Death for a Little Life
Thenceforward Kirstie twice or thrice a week medicined herself with
fresh venison, provided assiduously by Young Dave, and by the time
spring was fairly in possession of the clearing, she was her old strong
self again. But as for Dave’s hopes, they had been reduced to
desolation. Miranda had taken alarm at her sudden carnivorous craving,
and in her effort to undo that moment’s weakness she had withdrawn
herself to the utmost from Dave’s influence. She had been the further
incited to this by an imagined aloofness on the part of her furred and
feathered pensioners. A pair of foxes, doubtless vagrants from beyond
her sphere, had spread slaughter among the hares as they returned from
feeding at the cabin. The hungry raiders had laid an ambush at the edge
of the clearing on two successive nights. They had killed recklessly.
Then they vanished, doubtless driven away by the steady residents who
knew how to kill discreetly and to guard their preserves from poachers.
But the hares had taken alarm, and few came now o’ nights for Miranda’s
carrots and clover. Miranda, with a little ache at her heart, concluded
from this that she had forfeited her ascendency among the kin of the
ancient wood. There had been a migration, too, among the squirrels, so
that now these red busybodies were perceptibly fewer about the cabin
roof. And the birds—they were nearly all gone. An unusually early
spring, laying bare the fields in the lower country, and bringing out
the insects before their wont, had scattered Miranda’s flocks a
fortnight earlier than usual. No crumbs could take the place of swelling
seeds and the first fat May-fly. But Miranda thought they were fled
through distrust of her. Kroof, old Kroof the constant, was all
unchanged when she came from her winter’s sleep; but this spring she
brought an unusually fine cub with her, and the cub, of necessity, took
a good deal of her time and attention away from Miranda. When Miranda
was with her, roaming the still, transparent corridors, all the
untroubled past came back, crystalline and flawless as of old. Once more
the furtive folk went about their business in the secure peace of her
neighbourhood; once more she revelled with a kind of intoxication in the
miraculous fineness of her vision; once more she felt assured of the
mastery of her look. But this was in the intervals between Dave’s
visits. When he was at the clearing, everything was different. She was
no longer sure of herself on any point. And the worst of it was that the
more indifference to him she feigned, the less she felt. She was quite
unconscious, all the while, that her mother was shrewdly watching her
struggles. She was not unconscious, however, of Dave’s attitude. She saw
that he seemed dull and worried, which gratified her, she knew not why,
and confirmed her in her coolness. But at last, with a slow anger
beginning to burn at his heart, he adopted the policy of ignoring her
altogether, and giving all his thought to Kirstie, whereupon Miranda
awoke to the conclusion that it was her plain duty to be civil to her
mother’s guest.
This change, not obtrusive, but of great moment to Dave, came over the
girl in June, when the dandelions were starring the pasture grass. The
sowing and the potato planting were just done. The lilac bushes beside
the cabin were a mass of purple enchantment. It was not a time for hard
indifference; and Dave was quick to catch the melting mood. His manner
was such, however, that Miranda could not take alarm.
“Mirandy,” said he, with the merest good comradeship in tone and air,
“would ye take a little trip with me to-morrow, now that the crops can
spare ye a bit?”
“Where to, Dave?” interposed Kirstie, fearful lest the girl should
refuse out of hand, before she knew what Dave proposed to do.
“Why, I’ve got to go over the divide an’ run down the Big Fork in my
canoe to Gabe White’s clearin’, with some medicine I’ve brought from the
Settlement for his little boy what’s sick. He’s a leetle mite of a chap,
five year old, with long, yaller curls, purty as a picture, but that
peaked an’ thin, it goes to yer heart to see him. Gabe came in to the
Settlement yesterday to see the doctor about him an’ git medicine; but
he’s had to go right on to the city to sell his pelts, an’ git some
stuff the doctor says the little feller must hev, what can’t be got in
the Settlement at all. So Gabe give me this” (and he pulled a bottle out
of the inside pocket of his hunting shirt) “to take to him right now,
coz the little feller needs it badly. It’s a right purty trip, Mirandy,
an’ the Big Fork’s got some rapids ’at’ll please ye. What ye say?”
Dave was growing subtle under Miranda’s discipline. He knew that the
picture of the small boy would draw her; and also that the sight of the
ailing child, acting upon her quick sympathies, would awaken a new human
interest and work secretly in favour of himself. The beauty of the
scenery, the excitement of the rapids,—these were a secondary influence,
yet he knew they would not be without appeal to the beauty-worshipping
and fearless Miranda.
The girl’s deep eyes lightened at the prospect. She would see something
a little different, yet not alien or hostile,—a new river, other hills
and woods, a deeper valley, a ruder cabin in a remoter clearing, a
lonely woman,—above all, a little sick boy with long, yellow hair.
“But it must be a long way off, Dave,” she protested, in a tone that
invited contradiction.
“Not so far as to the Settlement,” answered Dave; “an’ it don’t take
half so long to go because o’ the quick run down river. I reckon,
though, we’d best stay over night at White’s clearin’ and come back easy
nex’ day—if you don’t mind, Kirstie! Sary Ann White’s a powerful fine
woman, an’ Mirandy’s sure to like her. It’ll do her a sight of good,
poor thing, to hev Mirandy to talk to a bit.”
He wanted to say that just a look at Miranda’s wild loveliness would do
Mrs. White a lot of good; but he had not quite the courage for such a
bold compliment.
“No, I don’t mind, if Miranda likes to go,” said Kirstie; “I shan’t be
lonesome, as Kroof’ll be round most of the time.”
It had come to be understood, and accepted without comment, that when
Dave went anywhere with Miranda the jealous old bear remained at home.
Until they were fairly off, Dave was in a fever of anxiety lest Miranda
should change her mind. But this venture had genuinely caught her
interest, and no whim tempted her to withdraw. After a breakfast eaten
so early that the early June dawn was still throwing its streaks of cool
red through the cabin window and discouraging the fire upon the hearth,
Dave and Miranda set out. They followed the path to the spring among the
alders, and then plunged direct into the woods, aiming a little to the
east of north. The dew was thick in silver globules on the chips of the
yard and on the plantain leaves. It beaded the slender grasses about the
spring, and the young foliage of the alders, and the dazzling veils of
the gossamer spiders. This time Dave took his rifle with him, and
Miranda paid no heed to it.
The woods were drenching wet, but unusually pervaded with light. The new
risen sun sent its fresh rays far up the soundless vistas, and every
damp leaf or shining facet of bark diffused its little dole of lustre to
thin the gloom. As the sun got higher and the dew exhaled away, the
twilight slightly deepened, the inexpressible clarity of the shadowed
air returned, and the heart of the ancient wood resumed its magic. The
awe, as of an enchantment working unseen, the meaning and expectant
stillness, the confusion of near and far, the unreality of the
familiar,—all this gripped the imagination of the two travellers just as
sharply as if they had not been all their lives accustomed to it. The
mystery of the ancient wood was not to be staled by use. These two,
sensitive to its spell as a surface of glass to a breath, lay open to it
in every nerve, and a tense silence fell upon their lips. In the silence
was understanding of each other. It was Dave’s most potent wooing,
against which Miranda had no warning, no defence.
As they walked thus noiselessly, light-footed as the furtive folk
themselves, suddenly from a bit of open just ahead of them there came
the slender, belling cry of a young deer. They had arrived now, after
three hours’ rapid walking, at a part of the forest unknown to Miranda.
The open space was rock thinly covered with mosses and vines, an
upthrust of the granite foundations of a hill which towered near by.
It was an unheard-of thing for a young deer to give cry so heedlessly
amid the perilous coverts of the wood. Both the travellers instinctively
paused, and then stole forward with greater caution, peering through the
branches. To the forest dwellers, beast or human, the unusual is always
the suspicious, and therefore to be investigated. A few paces carried
them both to a point where Miranda caught sight of the imprudent
youngling.
“Hush!” she whispered, laying her hand on Dave’s arm, “Look! the poor
little thing’s lost. Don’t frighten it!”
“There’ll be something else’ll frighten it afore long,” muttered Dave,
“if it don’t quit its bla’tin’.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the little animal jumped,
trembled, started to run, and then looked piteously from side to side,
as if uncertain which way to flee and from what peril. An instant more
and the greyish-brown form of a lynx shot like lightning from the
underbrush. It caught the young deer by the throat, dragged it down,
tore it savagely, and began drinking its blood.
“Kill it! kill it!” panted Miranda, starting forward. But Dave’s hand
checked her.
“Wait!” he said firmly. “The little critter’s dead; we can’t do it no
good. Wait an’ we’ll git both the varmints. There’ll be a pair of ’em.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Miranda would have resented the idea of
getting “both the varmints”; but just now she was savage with pity for
the young deer, and she chose to remember vindictively that far-off day
when Ganner had come to the clearing, and only the valour of Star, the
brindled ox, had saved herself and Michael, the calf, from a cruel
death. She obeyed Dave’s command, therefore, and waited.
But there was another who would not wait. The mother doe had heard her
lost little one’s appeal. In wild haste, but noiseless on the deep
carpet of the moss, she came leaping to the cry. She saw what Miranda
and Dave saw. But she did not pause to calculate, or weigh the odds
against her. With one bound she was out in the open. With the next she
was upon the destroyer. The hungry lynx looked up just in time to avoid
the fair impact of her descending hooves, which would have broken his
back. As it was, he caught a glancing blow on the flank, which ripped
his fine fur and hurled him several paces down the slope.
Before he could fully recover, the deer was upon him again; and Miranda,
her eyes glowing, her cheeks scarlet with excitement and exultation,
clutched her companion’s arm with such a grip that her slim fingers hurt
him deliciously. The lynx, alarmed and furious, twisted himself over and
fixed both claws and teeth in his adversary’s leg, just below the
shoulder. Fierce and strong as he was, he was nevertheless getting badly
punished, when his mate appeared bounding down the slope, and with a
sharp snarl sprang upon the doe’s neck, bearing her to her knees.
“Shoot! shoot!” cried Miranda, springing away from Dave’s side to give
him room. But his rifle was at his shoulder ere she spoke. With the word
his shot rang out; and the second assailant dropped to the ground,
kicking. Immediately Dave ran forward. The male lynx, disentangling
himself, darted for cover; but just as he was disappearing, Dave gave
him the second barrel, at short range, and the bullet caught him
obliquely across the hind quarters, breaking his spine. Dave was noted
as the best shot in all that region; but the marksmanship which he had
just displayed was lost on Miranda. She took it for granted that to
shoot was to hit, and to hit was to kill, as a matter of course. Dave’s
first shot had killed. The animal was already motionless. But the
writhings of the other lynx, prone in the bush, tore her heart.
“Oh, how it’s suffering! Kill it, quick!” she panted. Dave ran up, swung
his rifle in a short grip, and struck the beast a settling blow at the
base of the skull. The deer, meanwhile, limping and bleeding, but not
seriously the worse for her dreadful encounter, hobbled back to where
the body of her young lay stretched upon the moss. She sniffed at it for
a moment with her delicate nose, satisfied herself that it was quite
dead, then moved off slowly into the shadows.
Miranda went to each of the three slain animals in turn, and looked at
them thoughtfully, while Dave waited in silence, uncertain what to do
next. He felt that it behooved him to step warily while Miranda was
wrestling with emotions. At last she said, with a sob in her voice, and
her eyes very bright and large,—
“Come, let’s get away from this horrid place!”
Dave experienced a certain mild pang at the thought of leaving two good
pelts behind him to be gnawed by foxes; but he followed Miranda without
a word. It would have been a fatal error to talk of furs at that moment.
As soon, however, as they were out of sight of the open slope, he turned
aside and headed their course toward a rocky knoll which was visible
through the trees.
“What are you going that way for?” asked Miranda.
“Likely the lou’-cerfies had their den in the rocks yonder,” was the
reply; “we must find it.”
“What do we want of their den?” queried the girl in surprise.
“There’ll be a couple of lou’-cerfie kittens in it, I reckon,” said
Dave, “an’ we must find ’em.”
“What for?” demanded Miranda, suspiciously.
Dave looked at her.
“You’ve had me shoot the father an’ mother, Mirandy,” he said slowly,
“for the sake of the deer. An’ now would ye hev the little ones starve
to death?”
“I never thought of that, Dave,” answered the girl, smitten with
remorse; and she looked at him with a new approval. She thought to
herself that he, hunter and blood-stained as he was, showed yet a
readier and more reasonable tenderness for the furry kindred than she
herself.
For nearly half an hour they searched the hollows of the rocky knoll,
and at last came upon a shallow cave overhung darkly by a mat of dwarf
cedar. There were bones about the entrance, and inside, upon a bed of
dry moss, were two small rusty brown, kitten-like objects curled softly
together. Miranda’s discerning vision perceived them at once, but it
took Dave’s eyes some seconds to adapt themselves to the gloom. Then the
furry ball of “lou’-cerfie” kittens looked to him very pretty—something
to be fondled and protected. He knew well how their helplessness would
appeal to Miranda’s tender heart. Nevertheless, with a firmness of
courage which, under the circumstances, few heroes would have arisen to,
he stepped forward, stooped, untangled the soft ball, and with the heavy
handle of his hunting-knife struck each kitten just one sharp stroke on
the neck, killing it instantly and easily.
“Poor little critters!” he muttered; “it was the only thing to do with
’em,” and he turned to Miranda.
The girl had backed out of the cave and now stood, with flushed face,
staring at him fiercely.
“You brute!” she exclaimed.
Dave had been prepared for some discussion of his action. But he was not
prepared for just this. He drew himself up.
“I did think ye was a woman grown; an’ for all yer idees were kind of
far-fetched, I’ve respected ’em a heap; an’ I won’t say but what they’ve
influenced me, too. But now I see ye’re but a silly child an’ don’t
reason. Did ye think, maybe, these here leetle mites o’ things could
live an’ take keer o’ themselves?”
He spoke coldly, scornfully; and there was a kind of mastery in his
voice that quelled her. She was astonished, too. The colour in her face
deepened, but she dropped her eyes.
“I wanted to take them home, and tame them,” she explained, quite
humbly.
Dave’s stern face softened.
“Ye’d never ’a’ been able to raise ’em. They’re too young, a sight too
young. See, their eyes ain’t open. They’d have jest died on yer hands,
Mirandy, sure an’ sartain!”
“But—how _could_ you!” she protested, with no more anger left, but a sob
of pity in her throat.
“It was jest what _you_ do to the fish ye ketch, Mirandy, to stop their
sufferin’.”
Miranda looked up quickly, and her eyes grew large.
“Do you know, I never thought of that before, Dave,” she replied. “I’ll
never catch a fish again, long as I live! Let’s get away from here.”
“Ye see,” began Dave, making up his mind to sow a few seeds of doubt in
Miranda’s mind as to the correctness of her theories, “ye see, Mirandy,
’tain’t possible to be consistent right through in this life; but what
ye’ll find, life’ll make a fool o’ ye at one point or another. I ain’t
a-goin’ to say I think ye’re all wrong, not by no means. Sence I’ve seen
the way ye understand the live critters of the woods, an’ how they
understand you, I’ve come to feel some different about killin’ ’em
myself. But, Mirandy, Nature’s nature, an’ ye can’t do much by buckin’
up agin her. Look now, ye told me to shoot the lou’-cerfie coz he killed
the deer kid. But he didn’t go to kill it for ugliness, nor jest for
himself to make a dinner off of—you know that. He killed it for his
mate, too. Lou’-cerfie ain’t built so’s they can eat grass. If the she
lou’-cerfie didn’t git the meat she needed, her kittens’d starve. She’s
jest _got_ to kill. Nature’s put that law onto her, an’ onto the
painters, an’ the foxes an’ wolves, the ’coons an’ the weasels. An’
she’s put the same law, only not so heavy, onto the bears, an’ also onto
humans, what’s all built to live on all kinds of food, meat among the
rest. An’ to live right, and be their proper selves, they’ve all got to
eat meat sometimes, for Nature don’t stand much foolin’ with her laws!”
“_I’m_ well,” interrupted Miranda, eagerly, with the obvious retort.
“Maybe ye won’t be always!” suggested Dave.
“Then I’ll be sick—then I’ll _die_ before I’ll eat meat!” she protested
passionately. “What’s the good of living, anyway, if it’s nothing but
kill, kill, kill, and for one that lives a lot have got to die!”
Dave shook his head soberly.
“That’s what nobody, fur’s I can see, Mirandy, has ever been able to
make out yet. I’ve thought about it a heap, an’ read about it a heap,
alone in camp, an’ I can’t noways see through it. Oftentimes it’s seemed
to me all life was jest like a few butterflies flitterin’ over a
graveyard. But all the same, if we don’t go to too much foolish worryin’
’bout what we can’t understand, we do feel it’s good to be alive; an’ I
do think, Mirandy, this life _might_ be somethin’ finer than the finest
kind of a dream.”
Something in his voice, at these last words, thrilled Miranda, and at
the same time put her on her guard.
“Well,” she exclaimed positively, if not relevantly, “I’m never going to
catch another fish.”
The answer not being just what Dave needed for the support of his
advance, he lost courage, and let the conversation drop.