AT CAMP DE SQUATOOK.
The next morning we got off at a good hour. For the last half mile of
its course we found Beardsley Brook so overgrown with alders that we had
to chop and haul our way through it with infinite labor. Here we wasted
some time fishing for Sam’s pipe, which had fallen overboard among the
alders. The pipe was black, with crooked stem, plethoric in build, and
so heavy that we all thought it would sink where it fell. As soon as the
catastrophe occurred we halted till the water, here about two feet deep,
had become clear. Then, peering down among the alder-stems, Ranolf spied
the pipe on the sandy bottom, looking blurred and distorted through the
writhing current. Long we grappled for it, poking at it with pole and
paddle. We would cautiously raise it a little way towards the surface;
but even as we began to triumph it would wriggle off again as if
actually alive, and settle languidly back upon the sand. We all knew,
without Ranolf’s elaborate explanations, that its lifelike movement was
due to its being so little heavier than the water it displaced, or to
the uneven refraction of the light through the moving fluid, or to some
other equally satisfactory and scientific cause. Finally Sam, getting
impatient, plunged in arm and shoulder, and grasped the pipe
victoriously. He came up empty-handed; and we beheld a huge tadpole, now
thoroughly aroused, flaunting off down stream in high dudgeon. Ranolf
remarked that the laws of refraction were to him obscure; and we
continued our journey. The real pipe we overtook farther down stream,
floating along jauntily as a cork.
Once out upon the Squatook River our course was rapid, for the current
was swift and the channel clear. There were some wild rapids, but we ran
them victoriously. By noon we were on the bosom of Big Squatook Lake. By
six o’clock we had traversed this beautiful and solitary water, and were
pitching our tent near the outlet, on a soft brown carpet of
pine-needles. Here was a circular opening amid the huge trunks. Between
the lake and our encampment hung a screen of alder and wild-cherry,
whence a white beach of pebbles slanted broadly to the waves. While
Stranion and Queerman made preparations for supper, the rest of us
whipped the ripples of the outlet for trout. The shores of the lake at
this spot draw together in two grand curves, and at the apex flows out
the Squatook River, about waist-deep and a stone’s throw broad. It
murmurs pleasantly on for the first few rods, and then begins to dart
and chafe, and lift an angry voice. Hither the Indians come to spear
whitefish in their season. To assist their spearing they had the outlet
fenced part way across with a double row of stakes. All but the smallest
fish were thus compelled to descend through a narrow passage, wherein
they were at the mercy of the spearman. This fence we now found very
convenient. Letting the canoe drift against it, we perched on top of the
stakes, a couple of feet above water, and cast our flies unimpeded in
every direction. The trout were abundant, and took the flies freely. For
an hour we had most exciting sport. It was in itself, for all true
fishermen, worth the whole journey. The Squatook trout are of a good
average size, and very game. Of the twenty odd fish we killed that
evening, there were two that passed the one and one-half pound scratch
upon our scales, and several that cleared the pound.
Deciding to spend some days in this fair spot, we named it Camp de
Squatook. Lopping the lower branches of the trees, we made ourselves
pegs on which to hang our tins and other utensils; while a dry cedar
log, split skilfully by Stranion, furnished us with slabs for a table.
Our commissariat was well supplied with campers’ necessities and
luxuries, but it was upon trout above all that we feasted. Sometimes we
boiled them; sometimes we broiled them; more often we fried them in the
fragrant, yellow corn-meal. The delicate richness of the hot, pink,
luscious flakes is only to be realized by those who feast on the spoils
of their own rods, with the relish of free air and vigor and out-door
appetites.
Campers prate much of early hours, and of seeking their blankets with
sunset; but we held to no such doctrine. Night in these wilds is rich
with a mysterious beauty, an immensity of solitude such as day cannot
dream of. Supper over, we stretched ourselves out between tent-door and
camp-fire, pillowing our heads on the folded bedding. Across the yellow,
fire-lit circle, through the trunks and hanging branches, we watched the
still, gleaming level of the lake, whence at intervals would ring out
startlingly clear the goblin laughter of the loon.
We were not so tired as on the previous evening, and it took us longer
to settle down into the mood for story-telling. At last Stranion was
called upon. He was ready, and speech flowed from him at once, as if his
mouth had been just uncorked.
A NIGHT ENCOUNTER.
“I’ll tell you a tale,” said he, “of this very spot, on this very Big
Squatook; and, of course, with me and the panther both in it.
“Once upon a time—that is to say in the summer of 1886—I fished over
these waters with Tom Allison. You remember he was visiting Fredericton
nearly all that year. We camped right here two days, and then went on to
the Little Lake, or Second Squatook, just below.
“One moonlight night, when the windless little lake before our camp was
like a shield of silver, and the woody mountains enclosing us seemed to
hold their breath for delight, I was seized with an overwhelming impulse
to launch the canoe and pole myself up here to Big Squatook. The
distance between the two lakes is about a mile and a half, with rapid
water almost all the way; and Allison, who had been amusing himself
laboriously all day, was too much in love with his pipe and blankets by
the camp-fire to think of accompanying me. All my persuasions were
wasted upon him, so I went alone.
“Of course I had an excuse. I wanted to set night-lines for the gray
trout, or _togue_, which haunt the waters of Big Squatook. A favorite
feeding-ground of theirs is just where the water begins to shoal toward
the outlet yonder. Strange as it may seem, the togue are never taken in
Second Lake, or in any other of the Squatook chain.
“It was a weird journey up-stream, I can tell you. The narrow river,
full of rapids, but so free from rocks in this part of its course that
its voice seldom rises above a loud, purring whisper, was overhung by
many ancient trees. Through the spaces between their tops fell the
moonlight in sharp white patches. As the long slow thrusts of my pole
forced the canoe stealthily upward against the current, the creeping
panorama of the banks seemed full of elvish and noiseless life. White
trunks slipped into shadow, and black stumps caught gleams of sudden
radiance, till the strangeness of it all began to impress me more than
its beauty, and I felt a curious and growing sense of danger. I even
cast a longing thought backward toward the camp-fire’s cheer and my
lazier comrade; and when at length, slipping out upon the open bosom of
the lake, I put aside my pole and grasped my paddle, I drew a breath of
distinct relief.
“It took but a few minutes to place my three night-lines. This done, I
paddled with slow strokes toward that big rock far out yonder.
“The broad surface was as unrippled as a mirror, like it is now, save
where my paddle and the gliding prow disturbed it. When I floated
motionless, and the canoe drifted softly beyond the petty turmoil of my
paddle, it seemed as if I were hanging suspended in the centre of a blue
and starry sphere. The magic of the water so persuaded me, that
presently I hauled up my canoe on the rock, took off my clothes, and
swam far out into the liquid stillness. The water was cold, but of a
life-giving freshness; and when I had dressed and resumed my paddle I
felt full of spirit for the wild dash home to camp, through the purring
rapids and the spectral woods. Little did I dream just how wild that
dash was to be!
“You know the whitefish barrier where you fellows were fishing this
evening. Well, at the time of my visit the barrier extended only to
mid-channel, one-half having been carried away, probably by logs, in the
spring freshets. For this accident, doubtless very annoying to the
Indians, I soon had every reason to be grateful.
“As I paddled noiselessly into the funnel, and began to feel the current
gathering speed beneath me, and noted again the confused, mysterious
glimmer and gloom of the forest into which I was drifting, I once more
felt that unwonted sense of danger stealing over me. With a word of
vexation I shook it off, and began to paddle fiercely. At the same
instant my eyes, grown keen and alert, detected something strange about
the bit of Indian fence which I was presently to pass. It was surely
very high and massive in its outer section! I stayed my paddle, yet kept
slipping quickly nearer. Then suddenly I arrested my progress with a few
mighty backward strokes. Lying crouched flat along the tops of the
stakes, its head low down, its eyes fixed upon me, was a huge panther.
“I was completely at a loss, and for a minute or two remained just where
I was, backing water to resist the current, and trying to decide what
was best to be done. As long as I kept to the open water, of course I
was quite safe; but I didn’t relish the idea of spending the night on
the lake. I knew enough of the habits and characteristics of the panther
to be aware the brute would keep his eye on me as long as I remained
alone. But what I _didn’t_ know was how far a panther could jump! Could
I safely paddle past that fence by hugging the farther shore? I felt
little inclined to test the question practically; so I turned about and
paddled out upon the lake.
“Then I drifted and shouted songs and stirred up the echoes for a good
round hour. I hoped, rather faintly, that the panther would follow me up
the shore. This, in truth, he may have done; but when I paddled back to
the outlet, there he was awaiting me in exactly the same position as
when I first discovered him.
“By this time I had persuaded myself that there was ample room for me to
pass the barrier without coming in range of the animal’s spring. I knew
that close to the farther shore the water was deep. When I was about
thirty yards from the stakes, I put on speed, heading for just about the
middle of the opening. My purpose was to let the panther fancy that I
was coming within his range, and then to change my course at the last
moment so suddenly that he would not have time to alter his plan of
attack. It is quite possible that this carefully planned scheme was
unnecessary, and that I rated the brute’s intelligence and forethought
quite too high. But however that may be, I thought it safer not to take
any risks with so cunning an adversary.
“The panther lay in the sharp black shadow, so that it was impossible
for me to note his movements accurately; but just as an instinct warned
me that he was about to spring, I swerved smartly toward him, and hurled
the light canoe forward with the mightiest stroke I was capable of. The
manœuvre was well executed, for just before I came fairly opposite the
grim figure on the stake-tops, the panther sprang.
“Instinctively I threw myself forward, level with the cross-bars; and in
the same breath there came a snarl and a splash close beside me. The
brute had miscalculated my speed, and got himself a ducking. I chuckled
a little as I straightened up; but the sigh of relief which I drew at
the same time was profound in its sincerity. I had lamentably
underestimated the reach of the panther’s spring. He had alighted close
to the water’s edge, just where I imagined the canoe would be out of
reach. I looked around again. He was climbing alertly out of the hated
bath. Giving himself one mighty shake, he started after me down along
the bank, uttering a series of harsh and piercing screams. With a sweep
of the paddle I darted across current, and placed almost the full
breadth of the river between my enemy and myself.
“I have paddled many a canoe-race, but never one that my heart was so
set upon winning as this strange one in which I now found myself
straining every nerve. The current of the Squatook varies greatly in
speed, though nowhere is it otherwise than brisk. At first I gained
rapidly on my pursuer; but presently we reached a spot where the banks
were comparatively level and open; and here the panther caught up and
kept abreast of me with ease. With a sudden sinking at the heart I
called to mind a narrow gorge a quarter of a mile ahead, from the sides
of which several drooping trunks hung over the water. From one of these,
I thought the panther might easily reach me, running out and dropping
into the canoe as I darted beneath. The idea was a blood-curdling one,
and spurred me to more desperate effort; but before we neared the
perilous pass the banks grew so uneven and the underbrush so dense that
my pursuer was much delayed, and consequently fell behind. The current
quickening its speed at the same time, I was a good ten yards in the
lead, as my canoe slid through the gorge and out into the white
moonlight of one of the wider reaches of the stream.
“Here I slackened my pace in order to recover my wind; and the panther
made up his lost ground. For the time, I was out of his reach, and all
he could do was to scream savagely. This, I supposed, was to summon his
mate to the noble hunting he had provided for her; but to my
inexpressible satisfaction no mate came. The beauty and the weirdness of
the moonlit woods were now quite lost upon me. I saw only that long,
fierce, light-bounding figure which so inexorably kept pace with me.
“To save my powers for some possible emergency, I resolved to content
myself, for the time, with a very moderate degree of haste. The panther
was in no way pressed to keep up with me. Suddenly he darted forward at
his utmost speed. For a moment this did not trouble me; but then I awoke
to its possible meaning. He was planning, evidently, an ambuscade, and I
must keep an eye upon him.
“The order of the chase was promptly reversed, and I set out at once in
a desperate pursuit. The obstructed shores and the increasing current
favored me, so that he found it hard to shake me off. For the next half
mile I just managed to keep up with him. Then came another of those
quieter reaches, and my pursued pursuer at last got out of sight.
“Again I paused, not only to take breath, but to try and discover the
brute’s purpose in leaving me. All at once it flashed into my mind. Just
before the river widens into Second Lake, there occurs a lively and
somewhat broken rapid. As there was moonlight, and I knew the channels
well, I had no dread of this rapid till suddenly I remembered three
large bowlders crossing the stream like stepping-stones.
“It was plain to me that this was the point my adversary was anxious to
reach ahead of me. These bowlders were so placed that he could easily
spring from one to the other dry-shod, and his chance of intercepting me
would be excellent. I almost lost courage. The best thing I could do
under the circumstances was to save my strength to the utmost; so for a
time I did little more than steer the canoe. When at last I rounded a
turn, and saw just ahead of me the white, thin-crested, singing ripples
of the rapid, I was not at all surprised to see also the panther,
crouched on one of the rocks in mid-stream.
“At this point the river was somewhat spread out, and the banks were
low, so the moonlight showed me the channel quite clearly. You’ll
understand better when we run through in a day or two. I laid aside my
paddle and took up the more trusty white spruce pole. With it I
“snubbed” the canoe firmly, letting her drop down the slope inch by
inch, while I took a cool and thorough survey of the ripples and
cross-currents.
“From the sloping shoulder of the rock lying nearest to the left-hand
bank a strong cross-current took a slant sharply over toward the middle
channel. I decided to stake my fate on the assistance of this
cross-current. Gradually I snubbed the canoe over to the left bank, and
then gave her her head. The shores slipped past. The rocks, with that
crouching sentinel on the central one, seemed to glide up-stream to meet
me. I was almost in the passage when, with a superb bound, the panther
shot through the moonlight and lit upon the rock I was approaching! As
he poised himself, gaining his balance with some difficulty on the
narrow foothold, a strong lunge with my pole twisted the canoe into the
swirl of that cross-current; and with the next thrust I slid like
lightning down the middle channel before my adversary had more than got
himself fairly turned around! With a shout of exultation I raced down
the rest of the incline and into widening reaches, safe from pursuit.
The panther, screaming angrily, followed me for a time; but soon the
receding shores placed such a distance between us that I ceased to
regard him. Presently I bade him a final farewell, and headed across the
lake for the spot where the camp-fire was waving me a ruddy welcome.”
“That’s getting pretty near home,” remarked Ranolf, glancing
apprehensively into the gloom behind the camp. “You don’t suppose that
chap would be waiting around here for you, Stranion? If so, I hope he
won’t mistake me for you!”
“Let Sam give us something cheerful now!” demanded Magnus.
“Well,” said Sam, “I’ll give you a story of the lumber-camps. I’ll call
it—
[Illustration: “With the next Thrust I slid like Lightning down the
Middle Channel.”—Page 78.]
‘BRUIN AND THE COOK.’
“As the O. M. is going to dress up our yarns for the cold light of
print, I must be allowed to preface the story with a few introductory
remarks on the life of the lumbermen in winter. Stranion and the O. M.
know all about that; but the rest of you fellows never go to the
lumber-camps, you know.
“To one who visits the winter camps here in our backwoods, the life led
by the loggers is likely to seem monotonous after the strangeness of it
has worn off. The sounds of the chopping, the shouting, the clanking of
the teams, afford ample warning to all the wild creatures of the woods,
who thereupon generally agree in giving a wide berth to a neighborhood
which has suddenly grown so populous and noisy.
“In chopping and hauling logs the lumbermen are at work unremittingly
from dawn until sun-down, and at night they have little energy to expend
on the hunting of bears or panthers. The bunks and the blankets exert an
overwhelming attraction; and by the time the men have concluded their
after-supper smoke, and the sound of a few rough songs has died away,
the wild beasts may creep near enough to smell the pork and beans, and
may prowl about the camp until dawn, with small fear of molestation from
the sleepers within.
“At intervals, however, the monotony of camp-life is broken. Something
occurs to remind the careless woodsmen that, though in the wilderness,
indeed, they are yet not truly of it. They are made suddenly aware of
those shy but savage forces which, regarding them ever as trespassers,
have been keeping them under an angry and eager surveillance. The spirit
of the violated forest makes a swift and sometimes effectual, but always
unexpected, stroke for vengeance.
“A yoke of oxen are straining at their load: a great branch reaching
down catches the nearest ox by the horn, and the poor brute falls in its
track with its neck broken. A stout sapling is bent to the ground by a
weight of ice and snow: some thaw or the shock of a passing team
releases it, and by the fierce recoil a horse’s leg is shattered.
“A lumberman has strayed off into the woods by himself, perchance to
gather spruce-gum for his friends in the settlements, and he is found,
days afterwards, half-eaten by bears and foxes. A solitary chopper
throws down his axe and leans against a tree to rest and dream, and a
panther drops from the branches above and tears him.
“Yet such vengeance is accomplished but seldom, and makes no permanent
impression on the heedless woodsman. His onward march is inexorable.
“The cook, it must be borne in mind, is a most important personage in
the lumber-camp. This I say of camp-cooks in general, and I assert it in
particular of the cook who figures as one of the heroes in my story. The
other hero is the bear.
“It was a bright March morning at Nicholson’s camp over on Salmon River.
There had been a heavy thaw for some days, and the snowbanks under the
eaves of the camp were shrinking rapidly. The bright chips about the
door, the trampled straw and fodder around the stable, were steaming and
soaking under the steady sun. Such winds as were stirring abroad that
day were quite shut off from the camp by the dark surrounding woods.
“From the protruding stovepipe, which did duty as a chimney, a faint
blue wreath of smoke curled lazily. The cook had the camp all to himself
for a while; for the teams and choppers were at work a mile away, and
the ‘cookee,’ as the cook’s assistant is called, had betaken himself to
a neighboring pond to fish for trout through the ice.
“The dishes were washed, the camp was in order, and in a little while it
would be time to get the dinner ready. The inevitable pork and beans
were slowly boiling, and an appetizing fragrance was abroad on the quiet
air. The cook decided to snatch a wink of sleep in his bunk beneath the
eaves. He had a spare half-hour before him, and under his present
circumstances he knew no better way of spending it.
“The weather being mild, he left the camp-door wide open, and, swinging
up to his berth, soon had himself luxuriously bedded in blankets,—his
own and as many other fellows’ blankets as he liked. He began to doze
and dream. He dreamed of summer fields, and then of a lively
Sunday-school picnic, and at last of the music of a band which he heard
crashing in his ears. Then the cymbals and the big drum grew unbearably
loud, and, waking with a start, he remembered where he was, and thrust
his head in astonishment over the edge of the bunk. The sight that met
his eyes filled him with alarm and indignation.
“The prolonged thaw had brought out the bears from their snug winter
quarters; and now, in a very bad humor from having been waked up too
soon, they were prowling through the forest in unusual numbers. Food was
scarce; in fact, times were very hard with them, and they were not only
bad-humored, but lean and hungry withal.
“To one particularly hungry bear the smell of our cook’s simmering pork
had come that morning like the invitation to a feast. The supposed
invitation had been accepted with a rapturous alacrity. Bruin had found
the door open, the coast clear, the quarters very inviting. With the
utmost good faith he had entered upon his fortune. To find the source of
that entrancing fragrance had been to his trained nose a simple matter.
[Illustration: Bruin and the Cook.—Page 83.]
“While cook slept sweetly, Bruin had rooted off the cover of the pot,
and this was the beginning of cook’s dream.
“But the pot was hot, and the first mouthful of the savory mess made him
yell with rage and pain. At this point the trumpets and clarions grew
shrill in cook’s dreaming ears.
“Then an angry sweep of the great paw had dashed pot and kettle off the
stove in a thunder of crashing iron and clattering tins. This was the
point at which cook’s dream had attained overwhelming reality.
“What met his round-eyed gaze, as he sat up in his blankets, was an
angry bear, dancing about in a confusion of steam and smoke and beans
and kettles, making ineffectual snatches at a lump of scalding pork upon
the floor.
“After a moment of suspense, cook rose softly and crept to the other end
of the bunks, where a gun was kept. To his disgust the weapon was
unloaded. But the click of the lock had caught the bear’s attention.
Glancing up at the bunk above him, the brute’s eye detected the
shrinking cook, and straightway he overflowed with wrath. Here,
evidently, was the author of his discomfort.
“With smarting jaws and vengeful paws he made a dash for the bunk. Its
edge was nearly seven feet from the floor, so Bruin had to do some
clambering. As his head appeared over the edge, and his great paws took
firm hold upon the clapboard rim of the bunk, cook, now grown desperate,
struck at him wildly with the heavy butt of the gun. But Bruin is always
a skilful boxer. With an upward stroke he warded off the blow, and sent
the weapon spinning across the camp. At the same time, however, his
weight proved too much for the frail clapboard to which he was holding,
and back he fell on the floor with a shock like an earthquake.
“This repulse—which, of course, he credited to the cook—only filled him
with tenfold greater fury, and at once he sprang back to the assault;
but the delay, however brief, had given poor cook time to grasp an idea,
which he proceeded to act upon with eagerness. He saw that the hole in
the roof through which the stovepipe protruded was large enough to give
his body passage. Snatching at a light rafter above his head, he swung
himself out of the bunk, and kicked the stovepipe from its place. The
sections fell with loud clatter upon the stove and the bear, for a
moment disconcerting Bruin’s plans. From the rafter it was an easy reach
to the opening in the roof, and as Bruin gained the empty bunk and
stretched his paw eagerly up toward his intended victim on the rafter,
the intended victim slipped with the greatest promptitude through the
hole.
“At this point the cook drew a long breath, and persuaded his heart to
go down out of his throat, where it had been since he waked, and resume
its proper functions.
“His first thought was to drop from the roof and run for help, but
fortunately he changed his mind. The bear was no fool. No sooner had the
cook got safely out upon the roof than Bruin rushed forth from the
camp-door, expecting to catch him as he came down.
“Had cook acted upon his first impulse, he would have been overtaken
before he had gone a hundred yards, and would have perished hideously in
the snow. As it was, however,—evidently to Bruin’s deep chagrin,—he
stuck close to the chimney-hole, like a prairie-dog sitting by his
burrow, ready at a moment’s notice to plunge within, while the bear
stalked deliberately twice around the camp, eying him, and evidently
laying plans, as it were, for his capture.
“At last the bear appeared to make up his mind. At one corner of the
shanty, piled up nearly to the eaves, was a store of firewood which
‘cookee’ had gathered in. Upon this pile Bruin mounted, and then made a
dash up the creaking roof.
“Cook prayed most fervently that it might give way beneath the great
weight of the bear, and to see if it would do so he waited almost too
long; but it did not. As he scurried, belated, through the hole, the
bear’s paw reached its edge, and the huge claws tore nearly all the
flesh from the back of the poor fellow’s hand. Bleeding and trembling he
crouched upon the friendly rafter, not daring to swing down into the
bunk.
“The agility of that great animal was marvellous. Scarcely had cook got
under shelter when Bruin rushed in again at the door, and was up on the
bunk again in a twinkling, and again cook vanished by the chimney-place.
A moment later the bear was again on the roof, while cook once more
crouched back faintly on his rafter. This performance was repeated
several times, till for cook it had quite ceased to be interesting.
“At last the chase grew monotonous even to the indefatigable Bruin, who
then resolved upon a change of tactics. After driving cook out through
the chimney, he decided to try the same mode of exit for himself, or at
least to thrust his head through the opening, and see what it was like.
Embracing the woodwork with his powerful forepaws, he swung himself up
on the rafter, as he had seen cook do so gracefully. The attempt was
quite successful; but the rafter was not prepared for the strain, and
Bruin and beam came thundering to the floor.
“As cook gazed down through the hole, and marked what had happened, his
heart sank utterly within him. His one safe retreat was gone. But Bruin
did not perceive his advantage, or else was in no hurry to follow it up.
The shock had greatly dampened his zeal. He sat on his haunches by the
stove, and gazed up sullenly at cook, while cook gazed back despairingly
at him.
“Then the bear noticed that the precious pork had got deliciously cool,
and in the charms of that rare morsel cook was soon quite forgotten. All
cook had to do was to lie on the roof, nursing his lacerated hand, and
watching Bruin as he made away with the lumbermen’s dinner,—a labor of
love in which he lost no time.
“At this junction a noise was heard in the woods, and hope came back to
the cook’s heart. The men were returning for dinner. Bruin heard it too,
and made haste to gulp down the remnant of the beans. Just as teams and
choppers emerged into the little cleared space in front of the camp,
Bruin, having swallowed his last mouthful, rushed out of the camp-door,
to the breathless and immeasurable amazement of the lumbermen.
“Finding himself to all appearances surrounded, Bruin paused a moment
irresolutely. Then charging upon the nearest team, he dealt the teamster
a terrific cuff, bowling him over in the snow and breaking his arm,
while the maddened horses plunged, reared, and fell over backward in a
tangle of sleds and traces and lashing heels.
“This episode brought the woodsmen to their senses. Axe in hand, they
closed in upon the bear, who rose on his hind-quarters to meet them. The
first few blows that were delivered at him, with all the force of
practised arms and vindictive energy, he warded off as if they were so
many feathers; but he could not guard himself on all sides at once. A
well-directed blow from the rear sank the axe-head deep between his
fore-shoulders, severing the spinal column, and Bruin collapsed, a furry
heap, upon the crimsoned snow.
“In their indignation over the cook’s torn hand, their comrade’s broken
arm, and—perhaps most aggravating of all—their thoroughly demolished
dinner, the lumbermen undertook to make a meal of Bruin; but in this
attempt Bruin found a measure of revenge, for in death he proved to be
even tougher than he had been in life, and the famous luxury of a fat
bear-steak was nowhere to be had from his carcass.”
“And now, Magnus,” continued Sam, cleaning out his pipe, “we’ll have
something remote and tropical from you, with your kind permission. What
else has happened to that uncle of yours?”
“Lots of things,” said the imperturbable Magnus. “I’ll tell you one of
his Mexican stories, which he calls—
‘AN ENCOUNTER WITH PECCARIES.’
This is, as near as I can remember, the way he told it to me. I speak in
his name.
“In my somewhat varied wanderings over the surface of this fair round
world,” said my uncle, “I have had adventures more or less exciting, and
generally disagreeable, with wolves, bears, and tigers, with irate and
undiscriminating bulls, and with at least one of those painfully
unpleasant horses, who have acquired a special relish for human flesh.
Some childish memories, moreover, disclose to me at times that on more
than one occasion I have come off without laurels from a contest with an
indignant he-goat, and that I have even been in peril at the wings of an
unusually aggressive gander. But of all the unpleasant acquaintances to
make when one is feeling solitary and unprotected, I think a herd of
irritated peccaries will carry off the palm. Let these sturdy little
animals once conceive that their rights have been ever so little
menaced, and they are tireless, implacable, and blindly fearless in
their demand for vengeance. Just what they may interpret as a menace to
their rights I suppose no man can say with any confidence; but my own
observation has led me to believe that they think themselves entitled to
possess the earth. The earth is much to be congratulated upon the fact
that various climatic considerations have hitherto prevented them from
entering upon their inheritance. The peccary is confined, I believe, and
I state it here on the authority of reputable naturalists, to certain
tropical and sub-tropical regions of the New World. My own limited
acquaintance with the creature was gained in Mexico.
“Toward the end of the seventies I was engaged upon a survey of
government lands in one of the interior provinces of Mexico. Our party
was enjoying life, and troubled by few cares. There were no bandits in
that region. The scanty inhabitants were more than well-disposed; they
were ready to bow down before us in their deferential good-will. The
climate, though emphatically warm, was healthful and stimulating. There
were hardly enough pumas in the neighborhood to add to our content the
zest of excitement. There were peccaries, as we were told in admonition,
but we had seen no sign of them; and when we learned that they were only
a kind of small wild pig we took little stock in the tales we heard of
their unrelenting ferocity.
“On one of our numerous holidays—we could not work our peons on any
saint’s day be it remembered—a rumor of a remarkable waterfall adorning
a tributary of the stream which meandered past our camp had taken me a
longish ride into the foothills of the Sierra. My journey was along a
little-frequented trail leading into the mountains, and the scenery was
fascinating in its loveliness. I found the waterfall easily enough, for
the trail led past its very brink, and I was more than rewarded for the
trifling fatigue of my ride. A vigorous stream, rolling from a winding
ravine in such a manner that it seemed to burst right out of the
mountain-side, leaped sparkling and clamoring into the air from a
curtain of emerald foliage, and fell a distance of nearly two hundred
feet into a very valley of paradise. In this valley, down into the bosom
of which I gazed from my height, the stream lingered to form a sapphire
lakelet, around whose banks grew the most luxuriant of tree-ferns and
mahoganies and mesquits garlanded with gorgeous-bloomed lianas. I could
hear the cries of parrots rising from the splendid coverts, and I
thought what a delicious retreat the valley would be but for its
assortment of snakes, miasma, and a probable puma or two. I enjoyed the
scene from my post, but I did not descend. Then I turned my face
homeward, well content.
“The horse I rode requires more than a passing mention, for he played
the most prominent and most heroic part in the adventure which befell me
on my way home. He was a superb beast, a blood bay, whom I had bought in
the city of Mexico from an American engineer who was leaving the
country. The animal, who answered to the name of Diaz, had seen plenty
of service in the interior of Mexico, and his trained instincts had kept
me out of many dangers. I loved Diaz as a faithful friend and servant.
“As I descended from the foothills the trail grew heavy and soft, making
our progress slow. The land was open,—a succession of rank meadows, with
clumps of trees dotted here and there, and pools on either side of the
trail. Suddenly, some distance in my rear, there arose a shrill,
menacing chorus of grunts and squeals, at which I would fain have paused
to listen. But Diaz recognized the sounds, and bounded forward instantly
with every sign of apprehension. Then I said to myself, ‘It must be
those peccaries of which I’ve heard so much.’
“In a moment or two I realized that it certainly was those peccaries.
They swarmed out of the rank herbage and dashed after us, gnashing their
jaws; and, though Diaz was doing his best, the herd gained upon us
rapidly. They galloped lightly over the soft soil wherein Diaz sank far
above his fetlocks. It took me but a moment to realize, when at last
face to face with them, that the peccaries were just as dangerous as
they had been represented. And another moment sufficed to show me that
escape by my present tactics was impossible.
“I was armed with a light breech-loading rifle,—a Remington,—and a brace
of Smith & Wessons were sticking in my belt. Wheeling in my saddle I
took a snap shot at the pursuing herd, and one of the animals tumbled in
his tracks. His fellows took no notice of this whatever. Then I marked
that Diaz appreciated our plight, for he was trembling under me. I
looked about me, almost despairing of escape.
“A little behind, nearly half-way between us and the peccaries, I saw a
wide-spreading tree close to the trail. We had passed it at the first of
the alarm. Ahead, as far as I could see, there was no such refuge.
Plenty of trees there were indeed, but all standing off amid the swamps.
I decided at once upon a somewhat desperate course. I turned Diaz about,
and charged down upon the peccaries with a yell.
“This stratagem appeared exactly to my horse’s taste. In fact, his
attitude made me rather uncomfortable. He seemed suddenly distraught. He
gave several short whinnying cries of challenge or defiance, and rushed
on with his mouth wide open and his hips rolled back in a fashion that
made him look fiendish. My design was to swing myself from the saddle
into the tree that overhung the trail, and so give Diaz a chance to run
away, when free of my weight. But Diaz seemed bent on carrying the war
into the enemy’s country.
“I took one more shot at the peccaries, who seemed no whit dismayed by
the onset of Diaz. I dropped my rifle, and kicked my feet out of the
stirrups. By this time we were under the tree, and the peccaries with
wild squeals were leaping upon us. I had just succeeded in grasping a
branch above my head, and was swinging myself up, when I saw Diaz spring
into the air, and come down with his forefeet upon one of the grunting
herd. The brute’s back was broken. Almost in the same instant my brave
steed’s teeth had made short work of another peccary; but his flanks
were streaming with blood, and the dauntless animals were literally
climbing upon him and ripping his hide with their short, keen tusks. I
emptied my revolvers rapidly, and half a dozen animals dropped; but this
made no appreciable difference in their numbers. Meanwhile Diaz had
gathered himself together, and then, lashing out desperately before and
behind, had shaken himself free. He sprang clear of the pack, and
galloped off up the trail toward the mountains.
“The peccaries pursued him but a few paces, and then returned to besiege
my tree of refuge, giving me an excellent opportunity for revolver
practice. As I was refilling my emptied chambers, I heard a snorting
screech coming down the trail; and there to my amazement was Diaz
returning to the charge. But could that terrible-looking beast be my
gentle Diaz? His eyes seemed like blazing coals, and his great jaws were
dripping with blood. The peccaries darted joyously into the fray, but
Diaz went right through and over them like a whirlwind, mangling I know
not how many in his course, and disappeared down the trail on the
homeward road. His charge had been murderous, but there were still
plenty of my adversaries left to make my beleaguerment all too
effective. I gazed wistfully after my heroic horse, and then, perched
securely astride a branch, I continued my revolver practice. The
peccaries, never heeding the diminution of their ranks, and disdaining
to notice their wounds, kept scrambling on one another’s shoulders, and
thrusting their malignant snouts high into the air in the hope of coming
at me and satiating their revenge.
[Illustration: “I emptied My Revolvers rapidly, and half a dozen
Animals dropped.” Page 94.]
“In the course of half an hour my little stock of cartridges, used
deliberately and effectively, was gone; but so, as I congratulated
myself, were most of the peccaries. There were still half a dozen,
however; and these, as far as my imprisonment was concerned, were as bad
as fourscore. These were incorruptible jailers; and I feared lest their
ceaseless, angry cries might summon another herd to their assistance.
When a couple of hours had passed I grew deeply disgusted, and began to
plan my camping arrangements for the night.
“In the act of tying some branches together to make myself a safe couch,
I caught the welcome sound of voices approaching. It was my party out in
search of me. The arrival of Diaz, torn, bloody-mouthed, and in a wild
excitement, had, of course, given them a terrible alarm; and they had
set off without delay, hardly expecting to find me alive. A few shots
from their rifles broke up the siege, and the meagre remnant of the
peccaries fled into the swamps. When I got back to camp I found that
none of the peons dared to do anything for Diaz, or even to approach
him, he was so furious and so erratic. To me he was submissive, though
with an effort. I dressed his wounds, and gave him a heavy dose of
aloes, and in a day or two he was himself again. But I believe he was on
the verge of going mad.”
When Magnus ceased I murmured, “I only hope your uncle’s adventures will
last right through this trip.”
“And now,” said Sam, “we’ll call on Queerman for something of a tender
and idyllic tone; eh, Queerman?”
“All right,” was the reply. “And I’ll show you, Sam, that I, too, know
something of the lumber-camps. Listen to a gentle—
‘IDYL OF LOST CAMP.’
“In the lumber-camps they still talk about the great midwinter thaw that
wrought such havoc ten years back. It came on without warning about the
last week in February. There had been heavy snowfalls in the early part
of the winter, and all through that district the snows were deep and
soft. Before the thaw came to an end these great snow masses were
dwindled to almost nothing, and the ice had gone out of the rivers in a
series of tremendous floods.
“For the lumber thieves the thaw was a magnificent opportunity, of which
they made haste to avail themselves. Having no stumpage dues to pay,
they could afford a little extra outlay for the difficult hauling. They
were comparatively secure from interruption, and the opening of the
streams gave them an opportunity of quickly getting their spoils out of
the way.
“One of the most important camps of the district at that time was that
of the Ryckert Company, on the Little St. Francis. On a Saturday
morning, the fourth day of the thaw, word was brought into camp that the
thieves were having a delightful time over on Lake Pecktaweekaagomic, on
the Company’s timber limits. Steve Doyle, the boss of the camp,
immediately called for volunteers to attempt the capture of the
marauders. Every man at once came forward, with the exception of the
cook; and the boss, in order to excite no jealousies, made his selection
by lot. In half an hour the squad was ready to set out.
“‘Be you agoin’ along, sir?’ inquired one of the hands.
“‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Doyle. ‘McCann will be in charge here while
we’re gone. There’s such a thing possible as a brush with them fellows,
though I don’t anticipate no trouble with ’em. I reckon they’re relyin’
on the thaw to keep ’em from bein’ interrupted.’
“‘I thought,’ responded the man who had just spoken, ‘as how the “little
feller” might come out to camp to-day, along of Mart, an’ you mightn’t
want to miss him. He ain’t been here fur more’n a month, now, an’ we’re
all kind of expectin’ him to-day. You kin depend on us to make a good
job of it, ef so be’s you’d like to stay by the camp. The hands all
knows you too well to think you stay home on account of bein’ _skeered_,
anyways!’
“At this there was a general laugh; for Doyle’s reckless courage was
famous in all the camps.
“‘No,’ said the boss, after a thoughtful pause; ‘it’s my place to go,
and not to stay. Anyways, I’m not lookin’ for Arty to-day. His
grandmother ain’t goin’ to let him come when the road’s so bad. No!’ he
continued with renewed emphasis, ‘this ain’t no time for Arty in the
woods.’
“Without more discussion the band picked up their dunnage and their
guns, and set out for the lake of the unpronounceable name. It is
needless to say the name became much shortened in their careless lingo.
On state occasions they sometimes took pains to pronounce it
‘Peckagomic.’ For every-day use they found ‘Gomic’ quite sufficient.
“About the time the expedition was setting out from the Ryckert Camp,
far away in Beardsley Settlement a very small boy was being tucked
comfortably into the straw and bearskins of a roomy pung. As his
grandmother kissed the round, expectant little face, she said to the
driver, a slim youth of perhaps eighteen,—
“‘Do you think, now, Mart, the goin’ won’t be too bad? Be you sure the
pung ain’t likely to slump down and upset? And then there’s the ice!
This warm spell must have made it pretty rotten! Will it be safe
crossin’ the streams? Somehow or other, I do jist hate lettin’ Arty go
along this mornin’!’
“‘Don’t you be worryin’ a mite, marm,’ responded Mart Babcock, gathering
up the reins. ‘Ther’ ain’t no ice to cross, seein’s ther’ ain’t no
rivers in our rowt, exceptin’ the Siegus, an’ that’s got a bridge to it.
I’ll look after Arty, trust me. His pa’d be powerful disapp’inted if I
didn’t bring him along this time, to say nawthin’ of all the hands!’
“‘Well, well,’ said the old lady in a voice of reluctant resignation; ‘I
suppose it’s all right; but take keer of him, Mart, as if he was the
apple of your eye!’
“It was a soft, hazy, melting day when Mart and Arty set out on their
long drive. The travelling was heavy, but the air was delicious, and our
travellers were in the highest spirits. This visit to the camp was
Arty’s dearest treat, and was allowed him three or four times during the
winter.
“Toward noon the hazy blue of the morning sky changed to a thick gray,
while the air grew almost oppressively warm, and the woods were filled
on all sides with the strange, innumerable noises of the great thaw. The
dull crunchings of the settling masses of snow at first thrilled the
child with a vague alarm. Then, reassured by his companion, he grew
interested in trying to distinguish the varied sounds. The unbending of
softened twigs and saplings, the dropping of loosened bark, the stealthy
tricklings of unseen rillets—all these filled the forest with a sense of
mysterious activity and bustle.
“Every little while Mart stopped to give the floundering horse rest and
encouragement. Jerry belonged to Steve Doyle; but being a great pet with
his owner, and devoted to the child, and at the same time somewhat too
old to endure without injury the hardships of winter lumbering, he had
been left at home in luxury the last two winters, with nothing to do but
make a weekly trip to the camp on the Little St. Francis. In all cases
Jerry was treated with affectionate consideration, which he amply repaid
by his intelligence and willingness.
“When our weary travellers reached the top of the hill overlooking the
camp, Jerry was pretty well fagged. There was the camp, however, not
half a mile away in its clearing at the end of a straight bit of road.
Arty clapped his hands, and stood up to see if he could catch a glimpse
of his father looking out for him; and Mart chirruped cheerfully to the
horse.
“Just at this moment the rain, which had been threatening for hours,
came down. It came down in sheets. The horse was urged to a run; but the
travellers, ere they reached the camp, were drenched as if they had
fallen in the river. Arty, moreover, was drenched in tears for a few
moments on learning of his father’s absence; but soon, with the
delighted pettings and caressings of the three or four woodsmen who had
been left in the camp, the little fellow’s disappointment was assuaged,
and he was making himself at home. The camp, however, seemed to him
lonely and deserted; and when, after supper, getting the cook to wrap
him up in an oilskin coat, he went out to the stable to give Jerry a big
piece of camp gingerbread and bid him good-night, his disappointment
welled up again, and he gave way to a few more tears on the affectionate
animal’s neck.
“Around the blazing fire a little later Arty was himself again. The men
sang songs for him, and told him stories, and blew little clouds of
bitter smoke from their pipes into the brown thicket of his curls. He
sat now on one rough fellow’s knee, now on another’s, and absorbed all
the attention of the camp, and was allowed by the cook to eat all the
gingerbread he wanted. When he got sleepy he was put into his father’s
bunk; and, since he was determined to have it so, Mart was allowed to
sleep beside him. Arty having gone to bed, there was nothing for his
admirers to do but follow his example. Their hearts filled with tender
memories and generous thoughts, stirred up by the presence of the child
among them, the backwoodsmen turned into their bunks, and soon were fast
asleep.
“That night the floods came. The torrents rushing down every hillside
speedily burst the already rotten ice. Some miles above the camp a jam
formed itself early in the evening,—a mixed mass of ice-cakes, logs, and
rubbish; and this kept the water below from rising rapidly enough to
warn the camp of its danger. Just as the gray of dawn was beginning to
struggle dimly through the forest aisles, the jam broke, and the mighty
avalanche of ice and water swept down on the slumbering camp.
“There was no warning. Men perished in their sleep, crushed or drowned,
without knowing what had happened. The camp was simply wiped out of
existence.
“The bunk in which Arty lay asleep with his young protector was not
built into the wall like the other bunks. It was a separate structure,
and stood across the end of the building close by the fireplace. When
the flood struck the camp, the stout building went down like a house of
cards.
“With a choking cry of terror Arty awoke to find himself drifting in a
tumult of icy waters. Great dark waves kept whirling, eddying, and
crashing about him. An arm was around him, holding him firmly, and he
realized that Mart was taking care of him. Presently a fragment of wreck
plunged against them and he heard Mart groan; but the young man caught
the timbers, and bade Arty lay hold of them. The child bravely did as he
was told, and climbed actively upon the floating mass. Hardly had he
done so when Mart disappeared under the dark surface.
“A shrill cry broke from Arty’s lips at the sight, but in a moment the
young man reappeared. He was close against the timbers—dashing against
them, in fact; but Arty saw that he was unable to hold on to them.
Throwing himself flat on his face, the plucky little fellow caught hold
of his friend’s sleeve, and clung to it with all his tiny strength. Tiny
as it was, it was enough for the purpose, however, and Mart’s head was
kept above water; but his eyes were closed, and he did not notice the
child’s voice begging him to climb up onto the wreck.
“The waters subsided almost as rapidly as they had risen, though the
stream remained a torrent, raging far above its wonted bounds. In a few
minutes the timbers on which Arty had his refuge were swung by an eddy
into shallow water. They caught against a tree, and then grounded at one
end.
“Arty began crawling toward shore, dragging Mart’s body through the
water without great difficulty. But when he got into the shallow part it
was another matter; he could not haul Mart’s weight any farther. Resting
the young man’s head on the edge of the timbers, he paused to take
breath, and looked about him in despair. Now he began to cry again; he
had been too busy for lamentations while trying to save Mart.
“Presently he heard some one approaching, attracted by the sound of his
voice. Looking up eagerly, he saw it was old Jerry, picking his way
through the shallow water. He called him by name, and the horse neighed
joyfully in answer. The animal was sadly bedraggled in appearance, but
evidently unhurt. He had swum ashore lower down the river, and was
making his way back to where he expected to find the camp. Now, however,
he came to Arty, sniffed him over, and rubbed him with his soft, wet
nose.
“‘Jerry’ll help me pull Mart out,’ said the child aloud, half to
himself, half to the horse; and laying hold of the young man’s sleeve,
he again began bravely tugging upon it. ‘Pull too, Jerry,’ urged the
little fellow, while the animal stood wondering what it was he was
required to do. In a moment, however, he understood; and seizing the
young man by the collar of his shirt, he speedily dragged him to land
without much help from Arty. The affectionate creature recognized his
driver, and stood over him with drooping head, bewildered at his
helplessness and silence. Mart opened his eyes, and groaned slightly
once or twice, but immediately relapsed into unconsciousness. Arty sat
down by his side, his little heart overflowing with grief and fear. He
kept crying for his father and his grandmother, and for Mart to open his
eyes. Jerry completed the sad group, standing over it as if on guard,
and ever and anon lifting his head to send forth a shrill whinny of
appeal. This was the position in which, a half-hour later, guided by
Jerry’s signals, Steve Doyle and his party found them.
“Doyle had not caught the lumber thieves. The march of his party had
been so retarded by the thaw that they had halted before going half-way.
As the storm increased, and they observed how the water was rising in
the brook beside which they had encamped, they became alarmed. They
realized the prospect of a big flood; and Steve Doyle led his men back
in hot haste. It was full daylight when they came out upon the
devastated clearing where once had stood the camp.
“The horror in the lumbermen’s hearts is not to be described. In a pile
of wreckage, strangely mixed up with hay and straw from the stable, they
found the cook, with a leg and an arm broken, but still alive. Of no one
else was there a sign, nor of the horses. From the cook, Doyle learned
of Arty’s presence in the camp. Without a word, but with a wild, white
face, the man started down stream in a despairing search; and the whole
band followed, with the exception of two that stayed to take care of the
unfortunate cook.
“When the father clasped Arty in his arms he was almost beside himself
with joy for a few moments; then he remembered the poor fellows who were
gone. Giving the child into the arms of one of the men, he busied
himself with Mart, whom, by means of rubbing, he soon brought back to
consciousness. The brave fellow had been stunned by a blow on the head,
and afterward half drowned; but he soon recovered so far as to be able
to walk with assistance. To Arty he owed his life, even as he had
himself saved Arty’s.
“A little later a melancholy procession started back for Beardsley
Settlement. The poor cook was placed on Jerry’s back, and bore his pain
like a hero. Arty trudged by the side of McCann, to whose charge he was
committed by his father, and Mart was helped along by two of his
comrades. With these went five or six more of the hands, to get them
safely to the settlement. All the rest, under the leadership of Steve
Doyle, set off down river on a search for the three missing men, or
their bodies. And the site of the camp was left to its desolation.
“As for Doyle’s search, it proved fruitless, and the party returned
heavy-hearted. Henceforth the scene of the catastrophe became known
throughout that region as ‘Lost Camp,’ and was sedulously avoided by the
lumbermen. Next season the Ryckert Company’s camp on the Little St.
Francis was built on higher ground some miles farther up stream.”
“That’s a most depressing tale, Queerman,” grumbled Ranolf. “I suppose
it’s my turn now; and, thank goodness, I’ve got something frivolous to
tell!”
“Heave ahead, then,” urged Stranion.
“Your title?” I demanded.
“This is the tale of ‘The Cart before the Steer,’” replied Ranolf.
THE CART BEFORE THE STEER.
“‘Landry!’ shouted Squire Bateman, emerging from the big red door of the
barn with a pitchfork in his hand.
“Landry, an excitable little Frenchman, appeared suddenly around the
woodhouse, as if he had just been waiting to be called.
“‘Landry,’ said the squire, ‘you’re goin’ in to Kentville this mornin’
for that feed, ain’t you?’
“‘Yes, sare,’ responded Landry.
“The farmer considered for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on a head of
wheat. Then he continued, ‘You’d better take the black-an’-white steer
along, and leave him at Murphy’s as you pass. He’s fat now as he’ll ever
be, an’ it’s jest a waste o’ feed to keep on stuffin’ the critter.’
“‘’Ow’ll I take him, sare?’ queried Landry.
“‘Oh,’ replied the squire rather impatiently, turning back into the
barn, ‘hitch him to the back o’ the cart. He’ll lead all right!’
“On this point Landry seemed doubtful. He scratched his head anxiously
for a moment, and then darted off in his nervous way, so unlike the
deliberateness of hired men in general, to carry out his employer’s
orders.
“The black-and-white steer was a raw-boned beast, about three years old,
with no disposition to take on fat. There was a wild, roving expression
in his eye which made Landry, who knew cattle well, and appreciated the
differences in their dispositions, very doubtful as to his docility when
being led to market. In Squire Bateman’s eyes, however, a steer was a
steer; and if one could be led so could another. Squire Bateman had a
constitutional hatred of exceptions.
“When Landry was ready to start he hitched the steer to the cart-tail
with a strong halter, and set out with misgivings. But the steer proved
docility itself. It trotted along in indolent good humor, holding its
head high, and sniffing the fresh, meadow-scented air with delight. By
the time they reached the top of Barnes’s Hill, a long descent about two
miles this side of Kentville, Landry had made up his mind that he had
done the animal an injustice. But just at this stage in the journey
something took place, as things will so long as Fate remains the
whimsical creature she is.
“It chanced that a party of wheelmen from Halifax, on a tour through the
Cornwallis valley and the Evangeline regions, arrived at the top of the
hill when Landry and his charge were about half-way down. The bicyclists
were riding in a long line, single file. Their leader knew the country,
and he knew that Barnes’s Hill was smooth and safe for ‘coasting.’ Some
of the riders, the leader among them, were on the old-fashioned high
wheels, while others rode the less conspicuous ‘Safeties,’ then a new
thing. Each man, as he dipped over the edge of the slope, flung his legs
over the handles and luxuriously ‘let her go.’ They saw the team ahead,
but there was abundance of room for safe passing.
“Now, Squire Bateman’s black-and-white steer had been brought up behind
the Gaspereau hills, where the wheelman delights not to wander. A
bicycle, therefore, was in his eyes a novel and terrifying sight. As the
whirling and gleaming apparition flashed past he snorted fiercely, and
sprang aside with a violence that almost upset the cart. Landry sprang
to his feet, grinding his teeth with excitement and wrath, and the next
wheelman slipped radiantly by. This was too much for the black-and-white
steer, and on the third wheel he made a desperate but ineffectual
charge.
“Ineffectual did I say? Well, only so far as that wheel was concerned;
but he flung himself so far across the way that the next rider could not
avoid the obstacle. The tall wheel struck the animal amidships, so to
speak; and the rider went right on and landed in a dismal heap. The
other riders darted aside up the bank into the fence, stopping
themselves gracefully or ungracefully, but at any cost avoiding the now
quite demented beast that was blocking their way.
“The animal made a frantic dash at the unfortunate wheelman in the
gutter, who had picked himself up with difficulty, and was feeling for
broken bones. He was beyond the steer’s reach, but discreetly hobbled to
the fence, and placed that welcome barrier between him and the foe. The
fury of the animal’s charge, however, had swung the cart right across
the road, and now the frightened horse began to plunge and rear. Landry
held him in partial control; and the next instant the steer made a
second mad rush, this time aiming at the bicycle which had struck him,
and which now lay in the gutter. He reached the offending wheel, but at
the same time he upset the cart. Out went Landry like a rubber ball; and
the horse, kicking himself free of the traces, set out at a highly
creditable pace for Kentville.
“The rage of the little Frenchman, as he picked himself up, was Homeric.
He abused the bellowing and bounding brute with an eloquence which, had
it been expressed in English, would have made the wheelmen on the other
side of the fence depart in horror. Then he seized a fence stake and
rushed into close quarters, resolved to enforce his authority.
“At the moment of Landry’s attack, the steer had his horns very much
engaged in the wheel of the bicycle. As the fence stake came down with
impressive emphasis across his haunches, he tossed the machine in air,
and charged on his assailant with great nimbleness and ferocity. Landry
just escaped by springing over the body of the cart; and at this
juncture he congratulated himself that he had hitched the animal by so
strong a halter.
“By this time the bicyclists had reunited their forces a little below.
Their leader, with the dismounted wheelman, now came to rescue the
suffering wheel. But there was no such thing as getting near it. The
steer stood guard over his prize with an air that forbade any
interference.
“‘It isn’t much good now, anyway,’ grumbled the victim. ‘I guess I’ll
have to hobble on as far as Kentville, and borrow or hire another wheel
there. This ain’t worth mending now.’
“‘Oh, nonsense!’ replied the leader; ‘a few dollars will put it all
right. We’ll leave it at Kentville to be sent back to Halifax by the D.
A. R., and McInerney’ll fix it so you’d never know it had been broken!’
“‘Well,’ rejoined the discomfited one, ‘I don’t see how we’re going to
get hold of it, anyway.’
“To this sentiment the steer bellowed his adherence. The leader of the
wheelmen, however, glancing around at the encouraging countenances of
his party, drew a small revolver from his hip pocket.
“‘Don’t you think,’ he said, addressing Landry, ‘we ought to shoot this
beast? He is blocking the highway, and he is a menace to all
passers-by.’
“The astute Landry meditated for a moment.
“‘What might be your name, sare?’ he inquired.
“‘My name’s Vroot—Walter Vroot of Halifax,’ replied the wheelman.
“‘Eef you shoot ze steer, sare, Squire Bateman he make you pay for ’eem,
sure,’ said Landry.
“At this there arose a chorus of indignation led by the discomfited one.
But Mr. Vroot turned on his heel, thrusting his revolver back into his
pocket.
“‘Perhaps,’ said he to Landry, ‘you’ll be so good as to bring the
bicycle into Kentville with you when you come.’
“‘Sare,’ said Landry, ‘’ow is dat posseeble? I go in to Kentville right
now to look after my ’orse.’
“In a few minutes the wheelmen had vanished in a slender and gleaming
line, Landry and the wheelless one (whose name, by the way, was Smith)
were tramping dejectedly townward, and the steer was left in absolute
possession of the cart, the wheel, and a portion of the Queen’s highway.
“In a short time the situation might have become monotonous for the
animal, as the road was dry and dusty, and the rich, short grass of the
roadside beyond his reach. But just as he had got tired of demolishing
the bicycle, there came a diversion. A light carriage containing a lady
and gentleman appeared over the crest of the hill. The occupants of the
carriage were surprised and vexed at the obstacle before them.
“‘I think it’s perfectly outrageous,’ said the lady, ‘the way these
country people leave their vehicles right in the middle of the road.’
“‘There seems to have been some accident,’ remarked the man soothingly.
“‘What business had they going away and leaving things that way?’
retorted the lady sharply. ‘You’ll have to get out and remove that
animal before we try to pass.’
“By this time the horse, a mild livery-stable creature, was almost
within reach of the angry steer, whose tail twitched ominously. The next
instant, with a deep, grunting bellow, he charged at the horse, who
reared and backed just in time to save himself. The carriage came within
an ace of upsetting, and the lady shrieked hysterically. The man sprang
out, and seized the horse by the head. The lady flung herself out
desperately over the back.
“‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear!’ said the man. ‘The animal is securely
fastened to the cart, and seems to have been placed there to guard the
way. They seem to have very strange customs in Nova Scotia!’
“‘What _shall_ we do?’ queried the lady tearfully, gazing at the pawing
and roaring steer.
“‘Why, there’s nothing to do but take down a piece of the fence and
drive around. There’s no occasion for alarm!’ replied the man.
“He backed the horse a little way, and then tied him to the fence while
he made an opening. Then he made another opening at a safe distance
below the obstacle, led the horse and carriage through, put the lady
back into the seat, and continued his journey philosophically. In the
course of the next hour a number of other travellers approached, and
taking in the situation, followed the new route through the fields. The
steer invariably bellowed, and plunged and lashed himself into mad rage
in trying to get at them; but Squire Bateman’s halter and rope did their
duty, and all his efforts proved futile.
“But meanwhile the most astounding reports were flying about Kentville.
Landry had secured the horse, and related the exact truth of the whole
affair; but the various romantic and exciting embellishments of
wayfarers found most favor in the eventless country town. A little squad
of men with guns set forth to quell the nuisance; and hard on their
heels followed Landry, bent on saving the property of his employer.
“When the party drew near, and realized how securely their antagonist
was tethered, they were in no haste to complete their errand. The
brute’s rage was so blind and fierce that they amused themselves for a
little with the sport of tantalizing him. They would approach almost
within his reach, and then dart back to a safer-looking distance; and
presently the animal was a mass of sweat and froth, churned with red
dust of the highway. At last, just as one of the men raised his rifle
with the intention of ending the play, the animal threw himself in one
of his maddest charges.
“Landry had just come up. The instant the steer fell he rushed forward,
threw his coat over its head, and knotted the arms under its jaws.
Breathless and bewildered, the panting brute ceased its struggles and
lay quite still. In a moment or two it was lifted to its feet, the
halter was unhitched from the cart-tail, and Landry set out for
Kentville with the blindfolded steer following as gently as a lamb.”