ROLY GOES DUCK-HUNTING
For many days, no game of any kind had been secured in abundance, and
Uncle Will, who saw the pork and bacon disappearing too rapidly, cast
about for some means of eking out the supplies. With this end in view,
he prevailed upon his brother to let Roly spend a day in hunting,
knowing full well that nothing would please the lad more. Roly had been
careful with the shot-gun, and had fairly earned this privilege.
The days in that high latitude were now so long that, even at midnight,
there was a twilight glow over the summits of Father and Son in the
north. At three in the morning, it was broad daylight, and Roly, as
he awoke into delightful anticipations, heard the "quack, quack" of
big brown mallards, and the whistling wings of smaller ducks, as they
flew to their feeding grounds. He was out of the bunk in an instant,
and slipping on his jacket and long rubber boots, which, with his cap,
were the only articles needed to complete his attire, he snatched a
hasty breakfast, put a piece of corn-bread in his pocket, and then, gun
in hand, softly opened the cabin door, and stole out into the fresh
morning air. The joy of youth was in his heart, and a sense of freedom
and adventure came with the thought of hunting all alone in that great
wide valley, and made the blood tingle to his finger-tips.
There were ponds and marshes in every direction, but Roly decided to
cross the river and walk southward, for he observed several ducks
flying that way. He therefore made his way down the face of the bluff,
through the sliding sand to the river-bank, where a raft of three logs
had been moored. Loosing this unwieldy craft, he laid the unloaded
gun upon it, then seized the long push-pole, and sprang on board. It
required considerable effort to free the lower end of the raft from the
mud, but finally it swung out into the stream. Roly pushed and paddled
lustily for some moments before he succeeded in urging the heavy affair
to the farther shore, for the current was strong and carried him down
the stream fully two hundred yards. He fastened the raft to a clump
of alders, picked up the gun, and set off up the stream to the south,
keeping a sharp lookout for any kind of game.
After penetrating a tangled thicket, he saw that he was coming out upon
a long, open swamp. There might be ducks here, and he paused to look
carefully at two or three pools which gleamed at some distance. Seeing
nothing, however, he skirted the edge of the swamp to the higher wooded
land beyond, where he was startled by the sudden chattering of a red
squirrel in a spruce over his head. He could have shot the squirrel
easily, but felt it would be unmanly to kill any creature wantonly. The
little animal was too small to have much value as food, and, besides,
cartridges were precious. So he passed on, in the hope of seeing larger
game.
On every sandy bank the ground-squirrels sat, and while they were
larger than the red squirrels, they were very lean after their long
winter sleep. They were plentiful near the cabin, and Roly thought he
could catch them with traps or snares, as soon as they were in better
condition. For the present, therefore, the ground-squirrels were also
left in peace.
Everywhere were traces of rabbits, but no rabbits were to be
seen. Lucky had explained this one day by saying, "Rabbit come
bime-by--plenty rabbit--all gone now,"--which Mr. Bradford interpreted
to mean that the animals migrated from place to place, and at some
seasons would, no doubt, fairly overrun the country, while at other
times they would be very scarce.
At length Roly caught a glimpse of a long, swampy pond between the
trees ahead, and on its smooth surface, near the centre, he could
see three ducks, one small, the others larger and of a dark-brown
color,--doubtless mallards. Hardly had he made this discovery, and
paused to consider how he should approach, when up flew two little
ducks, one variegated, and the other an even brown,--the male and
female,--from a near arm of the pond which had escaped his notice. The
boy trembled, lest the other three should also be alarmed; but they
went on dipping their bills under the water quite unconcernedly, while
the small one occasionally dived.
Near the bank stood a green spruce, the branches of which came thickly
down to the ground on the side toward the water, forming a splendid
cover. Roly thought that if he could only reach this tree, it would
be an easy matter to bag a duck or two, so he started cautiously on
tiptoe, keeping the tree between himself and the birds. But there
were many dry twigs and little bushes in the space over which he had
to pass, and the two mallards--most wary of Alaskan ducks--presently
took alarm at the almost imperceptible crackling on the shore. Up they
flew, quacking loudly, and making a wide sweep in Roly's direction, so
that he felt sure he could have shot one of them on the wing. Indeed,
he would have tried it, had not his father given strict orders to the
contrary. Cartridges were too precious here to be spent on experiments.
Roly had never practised wing-shooting, and his father knew he would
waste a great deal of ammunition before acquiring the knack. Where
sport was the object, not food, and ammunition was plentiful, Mr.
Bradford would have advised his son to shoot only at birds on the wing,
that being more sportsmanlike, and giving the birds a chance. But here
it was simply a matter of food, and every cartridge must count.
Roly, therefore, after one longing look at the now distant mallards,
crept up under the tree, and, kneeling on the moss, took aim through
an opening in the branches at the small duck, which seemed much less
timid than the others, though it had paddled a short distance toward
the farther shore. There was a puff of smoke, and the report rang out
sharply on the still morning air. The duck flopped once or twice, then
lay motionless on the water, on perceiving which, Roly executed an
immediate triumphal war-dance under the tree.
It was now a question whether the pleased youngster could secure his
prize. The wind was too light to blow it ashore, and the longest pole
he could use would not be long enough. The water looked dark and deep,
but at least he would try it; so, pulling up his rubber boots to their
full length, he stepped carefully out into the pond. To his surprise,
he found that the mud on the bottom was solidly frozen, and the water
was nowhere more than two feet deep. The duck was therefore quickly
reached and brought back to the tree, where the young hunter ambushed
himself again to await developments.
He now bethought him of the empty shell in his gun, and had hardly
thrown it out, preparatory to snapping another into place, when two
fine mallards appeared from the southward, and plumped heavily down
upon the water, not thirty feet from his hiding place. Alas that, of
_all_ times, the cartridge should stick at _that_ golden moment! But
stick it did, refusing to go in, or even to come out again. Roly fairly
bit his lips with vexation, and tugged with nervous fingers at the
mechanism of the breech, keeping an eye on the ducks all the while,
and trying to be as quiet as possible. It was all to no purpose. A bit
of dirt had found its way in somewhere, and he had to shake the gun
violently before the cartridge would move. The mallards could not be
expected to turn a deaf ear to this commotion. They raised their heads,
and then with one impulse fluttered up and away, and poor Roly nearly
cried, as the obstinate cartridge slipped easily in, ere the birds were
fairly out of sight.
It was yet early, however, and the lad knew that he had only to wait
patiently, to find another chance. He could occasionally hear the
whistle of wings as a flock flew past, and sometimes he could see the
birds from his covert. He had watched and waited a half hour, when four
ducks settled down at the remote end of the pond. They were out of
range, but soon began to come closer. Two were like those he had first
frightened from the narrow arm of the marsh, small in size, the male
brightly plumaged, the female a smooth brown. It was a male of this
species which he had shot. The other two seemed much larger, but in
other respects almost exactly like their companions. They kept quite
near each other, and splashed or dived unconscious of danger.
Roly watched his opportunity, hoping they would bunch together, so that
he might kill more than one at a shot. He had not long to wait. As they
came in range, the two larger birds and the smaller female were exactly
in line, one beyond another. It was the favorable moment. He aimed at
the middle one and fired.
The small male duck, which had been out of the line, seemed bewildered
rather than frightened by the noise. He dived, came up at a distance,
and paddled away without taking flight. The two larger birds were
instantly killed, while the small female beyond was crippled, and
fluttered around in a circle. Roly felt justified in using another
cartridge at once to put her out of suffering. Then he waded out
and brought in his prizes, the fourth duck having escaped into the
swamp-grass.
He wondered if the others back at the cabin had heard the shots. It was
not unlikely, for they would be stirring by this time. Having seated
himself again, he fell to thinking over the strange life he had been
leading for the past two months, so different from that at home. His
reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a fine mallard, which was
bagged without delay.
No more ducks visited the pond, though he waited until the middle of
the morning, when they ceased flying. He therefore prepared to return.
The legs of the birds were tied together, and they were slung over the
barrel of the gun, which he then raised to his shoulder, and found he
had something of a burden.
But he was destined to carry still more. He had not proceeded far when
he heard the clucking of a ptarmigan in the woods to his left, so
leaving the ducks where he could easily find them, he stole softly in
the direction of the sound. The clucking soon seemed very near,--so
near that he did not dare to go a step farther, for fear of frightening
the bird, but, look as he would, he could see nothing of it. He scanned
the ground for a glimpse of white, forgetting entirely that the
ptarmigan becomes brown when the snow disappears, and was just giving
up in despair when he sighted the bird perched on the dead branch of
a tree across a little glen. And, what was better, there were two in
the tree. Roly manoeuvred till he had the birds in line, and it was
such an easy shot that both fell stone dead at once, amid a shower of
feathers.
"Well done, Roly, my boy!" said Mr. Bradford, heartily, when the
prospectors returned late that afternoon and found Roly's bunch of
birds. "Let's see, here's a mallard, two golden-eyes, two little
butter-balls, and two ptarmigan,--seven birds in all. And how many
shots did you fire?"
"Five," said Roly, with pardonable pride. "There were no large flocks
to fire into, but I meant to make every shot tell."
"Yes," said his father, "and you've done very well, especially for a
beginner."
"And how many did you get, Johnson?" asked Uncle Will. Johnson had been
on a similar errand for the other party.
"Five ducks and a white rabbit," was the reply. "On the whole, Roly has
carried off the honors, for I fired six shots."
So the campers obtained fresh meat, and all were very glad to abstain
awhile from bacon. Both Roly and David went duck-hunting often after
that, and always with good success throughout the migrating season.