Axe and Antler
The next winter went by in the main much like the former one. But more
birds came to be fed as the season advanced, because Miranda’s fame had
gone abroad amongst them. The snow was not so deep, the cold not so
severe. No panther came again to claw at their roof by night. But there
were certain events which made the season stand out sharply from all
others in the eyes of both Kirstie and Miranda.
Throughout December and January Wapiti, the buck, with two slim does
accompanying him, would come and hang about the barn for several days at
a time, nibbling at the scattered straw. With the two steers, Star and
Bright, Wapiti was not on very good terms. They would sometimes thrust
at him resentfully, whereupon he would jump aside, as if on springs,
stamp twice sharply with his polished fore hoofs, and level at them the
fourteen threatening spear points of his antlers. But the challenge
never came to anything. As for the black-and-white cow, she seemed to
admire Wapiti greatly, though he met her admiration with the most lofty
indifference. One day Miranda let him and the two does lick some coarse
salt out of a dish, after which enchanting experience all three would
follow her straight up to the cabin door. They even took to following
Kirstie about, which pleased and flattered her more than she would
acknowledge to Miranda, and earned them many a cold buckwheat pancake.
To them the cold pancakes, though leathery and tough, were a tit-bit of
delight; but along in January they tore themselves away from such
raptures and removed to other feeding grounds.
Toward spring, to Miranda’s great delight, she made acquaintance with
Ten-Tine, the splendid bull caribou whom she had just seen the winter
before. He and his antlered cows were migrating southward by slow
stages. They were getting tired of the dry moss and lichen of the
barrens which lay a week’s journey northward from the clearing. They
began to crave the young shoots of willow and poplar that would now be
bursting with sap along the more southerly streams. Looking from the
window one morning, before the cattle had been let out, Miranda saw
Ten-Tine emerge from the woods and start with long, swinging strides
across the open. His curiously flattened, leaf-like antlers lay back on
a level with his shoulders, and his nose pointed straight before him.
The position was just the one to enable him to go through the woods
without getting his horns entangled. From the middle of his forehead
projected, at right angles to the rest of the antlers, two broad, flat,
palmated prongs, a curious enlargement of the central ones. His cows,
whose antlers were little less splendid than his own, but lacking in the
frontal projection, followed at his heels. In colour he was of a very
light, whitish-drab, quite unlike the warm brown of Wapiti’s coat.
In passing the barn Ten-Tine caught sight of some tempting fodder, and
stopped to try it. Kirstie’s straw proved very much to the taste of the
whole herd. While they were feeding delightedly, Miranda stole out to
make friends with them. She took, as a tribute, a few handfuls of the
hens’ buckwheat, in a bright yellow bowl. As she approached, Ten-Tine
lifted his fine head and eyed her curiously. Had it been the rutting
season, he would no doubt have straightway challenged her to mortal
combat. But now, unless he saw a wolf, a panther, or a lynx, he was
good-tempered and inquisitive. This small creature looked harmless, and
there was undoubtedly something quite remarkable about her. What was
that shining thing which she held out in front of her? And what was that
other very bright thing around her neck? He stopped feeding, and watched
her intently, his head held in an attitude of indecision, just a little
lower than his shoulders. The cows took a look also, and felt curious,
but were concerned rather to satisfy their hunger than their curiosity.
They left the matter easily to Ten-Tine.
Miranda had learned many things already from her year among the folk of
the wood. One of these things was that all the furtive folk dreaded and
resented rough movement. Their manners were always beyond reproach. The
fiercest of them moved ever with an aristocratic grace and poise. They
knew the difference between swiftness and haste. All abruptness they
abhorred. In lines of beauty they eluded their enemies. They killed in
curves.
She did not, therefore, attempt to go straight up and take Ten-Tine’s
acquaintance by storm. She paused discreetly some dozen steps away, held
out the dish to him, and murmured her inarticulate, soft persuasions.
Not being versed in the caribou tongue, she trusted the tones of her
voice to reveal her good intention.
Seeing that she would come no nearer, Ten-Tine’s curiosity refused to be
balked. But he was dubious, very dubious. Like Wapiti, he stamped when
he was in doubt; but the hoofs he stamped with were much larger,
broader, clumsier, less polished than Wapiti’s, being formed for running
over such soft surfaces as bogland and snow insufficiently packed, where
Wapiti’s trim feet would cut through like knives.
Step by step he drew nearer. There was something in Miranda’s clear gaze
that gave him confidence. At length he was near enough to touch the
yellow bowl with his flexible upper lip. He saw that the bowl contained
something. He extended his muzzle over the rim, and, to Miranda’s
surprise, blew into it. The grain flew in every direction, some of it
sticking to his own moist lips. He drew back, a little startled. Then he
licked his lips; and he liked the taste. Back went his muzzle into the
interesting bowl; and, after sniffing again very gently, he licked up
the whole contents.
“Oh, greedy!” exclaimed Miranda, in tender rebuke, and started back to
the cabin to get him some more.
“Wouldn’t Saunders be cross,” she thought to herself, “if he knew I was
giving his buckwheat to the nice deer?”
Ten-Tine followed close behind her, sniffing inquisitively at the red
ribbon on her neck. When Miranda went in for the buckwheat, he tried to
enter with her, but his antlers had too much spread for the doorway.
Kirstie, who was busy sweeping, looked up in amazement as the great head
darkened her door.
“Drat the child!” she exclaimed; “she’ll be bringing all the beasts of
the wood in to live with us before long.”
She did not grudge Ten-Tine the few handfuls of buckwheat, however,
though he blew half of it over the floor so that she had to sweep it up.
When he had finished, and perceived that no more was forthcoming, he
backed off reluctantly from the door and began smelling around the
window-sill, pushing his curious nose tentatively against the glass.
Now it chanced that all the way down from the barrens Ten-Tine and his
little herd had been hungrily pursued, although they did not know it.
Four of the great grey timber wolves were on their track. Savage but
prudent, the wolves were unwilling to attack the herd, for they knew the
caribou’s fighting prowess. But they awaited a chance to cut off one of
the cows and hunt her down alone. For days they had kept the trail,
faring very scantly by the way; and now they were both ravenous and
enraged. Emerging from the woods, they saw the five cows at feed by the
barn, with Ten-Tine nowhere in sight. The opportunity was too rare a one
to miss. They seized it. All four gaunt forms abreast, they came
galloping across the snow in silence, their long, grey snouts wrinkled,
their white fangs uncovered, their grey-and-white shoulders rising and
falling in unison, their cloudy tails floating straight out behind them.
Just in time the cows saw them coming. There was a half second of
motionless consternation. Then nimbly they sprang into a circle, hind
quarters bunched together, levelled antlers all pointing outward. It was
the accurate inherited discipline of generations.
Without a sound, save a deep, gasping breath, the wolves made their
leap, striving to clear that bayonet hedge of horns. Two were hurled
back, yelping. One brought a cow to her knees, half clear of the circle,
his fangs in her neck, and would have finished her but that her next
neighbour prodded him so fiercely in the flank that he let go with a
shrill snarl. But the fourth wolf found the weak point in the circle.
The foolish young cow upon whom he sprang went wild at once with fright.
She broke from the ring and fled. The next instant the wolf was at her
throat.
The moment he pulled her down the other wolves sprang upon her. The rest
of the cows, maintaining their position of defence, viewed her plight
with considerable unconcern, doubtless holding that her folly was well
served, and that she was worth no better end. But Ten-Tine, who had
suddenly taken in the situation, had other views about it. To him the
foolish young cow was most important. With a shrill note of rage, half
bleat, half bellow, he charged down to the rescue. The first wolf he
struck was hurled against the corner of the barn, and came limping back
to the fray with no great enthusiasm. Upon the next he came down with
both front feet, fairly breaking the creature’s back. Instantly the
other two fastened upon his flanks, trying to pull him down; while he,
bounding and rearing, strove heroically to shake them off in order to
reach them with horns and hoofs. The bleeding cow, meanwhile, struggled
to her feet and took refuge within the dauntless circle, which rather
grudgingly opened to admit her. For this they must not be judged too
harshly; for in caribou eyes she had committed the crime of crimes in
breaking ranks and exposing the whole herd to destruction.
At this stage in the encounter the valiant Ten-Tine found himself in
desperate straits; but help came from an unexpected quarter. The factor
which the wolves had not allowed for was Kirstie Craig. At the first
sight of them Kirstie had been filled with silent rage. She had believed
that wolves were quite extinct throughout all the neighbouring forests;
and now in their return she saw a perpetual menace. But at least they
were scarce, she knew that; and on the instant she resolved that this
little pack should meet no milder fate than extermination.
“It’s wolves! Don’t you stir outside this door!” she commanded grimly,
in that voice which Miranda never dreamed of disobeying. Miranda,
trembling with excitement, her eyes wide and her cheeks white, climbed
to the window, and flattened her face against it. Kirstie rushed out,
slamming the door.
As she passed the chopping-block, Kirstie snatched up her axe. Her fine
face was set like iron. The black eyes blazed fury. It was a desperate
venture, to attack three maddened wolves, with no ally to support her
save a caribou bull; but Kirstie, as we have seen, was not a woman for
half measures.
The first sweep of that poised and practised axe caught the nearest wolf
just behind the fore quarters, and almost shore him in two. Thus
suddenly freed on one side, Ten-Tine wheeled like lightning to catch his
other assailant, but the animal sprang back. In evading Ten-Tine’s
horns, he almost fell over Kirstie, who, thus balked of her full deadly
swing, just managed to fetch him a short stroke under the jaw with the
flat of the blade. It was enough, however, to fell him for an instant,
and that instant was enough for Ten-Tine. Bounding into the air, the big
caribou came down with both sharp fore hoofs, like chisels, squarely on
the middle of his adversary’s ribs. The stroke was slaughterously
decisive. Ribs of steel could not have endured it, and in a very few
seconds the shape of bloody grey fur upon the snow bore scant
resemblance to a wolf.
The last of the pack, who had been lamed by Ten-Tine’s onslaught, had
prudently drawn off when he saw Kirstie coming. Now he turned tail.
Kirstie, determined that not one should escape, gave chase. She could
run as can few women. She was bent on her grim purpose of extermination.
At first the wolf’s lameness hindered him; but just as he was about to
turn at bay and fight dumbly to the death, after the manner of his kind,
the effort which he had been making loosened the strained muscles, and
he found his pace. Stretching himself out on his long gallop, he shot
away from his pursuer as if she had been standing still.
Kirstie stopped, swung her axe, and hurled it after him with all her
strength. It struck the mark. Had it struck true, edge on, it would have
fulfilled her utmost intention; but it struck, with the thick of the
head, squarely upon the brute’s rump. The blow sent him rolling end over
end across the snow. He yelped with astonishment and terror; but
recovering himself again in a second, he went bounding like a grey ball
of fur over a brush heap, and vanished down the forest arches.
When Kirstie turned round she saw Miranda, white, pitiful, and
bewildered, in the doorway; while Ten-Tine and his cows, without waiting
to thank her, were trotting away across the white fields, their muzzles
thrust far forward, their antlers laid along their backs. From Ten-Tine
himself, and from the wounded young cow, the blood dripped scarlet and
steaming at every stride.