[Illustration: The Camp on Beardsley Brook.—Page 27 (Frontispiece.)]
Around the Camp-fire
BY
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, M.A., F.R.S.C.
ILLUSTRATED
BY
CHARLES COPELAND
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1896,
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Company.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 1
Off to the Squatooks.—The Panther at the Parsonage.—Bear _vs._
Birch-Bark
CHAPTER II. 27
The Camp on Beardsley Brook.—A Tiger’s Plaything.—A Fight with
the Hounds of the Sea.—The Bull and the
Leaping-Pole.—Saved by the Cattle
CHAPTER III. 66
At Camp de Squatook.—A Night Encounter.—Bruin and the Cook.—An
Encounter with Peccaries.—Idyl of Lost Camp.—The Cart
before the Steer
CHAPTER IV. 116
More of Camp de Squatook.—Lou’s Clarionet.—Jake Dimball’s
Wooden Leg.—Peril among the Pearls.—The Dogs of the
Drift.—Ben Christie’s Bull Caribou.—Labrador Wolves
CHAPTER V. 177
Squatook River and Horton Branch.—Wrecked in a Boom-House
CHAPTER VI. 195
The Camp on Squatook River.—Saved by a Sliver.—Skidded
Landing.—A Mad Stallion.—An Adventure with a Bull
Moose.—Dan
CHAPTER VII. 237
The Camp on the Toledi.—Tracked by a Panther.—An Adventure in
the Florida Hummocks.—The Junior Latin Scholarship.—A Bull
and the Bicycle.—The Den of the Gray Wolf
CHAPTER VIII. 289
The Toledi and Temiscouata.—Chopping him Down.—A Rude
Awakening.—Saved by a Hornets’ Nest
CHAPTER IX. 315
The Last Camp-fire.—Indian Devils.—Bruin’s Boxing-Match.—The
Raft Rivals
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
The Camp on Beardsley Brook (_Frontispiece_).
“I could hear the Animal plunging in Pursuit” 19
“Laboriously, very Deliberately, I got My Sight” 32
“I was forced to leap Desperately” 48
“With the next Thrust I slid like Lightning down the Middle
Channel” 78
Bruin and the Cook 83
“I emptied My Revolvers rapidly, and half a dozen Animals dropped” 94
“It seemed to strike Him as decidedly Queer” 140
“From a Giant Limb overhead Her Long Tawny Body flashed in the
Sunlight” 199
“At Last He looked Upward, and saw the Hunter” 221
“Mad with Pain and Fury, He sprang” 249
“Desperately I surged on the Pole” 258
“Tamang came leaping Past with the Bear at His Heels” 303
Saved by a Hornets’ Nest 313
Bruin’s Boxing Match 335
“Slowly battling with the Waves, Jake and His Precious Burden drew
Near the Raft” 346
AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
CHAPTER I.
OFF TO THE SQUATOOKS.—THE PANTHER AT THE PARSONAGE.—BEAR VS. BIRCH-BARK.
It was toward the end of July, and Fredericton, the little New Brunswick
capital, had grown hot beyond endurance, when six devoted
canoeists—Stranion, Magnus, Queerman, Sam, Ranolf, and myself—heard
simultaneously the voices of wild rapids calling to them from afar. The
desire of the woods awoke in us. The vagrant blood that lurks in the
veins of our race sprang up and refused to be still. The very next day
we fled from the city and starched collars, seeking freedom and the cool
of the wilderness.
It was toward Lake Temiscouata and the wilds of the Squatooks that we
set our eager faces. In shirt-sleeves and moccasins we went. For
convenience we had our clothes stitched full of pockets. Our three good
birch canoes and our other _impedimenta_ we put on board a flat-car at
the station. And that same evening found us at the village of
Edmundston, where the Madawaska flows into the St. John at a point about
one hundred and fifty miles above Fredericton.
Unless you are an experienced canoeman, skilled not only with the paddle
but with the pole, and expert to run the roughest rapids, you should
take a guide with you on the Squatook trip. You should go in the bow of
your canoe, with a trusty Indian in the stern; one Indian and one canoe
for each man of the party. The art of poling a birch-bark against a
stiff current is no easy one to acquire, and needs both aptitude and
practice. Your Indian will teach you in the gentler waters; and the rest
of the time you may lounge at your ease, casting a fly from side to
side, and ever climbing on between the changing shores. But as for us,
we needed no Indians. We were all six masters of canoe-craft. Each took
his turn at the white spruce pole; and we conquered the currents
rejoicing.
Temiscouata is a long, narrow lake just outside the boundaries of New
Brunswick. It lies in the Province of Quebec; but its outlet is the
Madawaska River, a New Brunswick stream. Our plan of proceeding was to
take to the canoes at Edmundston, and pole fifteen miles up the
Madawaska, make a portage of five miles across country to Mud Lake,
follow Beardsley Brook, the outlet of Mud Lake, to its junction with the
Squatook River, and then slip down this swift stream, with its chain of
placid expansions, till we should float out upon the waters of Toledi
Lake. Toledi River would then receive us among its angry rapids and
cascades, to eject us forcibly at last upon the great bosom of
Temiscouata, whence we should find plain paddling back to Edmundston.
This would make a round trip of, say one hundred and forty miles; and
all of them, save the first fifteen, with the current.
At Edmundston that evening we pitched our tent beside the stream; and
next morning, though it was raw and threatening, we made an early start.
In one canoe went Stranion and Queerman; in the second, Sam and Ranolf;
in the third, Magnus and myself. The bedding, extra clothing, etc.,
laced up snugly in squares of oiled canvas, made luxurious seats, while
the eatables were stowed in light, strong boxes built to fit the canoes.
The first day out is usually uneventful, and this was no exception. When
adventures are looked for they pretty certainly fail to arrive. We
reached the portage with an hour of daylight to spare, and there found
an old log cabin, which saved us the necessity of pitching our tent. It
was dry, well-ventilated, abundantly uncivilized. What a supper Stranion
cooked for us! And then what a swarm of mosquitoes and midges flocked in
to bid us welcome! We hedged ourselves about with a cordon of slow fires
of cedar bark, the smoke of which proved most distasteful to them, and
almost equally so to us. And then with a clear blaze crackling before
the open door, and our blankets spread on armfuls of spruce boughs, we
disposed ourselves luxuriously for pipes and yarns.
Queerman drew a long, blissful whiff through his corn-cob, blew a
succession of rings, and murmured like a great bumblebee,—
“The world is Vagabondia
To him who is a vagabond.”
“Who’ll tell us the first yarn?” inquired Sam, as his pipe drew freely.
“Stranion begins,” said Magnus quietly. Magnus was a man of few words;
but when he opened his mouth, what he said went. He was apt to do more
and say less than any one else in the party.
“Well, boys,” said Stranion, “if Magnus says so, here goes. What shall I
talk about?”
“Who ever heard of Stranion talking about anything but panthers?” jeered
Ranolf.
“Well,” assented Stranion, “there’s something in what you say. The other
night I was thinking over the various adventures which have befallen me
in my devotion to birch and paddle. It surprises me to find what a lot
of scrapes I’ve got into with the panthers. The brutes seem to fairly
haunt me. Of course fellows who every year go into the Squatook woods
are bound to have adventures, more or less. You get cornered maybe by an
old bull-moose, or have a close shave with some excited bear, or strike
an unusually ugly lynx, or get spilled out of the canoe when you’re
trying to run Toledi Falls; but in my case it is a panther every time.
Whenever I go into the woods there is sure to be one of these creatures
sneaking around. I declare it makes me quite uneasy to think of it,
though I’ve always got the best of them so far. I’ll bet you a trout
there are one or two spotting me now from those black thickets on the
mountain; and one of these days, if I don’t look sharp, they’ll be
getting even with me for all the members of their family that I have cut
off in their sins.”
“Oh, you go along!” exclaimed Sam. “You’re getting sentimental. I can
tell you, I have killed more trout than you have panthers, and there’s
no old patriarch of a trout going to get even with me!”
Sam’s practical remark went unheeded; and in a few moments Stranion
resumed,—
“You see, boys, the beasts began to haunt me in my very cradle so to
speak. Did any of you ever hear mother tell that story?”
“I have!” ejaculated Queerman; but the rest of us hastened to declare
our ignorance.
“Very well,” said Stranion. “Queerman shall see that I stick to the
facts.”
“Oh, boys, I’ve a heavy contract on hand then,” cried Queerman.
But Stranion blandly ignored him, and continued,—
“I’ll call this tale—
‘THE PANTHER AT THE PARSONAGE.’
“You have all seen the old parsonage at the mouth of the Keswick River.
That’s a historic edifice for you! Therein was I born. There were more
trees around it then than now.
“At the mature age of ten months I moved away from that neighborhood,
but not before the Indian devil, as the panther is called in that
region, had found me out and marked me as a foreordained antagonist.
“One bright June morning, when I was about five months old, and not yet
able to be much protection to my young mother, my father set out on one
of his long parochial drives, and we were left alone,—no, not quite
alone; there was Susan, the kitchen-girl, for company. That constituted
the garrison of the parsonage on that eventful morning,—mother, Susan,
and myself.
“I cannot say I _remember_ what took place, but I have so often been
told it that I feel as if I had taken an active part. Mother and I were
sitting by an open window, down-stairs, looking out on the front yard,
when suddenly mother called out sharply,—
“‘Susan, Susan! Come here and see what sort of a creature this is coming
through the grove!’
“There was a frightened ring in my mother’s voice which brought Susan
promptly to her side.
“Just then the ‘creature,’ which was long and low and stealthy, reached
the garden fence. It mounted the fence gracefully, and paused to look
about.
“With a horrified gasp, mother caught me to her bosom, and whispered,—
“‘It’s a tiger!’
“‘No’m,’ cried Susan, ‘it ain’t no tiger; but it’s an Injun devil, which
is pretty nigh as bad.’ And she ran and slammed down the window.
“The noise attracted the brute’s attention. He glanced our way, dropped
to the ground, and crept stealthily toward the house.
“‘The attic!’ cried mother wildly. ‘All the windows down-stairs are wide
open.’
“I need hardly assure you, boys, it didn’t take those two women and me
very long to get up-stairs. As we reached the top we heard a crash in
the parlor, and mother nearly squeezed me to death in her terror for me;
but Susan exclaimed almost gleefully,—
“‘I declare, if he ain’t got in the wrong winder! Parlor door’s shut!’
“By this time we were on the attic stairs; and the door at the foot of
the stairs—a solid, old-fashioned country door—was safely bolted behind
us.
“That door was the only means of access to the attic; and on the head of
the stairs we all sat down to take breath. Then in mother the anxious
housewife began to reappear.
“‘What _was_ that the horrid brute broke in the parlor, Susan?’ she
queried.
“‘Must a’ been them dishes on the little table by the winder, ma’am,’
responded the girl.
“And then we heard a clatter again, as the beast, in springing out of
the window, knocked the fragments of pottery aside.
“In a few moments he found another entrance. The soft _pat_, _pat_ of
his great furry feet could be heard on the lower stairs. He was
evidently hungry, and much puzzled at our sudden disappearance.
“We could hear him sniffing around, in and out of the bedrooms, and at
last that soft, persistent tread found its way to the attic door.
“How he did sniff about the bottom of that door till the blood of his
prisoners ran cold with horror! Then he began to scratch, which was more
than they could stand.
“Terror lent them invention, and mother put me into a basket of old
clothes, while she helped Susan drag a heavy bedstead to the head of the
stairs. This bedstead effectually blocked the narrow stairway, and when
they had piled a chest of drawers on top of it they once more felt
secure.
“All this trouble was unneeded, however, as that door, opening outward,
was an insurmountable barrier to the panther.
“In a few minutes he stole away restlessly. Then we heard some
flower-pots, which stood on the window-ledge of the front bedroom, go
crash on the steps below. The Indian devil was getting out of the
window.
“Now, the attic in which we had taken refuge was lighted by two
windows,—a small one in the gable, looking out upon the barnyard, and
the other, a very small skylight, reached by a sort of fixed step-ladder
from the attic floor.
“As soon as mother heard the animal’s claws on the side of the house,
she thought of the skylight, and cried to Susan to shut it.
“The skylight had an outer shutter of wood, which was closed in
winter-time to keep the heavy snowfall from breaking the glass.
“This shutter was now thrown back upon the roof, and the inner sash was
raised a few inches for the sake of ventilation. Susan fairly flew up
the ladder, and pulled out the little stick that supported the sash.
“She had barely got the hook slipped into the staple when the panther’s
round head and big light eyes appeared within a foot of her face. She
gave a startled shriek, and fell down the ladder.
“At this juncture the two women gave themselves up for lost; and mother,
seizing an old curtain-pole, which lay among the attic lumber, prepared
to sell my infant life at a pretty high figure.
“All escape from the attic was blocked by the articles they had so
carefully wedged into the stairway. This it would take them some time to
clear.
“They never imagined that so fierce a brute as the panther could be
stopped by an ordinary sash and glass, however strong.
“But the Indian devil is wary, and this one was suspicious of the glass.
When, on attempting to put his head down through the skylight, he met
with an obstacle where he did not see any, he thought he detected a
trap.
“He sniffed all over each pane, stopping every moment to eye us angrily.
Then he scratched, but very gingerly, at the sash, and only tore away
some splinters. The sash was stout and new.
“At last he thrust his muzzle over roughly against the pane, and his
nose went through the glass. Susan sank in a heap, while mother, with
deadly purpose, grasped her curtain-pole, expecting instant attack.
“It was not to be so, however; for which the world is much to be
congratulated. The panther cut his nose pretty severely on the broken
glass, and shrank back, snarling viciously.
“He was more than ever convinced that the skylight was a trap, and would
not trust his muzzle again in the opening.
“Observing the beast’s caution, mother plucked up new hope. She
remembered having read that lions and tigers were afraid of fire, and
forthwith she hit on a truly brilliant expedient.
“‘Get up, Susan,’ she commanded, ‘and be of some use. Go and light that
lamp on your washstand, and bring it to me.’
“Susan obeyed with alacrity, cheered by the thought that there was
anything left to do. When the lamp was brought, mother laid the chimney
aside, and turned up the wick so as to give a flaring, smoky blaze. Then
she handed the lamp back to Susan.
“‘Take it,’ she said, ‘and set it on the top of the ladder, right under
the broken pane.’
“This was too much for poor Susan.
“‘Oh, I dasn’t—never!’ she whimpered, backing hastily out of her
mistress’s reach.
“Mother regarded her with withering scorn, then turned and looked at me,
where I lay close behind her in a basket of old clothes.
“Assuring herself that the panther could not get me in her absence, she
seized the lamp and marched up the ladder with it. The panther growled
most menacingly, and thrust his face down to the opening; but as the
smoke and flame came under his nose, he snarled and drew back.
“On the very topmost step did mother deposit the lamp, where it blazed
right up through the broken pane. As she turned down the ladder, the
panther’s claws were heard along the shingles, beating a reluctant
retreat.
“In a moment or two he was heard on the shed, and then mother opened the
skylight, reached out, and clapped down the wooden shutter. Susan’s
courage revived.
“Now that the danger was over, mother picked me out of the basket, and
gathered me again to her bosom, while Susan began to speculate on what
the panther would be up to next. On this point she was not long left in
doubt.
“In the corner of the barnyard was a pig-pen, inhabited at the time by a
pig three months old. Presently the poor little pig set up a terrific
squealing, and mother and Susan rushed to the gable window.
“As I have said before, this window commanded a view of the barnyard.
The panther was on the roof of the pen, peering down through the cracks,
and scratching vigorously to gain an entrance. Baby had been denied him,
but pork he was determined to have.
“The pig squealed in a way that mother trusted would alarm the
neighborhood, and tried to hide himself in the straw from the reach of
those pale, cruel eyes. At last the panther quitted the roof, and found
the pen door. Here he paused a moment or two, suspecting another trap.
Then, finding nothing suspicious, in he glided. There was one terrific
squeal, and all was still.
“I fancy mother and Susan both wept, thinking how well the fate of poor
piggie might have been their own—and mine.
“For a long while the two women kept watch at the window. At last the
panther reappeared, walking very lazily, and licking his chops. He
glanced at the house in a good-natured fashion, as if he bore us no
grudge; cleaned his great face with one paw, sniffed the air
thoughtfully in various directions, and then made off towards the woods;
and we knew that our pig went with him.
“When he was well out of sight, mother and Susan removed the barricades
and forsook the attic. You may be sure they fastened every window, kept
a keen outlook, and went about their work in fear and trembling.
“When my father got home, in the middle of the afternoon, he heard the
story before he could unharness the horse. Straightway he set out again,
and organized a hunting-party among the neighbors. The party was armed
with all sorts and conditions of weapons; but it bagged that panther
before sundown, whereby was my mother much consoled. And now, have I
stuck to the facts?” said Stranion, turning to Queerman.
“To my surprise, you have!” responded the latter.
“Well,” went on Stranion, unruffled, “since the panthers got after me so
early, it’s not much cause for wonder if they’ve kept it up.”
At this moment a strange, unearthly, gurgling cry broke the night’s
stillness, and we started involuntarily.
“There is one of mine ancient enemies now,” said Stranion. “I’m sure to
fall foul of him tomorrow, and one or the other of us will rue the day!”
“Well,” said Sam, “we all know it won’t be Stranion!”
The story done, I rose and replenished the fire, while Magnus passed
around a tin of hot coffee. A whippoorwill,—
“Threshing the summer dusk
With his gold flail of song,”
was heard in a hillside thicket, and Queerman cried,—
“Listen to him, boys!”
“No,” said Stranion; “we’ll now give our very best attention while Sam
tells us one of his old bear stories.”
“Indeed,” said Sam with an indignant sniff; “I’ll tell you one I never
told before, and a true one at that. Now don’t interrupt, for I intend
to do it up in a somewhat literary fashion, to save the Old Man trouble
in writing it down.”
“Thank you kindly,” said I. I was the official scribe of the party, and
familiarly known as the Old Man, or simply O. M., for short.
“BEAR VS. BIRCH-BARK,”
continued Sam, “is the title of my narrative. It was on the upper waters
of the Oromocto River that the case of Bear _vs._ Birch-bark was
decided. Thither had Alec Hammond and I betaken ourselves in our canoe
to kill some Oromocto trout.
“The Oromocto is for the most part much less rapid than other trout
rivers of New Brunswick; in fact, for long distances its current is
quite sluggish, a characteristic finely suited to our indolence of mood.
Paddling quietly, or poling when the water was swift, we soon left
behind us all traces of civilization. Instead of beautiful open meadow
shores shaded with here and there a mighty elm or ash, we entered the
ruggedest parts of the original wilderness, where the soil was too
barren and stony to tempt even a squatter, and where the banks were
clothed with dark hemlocks to the water’s edge. Sometimes these sombre
woods gave back a space, and a wild confusion of many kinds of trees
took their place,—pines, ash, birch, basswood, larch, and beech, mixed
with fallen trunks and staring white bowlders. Sometimes, again, in the
midst of the most impenetrable forest a delightful little patch of
interval, or dry waterside meadow, would open up before us, inviting us
to pitch our tent amid its deep, soft grasses. Scattered through the
grass were clumps of tall wild lilies, their orange blossoms glowing
amid the green; and around the stately heads of the wild-parsnips, which
made the air heavy with rich perfume, fluttered and clung the
silver-throated bobolinks. What wonder we rested when we came to these
wilderness gardens whose possession there was none to dispute with us!
We found that as a rule we might count upon an ice-cold brook near by.
Wherever such brooks flowed in, there would be a deep pool, or an eddy
covered with foam-clusters, or a pebbly, musical rapid, which meant a
day of activity for our rods and reels and flies.
“One day, after such a morning with the trout as had left our wrists
well tired, we were inclined to give our rods a resting-spell. The
afternoon was sultry and drowsy,—it was toward the close of July,—and
Alec’s highest ambition was to take a long siesta in the tent-door,
where an overhanging beech-tree kept off the sun, and a sweet breeze
seemed to have established its headquarters. There was no wind elsewhere
that I could perceive, yet round our tent a soft breath of it was
wandering all the day.
“For my own part I didn’t feel like loafing or lotus-eating. The fever
for specimens was upon me. I have an intermittent passion, as you know,
for the various branches of natural history, and am given at times to
collecting birds and plants and insects. This afternoon I had visions of
gorgeous butterflies, rare feathered fowl, and various other strangely
lovely things thronging my brain, so I put into the canoe my gauze net
and double-barrelled breech-loader, and set off up stream in a vague
search after some novelty.
“Let me confess it, my taste was destined to be gratified beyond my
hopes.
“Above our camping-ground the river for some distance was swift and
deep. Beyond this it widened out, and became almost as motionless as a
lake. Along these still reaches the shores were comparatively low, and
less heavily wooded, with here and there a little corner of meadow, a
bit of wet marsh covered with cat-tail flags, or a dense fragrant
thicket of Indian willow. There were water-lily leaves in broad patches
right across the stream; and the air was gay with green and purple
dragon-flies, which lit on my gunwale, and glittered in the sun like
jewels. There was not even a rustle of leaves to break the silence.
“At last, as I noiselessly rounded a low bushy point, right ahead I saw
a splendid blue heron, which was watching intently for minnows in the
shallow water. He spread his broad wings and rose instantly. I had just
time to let him have one barrel as he disappeared over a thicket of
alders, flying so low that his long legs swept their tops. I felt
certain I had hit him, for straightway arose a great crackling and
struggling among the bushes beyond. In my haste I failed to notice that
this disturbance was rather too violent to be proceeding from any
wounded bird, unless it were a dodo.
“Running my birch ashore alongside of a mouldering trunk which had
fallen with half its length in the stream, I made my way, gun in hand,
through the underwood, without stopping to load my empty barrel. There
was no sign of blue herons where my bird was supposed to have fallen;
but to my unlimited astonishment I beheld a black bear cub making off at
his very best speed, badly scared.
“At my sudden appearance he gave a curious bleat of alarm, and redoubled
his efforts to escape. He had little cause for alarm, however, as I did
not want him for a specimen; and had I wanted him ever so much I could
not well have bagged him with no heavier ammunition than bird-shot. I
was watching his flight with a sort of sympathetic amusement when, with
a most disagreeable suddenness and completeness, the tables were turned
upon me. In the underbrush behind me I heard a mighty crashing; and
there to my dismay was the old she-bear, in a fine rage, rushing to the
rescue of her offspring. Considering that the offspring’s peril was not
immediate, I thought she need not have been in such a tremendous hurry.
[Illustration: “I Could hear the Animal plunging in Pursuit.”—Page 19.]
“She had cut off my retreat. She was directly in the line of my sole
refuge, my faithful and tried birch-bark. There was no time left for
meditation. I darted straight toward the enemy. Undaunted by this
boldness she rose upon her hind-legs to give me a fitting reception.
When almost within her reach I fired my charge of bird-shot right in her
face, which, not unnaturally, seemed somewhat to confuse her for a
moment. It was a moment’s diversion in my favor. I made the most of it.
I dashed past, and had gained some paces toward the canoe, when my
adversary was again in full chase, more furious than ever. As I reached
the canoe she sprang upon the other end of the log, and was almost
aboard of me ere I could seize the paddle and thrust out.
“Fortunately I had headed down stream, for the mad brute took to the
water without hesitation. Had the stream been deep I should merely have
laughed at this, but in these shallows it was no laughing matter. The
channel was deep enough to impede the bear’s running, but by no means to
make running impossible. I felt that the question of speed between us
was now a painfully doubtful one. My back bent to the paddle. The broad
blade flashed through the water with all the force and swiftness I was
master of. Close behind, though I could not spare time to look back, I
could hear the animal plunging in pursuit, and I was drenched with the
spray of her splashings. I was a skilful canoeist; I have won many
races; but never was another canoe-race I was so bent upon winning as
this one.
“At last, snatching a glance over my shoulder, I saw that I had gained,
though but slightly. It was well I had, for the tremendous pace was one
which I could keep up no longer. I knew the deep water was still far
ahead, and I knew, too, the obstinacy and tireless strength of my
pursuer. There was, therefore, a grave uncertainty in my mind as to
whether I could succeed in holding the lead much longer. I slackened a
little, saving my strength all I could; but the bear at once made up her
lost ground, and my breathing-space was brief. At a little short of my
best, but still at a killing pace enough, I found I could keep out of
reach. But if a shoal should come in the way, or a sunken log, or any
like obstruction, the game was up. With this chance in view I had little
leisure for watching my pursuer’s progress. I could hear, however, and
feel, quite too much of it.
“After what seemed an age of this desperate racing, we came to a part of
the stream where I expected a change in my favor. For a quarter of a
mile I would have a fair current, in a narrower and deeper channel. Here
I gained ground at once. I relaxed my efforts a good deal, gave my
aching arms a moment’s rest, and watched the angry bear wallowing
clumsily after me, able now neither to run nor swim. This ended the
matter, I fondly imagined, and I drew a long sigh of relief.
“But I was far yet from being out of the wood! I had begun to ‘holloa’
too soon! When the bear saw that I was about to escape she took to the
land, which just here was fairly open and unobstructed; and to my horror
she came bounding after me, along the water’s edge, at a rate which I
could not hope to rival. But in the pause I had recovered my breath and
my strength. I shot onward, and my antagonist had a hard gallop before
she overhauled me. I could mark now every bound of her great black form.
The sharp chattering laugh of a kingfisher startled me, and I noticed
the bird fly off down stream indignant. How I wished I might borrow his
wings! Just then the bear, having got a little in advance of me, sprang
for mid-stream, so sagaciously timing her effort that had I kept on she
must inevitably have seized or upset me. But it was this I was on the
watch for. In the nick of time I backed water with all my might, swerved
aside, and darted past close behind her—so close that I could have
clutched her shaggy hind-quarters. I had no special reason for
attempting this feat, however, so I sped on.
“And now began a second stretch of shoals. For the next half-mile it was
much the same old story, save that I had gained a better start. There
was one little variation, however, which came near making an end of the
whole affair. In rounding a sharp turn I did just what I had been
dreading,—ran aground. It was only on the skirts of a sloping shoal, and
I was off again before I had time to think; but the distance twixt
pursuer and pursued had grown painfully less in that moment. I could all
but feel the animal’s hot breath upon the back of my neck. The strain
was terrible; but soon I began to take heart again. I thought to myself
that surely I could hold out till clear of these last shallows; and
after that I knew the shores were such as might be expected to baffle
even this most indomitable of bears. When again we reached deep water I
was paddling a splendid stroke, and the bear, apparently as fresh and as
wrathful as ever, was floundering along perhaps two canoe-lengths in the
rear.
“By this time the camp was in sight, a good half-mile off. I saw Alec
come lazily out of the tent, take a glance at the situation, and dart
back again. Gun in hand he re-appeared, and ran up the shore to meet us.
Feeling that now I had matters pretty well my own way, I waved him back.
So he took his stand on the summit of a precipitous bluff, and awaited
his chance for a shot.
“As soon as the bear found herself again compelled to swim, with a snort
and a growl she turned shoreward to repeat her former manœuvre. She took
the opposite shore to that occupied by Alec. The banks were steep and
crumbly, clothed along top with bushes and fallen trees and rocks, and a
tangle of wild vines. Yet the unwearied brute managed to overcome these
difficulties by her stupendous strength, and actually outstripped me
once more. It was all she could accomplish, however; and just as she
sprang for the canoe the edge of the bank gave way beneath her weight,
and in an avalanche of stones and loose earth she rolled head over heels
into the river. I was far away before she could recover herself. I saw
she was utterly disgusted with the whole thing. She clambered ashore,
and on the top of the bank stood stupidly gazing after me. Then I
laughed and laughed till my over-strained sides were near bursting. I
could hear peals of mirth from Alec at his post on the bluff, and was
calmed at last by a fear lest his convulsions might do him some injury.
“Reaching the landing-place, I only waited to pull the canoe’s nose up
onto the grass, then threw myself down quite exhausted. A moment later
the bear gave herself a mighty shaking, and, accepting her defeat, moved
sullenly back up stream.”
As Sam concluded, Stranion rose and gravely shook him by the hand.
“I congratulate you on winning your case!” said he. “And now, being
first night out, let’s all turn in, or we’ll be fagged to-morrow.”
It is hard to get to sleep the first night in camp, and I was awake for
an hour after all the rest were snoring. I lay listening to the soft
confusion of night sounds, till at last the liquid gabble of a shallow
below the camp faded into an echo of cathedral bells; and while I was
yet wondering at the change, I found the morning sun in my face, and saw
Stranion holding out a tin of hot coffee. I sprang up, and found myself
the laggard of the crowd.
“Come to breakfast,” cried Stranion. “Lynch is here, and it’s time we
were over the portage.”
Tom Lynch was a lumberman whom we had engaged by letter to come with his
team and drag, and haul our canoes over to Mud Lake. His team was a yoke
of half-wild brindle steers. The portage was five miles long, the way an
unvarying succession of ruts, mud-holes, and stumps, and Mr. Lynch’s
vocabulary, like his temper, was exceedingly vivacious. Yet the journey
was accomplished by the middle of the afternoon, and with no bones
broken. The flies and mosquitoes were swarming, but we inflicted upon
them a crushing defeat by the potent aid of “slitheroo.” This magic
fluid consists of Stockholm tar and tallow spiced with pennyroyal, and
boiled to about the consistency of treacle. It will almost keep a
grizzly at bay.
By half-past three in the afternoon we were launched upon the
unenchanting bosom of Mud Lake, a pond perhaps three miles in
circumference, weedy, and swarming with leeches. It hardly exceeds two
feet in apparent depth, but its bottom is a fathomless slime, stirred up
vilely at every dip of the paddle. Its low, marshy shores, fringed here
and there with dead bushes and tall, charred trunks, afforded us but one
little bit of beauty,—the green and living corner where Beardsley Brook
flows out. At this season the brook was very shallow, so that we had
often to wade beside the canoes and ease them over the shallows. And now
Sam did a heroic thing. He volunteered to let the rest of us do the
work, while he waded on ahead to catch some trout for supper.
It was by no means unpleasant wading down this bright and rippling
stream, whose banks were lovely with overhanging trees through which the
sunlight came deliciously tempered. Time slipped by as sweetly as the
stream. But a little surprise was in store for us. We were descending a
beautiful alder-fringed reach, when around a bend below us appeared Sam
with undignified impetuosity. He struggled toward us knee-deep in the
current, dashing up the spray before him, his eyes as wide as saucers.
“A bear! A bear!” he gasped; and hurling down his rod and fish in the
canoe he seized a heavy revolver. We had grasped our weapons
precipitately, and halted. But Sam urged us on, leading the way. As thus
full-armed we pressed forward down stream, he told us in a suppressed
voice how, as he angled and meditated, and there was no sound save the
hushed tumult of a little rapid or the recurrent swish of his line,
suddenly from the bank behind him rose the angry, blatant growl which he
knew for the utterance of a she-bear with cubs. At this he had felt
indignant and startled; and, with a terrific yell, had hurled a stone
into the bushes as a hint that he was a bad man and not to be trifled
with. Thereupon had arisen a roar which put his yell to shame. The
undergrowth had rocked and crashed with the swift approach of the
monster; and, filled with penitential misgivings, he had made haste to
flee. When we reached the scene of the possible tragedy, however, the
bear, or bears, had disappeared. We grieved not greatly for their
absence.