. The canoe floated so slowly that it seemed scarcely moving, the
Indian’s paddle dipped and dipped again without a sound. Foot by foot
they worked their way along, skirting the bank where the shadows lay,
sliding past like shadows themselves. The fire flared high, one of the
burning logs broke and settled with a crash, the man beside it awoke.
Both boys held their breath, while the canoe floated with the current;
slowly, slowly it crawled into the thick pool of shade cast by a big
maple that overhung the bank. The man, it was the Indian Kaniska,
listened as though vaguely conscious that something was stirring,
stooped to mend the fire, then stopped to listen again and to peer into
the dark. Almost imperceptibly the canoe moved on, was swallowed up in
denser shadow, slipped past a bend in the stream and left the camp out
of sight.
The moment of danger had roused Hugh into full wakefulness now and,
although he was unbelievably weary, he bent to his paddling with
redoubled energy. The trees seemed to recede on either hand, showing
overhead a myriad of stars, the river widened and they came out at last
on the vast dark flood of the open lake. The canoe’s bow wavered a
little, then turned toward shore where Shokatan, grasping an overhanging
branch, pulled it up to the bank and stepped out.
“The rest of the way you go alone,” he said. “Around that point, through
the channel, then when you are in the open lake again make for the
nearest sandy beach. You will see Oscar Dansk’s house on the hill
above.”
Before Hugh could speak, to protest against being left, to thank the
Indian for his help, he had pushed out the boat again and had
disappeared into the underbrush. Wearily the boy took up his paddle once
more and drove the canoe steadily onward parallel to the wooded shore.
He was thinking of what might be before him and of the strange journey
that lay behind, but for the most part his tired brain was concentrated
on the rise and dip, rise and dip of the paddle. One detail of his
night’s adventures alone seemed to stand out in his mind, only because
it was the one thing of all others that he could not understand. When,
at Two Rivers, Laughing Mary had turned to greet him in the firelight,
he had noticed that her baby was wrapped in something brownish yellow,
that even in the half darkness he was certain must be the brown
bear-cub’s skin. He was too worn out either to reason the matter out or
to drop it entirely from his mind.
Above him the stars were paling at last and the sky growing gray. He
came to the headland where the lake seemed suddenly to end and where
Jasper Peak, which towered directly over him now, sent a long rocky spur
down to the water’s edge. Through Harbin’s Channel he crept, out into
the second stretch of open water, a wide expanse, beginning to show blue
instead of gray as the sky grew brighter. Over at his right he could see
a little inlet and a line of sandy beach, above it a steep wooded hill
with a cottage at the very summit. The miles of woods beyond, the bays
and bold capes that bounded the lake, the undiscovered country claimed
by the Pirate of Jasper Peak, for these he had no eyes and no interest
as he struggled wearily toward his journey’s end.
Gently the canoe grounded its bow upon the sand, just where a narrow
trail led off among the trees and up the hill. With a great sigh of
relief, Hugh stepped ashore, shouldered his pack, and went slowly up
through the dawn to his first meeting with Oscar Dansk.