They gave Skeene little peace for two months. Week after week a string
of canoes passed the swift water under the first and second wing-dams,
poled to the point-trail, and, disembarking a file of riflemen, poled on
again to the discharge at Red Lake. Week after week the distant flash of
a paddle startled the deer at sunrise among the lily-pads. At evening,
too, silent canoes stealing through the sedge-grass, roused the great
blue herons from their heavenward contemplation and sent the sheldrake
scuttling and splashing across shoal water with a noise like a churning
twinscrew.
But they did not catch Skeene.
Once they saw him for a moment standing in the stern of his canoe. The
canoe lay at the mouth of the Little Misery, that dead stretch of water
and dead-fall, winding through the bog to the southward. They gave
chase, trailing Skeene’s canoe by the wake bubbles until they ran plump
into quick water. But the Little Misery is a strange stream draining a
strange land, and there, in that maze of cuts and channels, of “logans”
and quick water, of swamp, shoal, sedge, and spectral ranks of dead
trees, towering above swale and deadwood, they stood no more chance of
flushing Skeene than a caribou has of raising three fawns in a season.
What he did with his canoe nobody might know. Certainly he left the
main channel. Did he himself hide in the bog or dead-falls? Where do
young sand-pipers vanish on a shingle beach? Oh there were sounds in
the swamp as the sheriff’s posse steered through the even with silent
paddle,—sounds that stir only in lonely places, faint splashes, a sound
of a swirl in still water, the breeze in the swale-grass.
And so they hunted Skeene at twilight, at dusk of morning, at high noon,
from the Northeast Carry to the Northwest Carry, from the West Branch to
Seboomook, from Portage to Lily Bay, and through a hundred miles of lake
and stream, up and down, up and down. But Moose River bore no tales on
its placid breast, and the wing-dams towered silent as twin Sphinxes,
and the sounds that startled the silence where the Little Misery coils
through the strange country, are mysteries even to those who interpret
them.
It was in May that the ice went out, in company with Skeene; it was in
July that they felt the bite of his bullets below the wing-dam; it was in
August that they gave up the chase.
That evening, Skeene stood on a wind-fall in the depths of the Little
Misery and watched three canoes file out of the discharge and glide into
the swift water of Moose River. The next morning he started a lean-to
on the ridge back of the Little Misery, and the sharp crack and thwack
of his axe rang out over Red Lake. At sunrise a moose-cow heard it and
ploughed hastily shoreward through the lily-pads with an ouf! woof! ouf!
as she struck the pebbles on the beach. One by one the great blue herons
flapped up from the dead pines, circled, sailed, and turned over to pitch
head downwards into the sedge with dull cries.
At noon the echoes of axe-strokes died away and the hut was thatched with
balsam, blue side skyward. By three o’clock a spike buck, a yearling, lay
across a log on the ridge, and at four o’clock Skeene had satisfied his
hunger.
He sat on the shore under the ridge, pensively picking his white teeth
with the enjoyment of the abandoned. Across the lake the mountains turned
to sapphire and ashes; a pale sky deepened into flame colour; the sun
hung a globe of crimson in gilded mist.
One by one the last sunbeams reddened the trunks of the trees to the
eastward, the foliage burned, the shore line glimmered. Like changing
hues on a bubble, the colours deepened, and played over the placid lake.
A single snowy bank of cloud, piled up in the east, glowed where the
sun stained its edges. The midges danced above the sedge; the lake-wash
rocked the swales, to and fro, to and fro. A trout broke in shallow
water, flapped up and splashed again, and the red sky crimsoned the
widening rings, spreading slowly shoreward.
In the days that followed, Skeene learned to talk to himself. When he
did this he forgot that he had killed Sebato; after a while he forgot it
altogether.
When the August afternoons were ablaze with brazen sunlight and the
lake glistened like a sheet of steel, Skeene sprawled on a log in the
shade and watched the great blue herons. When they “drove stakes” he
mocked them with the same note until they answered “Ke-whack! Ke-whack!
Ke-whack!” The red squirrel’s thin treble he imitated; he called the
chipmunks with a tsip! tsip! and laughed until his white teeth glistened
when a carrion-jay alighted on his knee for a shin-joint half hacked. The
great belted kingfishers knew him, the sheldrake, stringing along the
creek at evening, turned their bright eyes to his, the osprey who lived
above the ledge, wheeled above him for hours, knowing that he also was a
savage thing and hunted when hungry.
He was hungry several times between sunrise and sunset. The swift water
of the Little Misery gave him a trout to every set-line; the deeper pools
by the sedge gave him pleasure.
On the Little Misery deer swarm at evening, and he had meat for the price
of a cartridge.
The white nights of August brought that vague unrest that all forest
creatures feel. The deer girdled the roots of the ash-trees and the spike
bucks grew bolder; the great blue herons danced their contre-dance,
evening after evening, at first solemnly, advancing, retreating in
stately quadrilles, lifting their slim shins high in the sedge; but, as
the month ended, the contre-dance lost dignity and gained in abandon,
until the lone loon out on the lake shook the silence with his demon’s
laughter. As the moon waned, the forest world stirred; its attitude was
expectant; it waited. The cow-moose began to cast evil oblique glances on
her calves, now turned darker; and the little bull-moose-calf, frisked
until his tiny bell swung like the wattle on a turkey.
An impatience, almost a sadness fell upon Skeene. And with sadness came
fear. He covered his lean-to and built a smoke-hole through which blue
haze rose in the calm morning air. But, like wild things in winter, he
was wary, and the steam-hole of a beaver’s house might be more easily
located than the chimney of Skeene’s hut.
When September came a hush fell over the forest; land and water were
silent; the trout no longer broke water or leaped full length in the
afterglow; the deer picked a silent path along the shore; the herons
stood all day, heads stretched heavenward; the loon’s maniac laughter was
stilled. Silent and more silent the woods grew as the new moon, a faint
tracery above the hills, rose in the evening sky. At its first quarter
the silence deepened, at its half, the stillness was intense. Then one
black night the Full Moon of September flashed in the sky, and before the
last shore ripple had caught its glitter, a gigantic black shadow waded
out into the lake and a roar shook the hills.
The first bull-moose had bellowed, and the rutting season had begun.
Instantly the forest, the lake, the shore, the stream were alive; the
meat-birds cried from every cedar; the deer barked from the sedge; a
lynx howled and miauled in the second growth. Everywhere plumage and fur
were growing glossy and gay. Even Skeene sewed porcupine quills into his
boot-moccasins, and sang fragments of a song he had heard in Quebec.