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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES
[Illustration: THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST
AND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD]
THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES
EDITED
WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS
CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN,
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED FOR
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
[Illustration]
D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK 1933
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,
must not be reproduced in any form without
permission of the publishers.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
THE campfire for ages has been the place of council and friendship and
story-telling. The mystic glow of the fire quickens the mind, warms the
heart, awakens memories of happy, glowing tales that fairly leap to the
lips. The Boy Scouts of America has incorporated the "campfire" in its
program for council and friendship and story-telling. In one volume, the
_Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories_ makes available to scoutmasters
and other leaders a goodly number of stories worthy of their attention,
and when well told likely to arrest and hold the interest of boys in
their early teens, when "stirs the blood--to bubble in the veins."
At this time, when the boy is growing so rapidly in brain and body, he
can have no better teacher than some mighty woodsman. Now should be
presented to him stirring stories of the adventurous lives of men who
live in and love the out-of-doors. Says Professor George Walter Fiske:
"Let him emulate savage woodcraft; the woodsman's keen, practiced
vision; his steadiness of nerve; his contempt for pain, hardship and the
weather; his power of endurance, his observation and heightened senses;
his delight in out-of-door sports and joys and unfettered happiness with
untroubled sleep under the stars; his calmness, self-control, emotional
steadiness; his utter faithfulness in friendships; his honesty, his
personal bravery."
The Editor likes to think that quite a few of the stories found in the
_Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories_ present companions for the mind
of this hardy sort, and hopes, whether boys read or are told these
stories, they will prove to be such as exalt and inspire while they
thrill and entertain.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
I. SILVERHORNS _Henry van Dyke_ 1
II. WILD HORSE HUNTER _Zane Grey_ 21
III. HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK _Irvin S. Cobb_ 90
IV. THE OLE VIRGINIA _Stewart Edward White_ 100
V. THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION _Rex Beach_ 108
VI. THAT SPOT _Jack London_ 140
VII. WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY _Irving Bacheller_ 155
VIII. THE END OF THE TRAIL _Clarence E. Mulford_ 180
IX. DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS _Ellis Parker Butler_ 201
X. THE NIGHT OPERATOR _Frank L. Packard_ 218
XI. CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP _Ralph Connor_ 258
XII. THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD ME _Adirondack (W. H. H.) Murray_ 275
[Illustration]
I.--Silverhorns[1]
_By Henry van Dyke_
THE railway station of Bathurst, New Brunswick, did not look
particularly merry at two o'clock of a late September morning. There was
an easterly haze driving in from the Baie des Chaleurs and the darkness
was so saturated with chilly moisture that an honest downpour of rain
would have been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent travelers
yawned in the waiting room, which smelled horribly of smoky lamps. The
telegraph instrument in the ticket office clicked spasmodically for a
minute, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. The imperturbable
station master was tipped back against the wall in a wooden armchair,
with his feet on the table, and his mind sunk in an old Christmas number
of the _Cowboy Magazine_. The express agent, in the baggage-room, was
going over his last week's waybills and accounts by the light of a
lantern, trying to locate an error, and sighing profanely to himself as
he failed to find it. A wooden trunk tied with rope, a couple of dingy
canvas bags, a long box marked "Fresh Fish! Rush!" and two large leather
portmanteaus with brass fittings were piled on the luggage truck at the
far end of the platform; and beside the door of the waiting room,
sheltered by the overhanging eaves, was a neat traveling bag, with a gun
case and a rod case leaning against the wall. The wet rails glittered
dimly northward and southward away into the night. A few blurred lights
glimmered from the village across the bridge.
Dudley Hemenway had observed all these features of the landscape with
silent dissatisfaction, as he smoked steadily up and down the platform,
waiting for the Maritime Express. It is usually irritating to arrive at
the station on time for a train on the Intercolonial Railway. The
arrangement is seldom mutual; and sometimes yesterday's train does not
come along until to-morrow afternoon. Moreover, Hemenway was inwardly
discontented with the fact that he was coming out of the woods instead
of going in. "Coming out" always made him a little unhappy, whether his
expedition had been successful or not. He did not like the thought that
it was all over; and he had the very bad habit, at such times, of
looking ahead and computing the slowly lessening number of chances that
were left to him.
"Sixty odd years--I may get to be that old and keep my shooting sight,"
he said to himself. "That would give me a couple of dozen more camping
trips. It's a short allowance. I wonder if any of them will be more
lucky than this one. This makes the seventh year I've tried to get a
moose; and the odd trick has gone against me every time."
He tossed away the end of his cigar, which made a little trail of sparks
as it rolled along the sopping platform, and turned to look in through
the window of the ticket office. Something in the agent's attitude of
literary absorption aggravated him. He went round to the door and opened
it.
"Don't you know or care when this train is coming?"
"Nope," said the man placidly.
"Well, when? What's the matter with her? When is she due?"
"Doo twenty minits ago," said the man. "Forty minits late down to
Moocastle. Git here quatter to three, ef nothin' more happens."
"But what has happened? What's wrong with the beastly old road, anyhow?"
"Freight car skipped the track," said the man, "up to Charlo. Everythin'
hung up an' kinder goin' slow till they git the line clear. Dunno
nothin' more."
With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to disclaim all
responsibility for the future of impatient travelers, and dropped his
mind back into the magazine again. Hemenway lit another cigar and went
into the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It was nearly three
o'clock when they heard the far-off shriek of the whistle sounding up
from the south; then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine on
the upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the increasing clatter
of the train, and the blazing headlight of the locomotive swept slowly
through the darkness, past the platform. The engineer was leaning on one
arm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemenway nodded as he
passed and hurried into the ticket office, where the ticktack of a
conversation by telegraph was soon under way. The black porter of the
Pullman car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he saw Hemenway
his sleepy face broadened into a grin reminiscent of many generous tips.
"Howdy, Mr. Hennigray," he cried; "glad to see yo' ag'in, sah! I got yo'
section all right, sah! Lemme take yo' things, sah! Train gwine to stop
hy'eh fo' some time yet, I reckon."
"Well, Charles," said Hemenway, "you take my things and put them in the
car. Careful with that gun now! The Lord only knows how much time this
train's going to lose. I'm going ahead to see the engineer."
Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman who had run a locomotive on
the Intercolonial ever since the road was cut through the woods from New
Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often on that line knew him,
and all who knew him well enough to get below his rough crust, liked
him for his big heart.
"Hallo, McLeod," said Hemenway as he came up through the darkness, "is
that you?"
"It's nane else," answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab
and shook hands warmly. "Hoo are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye been
murderin' the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye've
been chasin' him these mony years."
"Not much murdering," replied Hemenway. "I had a queer trip this
time--away up the Nepisiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don't
you?"
"Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an' a guid mon he is. Hoo was it that ye
couldna slaughter stacks o' moose wi' him to help ye? Did ye see nane at
all?"
"Plenty, and one with the biggest horns in the world! But that's a long
story, and there's no time to tell it now."
"Time to burrn, Dud, nae fear o' it! 'Twill be an hour afore the line's
clear to Charlo an' they lat us oot o' this. Come awa' up into the cab,
mon, an' tell us yer tale. 'Tis couthy an' warm in the cab, an' I'm
willin' to leesten to yer bluidy advaintures."
So the two men clambered up into the engineer's seat. Hemenway gave
McLeod his longest and strongest cigar, and filled his own briar-wood
pipe. The rain was now pattering gently on the roof of the cab. The
engine hissed and sizzled patiently in the darkness. The fragrant smoke
curled steadily from the glowing tip of the cigar; but the pipe went out
half a dozen times while Hemenway was telling the story of Silverhorns.
"We went up the river to the big rock, just below Indian Falls. There we
made our main camp, intending to hunt on Forty-two Mile Brook. There's
quite a snarl of ponds and bogs at the head of it, and some burned hills
over to the west, and it's very good moose country.
"But some other party had been there before us, and we saw nothing on
the ponds, except two cow moose and a calf. Coming out the next morning
we got a fine deer on the old wood road--a beautiful head. But I have
plenty of deer heads already."
"Bonny creature!" said McLeod. "An' what did ye do wi' it, when ye had
murdered it?"
"Ate it, of course. I gave the head to Billy Boucher, the cook. He said
he could get ten dollars for it. The next evening we went to one of the
ponds again, and Injun Pete tried to 'call' a moose for me. But it was
no good. McDonald was disgusted with Pete's calling; said it sounded
like the bray of a wild ass of the wilderness. So the next day we gave
up calling and traveled the woods over toward the burned hills.
"In the afternoon McDonald found an enormous moose-track; he thought it
looked like a bull's track, though he wasn't quite positive. But then,
you know, a Scotchman never likes to commit himself, except about
theology or politics."
"Humph!" grunted McLeod in the darkness, showing that the strike had
counted.
"Well, we went on, following that track through the woods, for an hour
or two. It was a terrible country, I tell you: tamarack swamps, and
spruce thickets, and windfalls, and all kinds of misery. Presently we
came out on a bare rock on the burned hillside, and there, across a
ravine, we could see the animal lying down, just below the trunk of a
big dead spruce that had fallen. The beast's head and neck were hidden
by some bushes, but the fore shoulder and side were in clear view, about
two hundred and fifty yards away. McDonald seemed to be inclined to
think that it was a bull and that I ought to shoot. So I shot, and
knocked splinters out of the spruce log. We could see them fly. The
animal got up quickly, and looked at us for a moment, shaking her long
ears; then the huge unmitigated cow vamoosed into the brush. McDonald
remarked that it was 'a varra fortunate shot, almaist providaintial!'
And so it was; for if it had gone six inches lower, and the news gotten
out at Bathurst, it would have cost me a fine of two hundred dollars."
"Ye did weel, Dud," puffed McLeod; "varra weel indeed--for the coo!"
"After that," continued Hemenway, "of course my nerve was a little
shaken, and we went back to the main camp on the river, to rest over
Sunday. That was all right, wasn't it, Mac!"
"Aye!" replied McLeod, who was a strict member of the Presbyterian
church at Moncton. "That was surely a varra safe thing to do. Even a
hunter, I'm thinkin', wouldna like to be breakin' twa commandments in
the ane day--the foorth and the saxth!"
"Perhaps not. It's enough to break one, as you do once a fortnight when
you run your train into Riviere du Loup Sunday morning. How's that, you
old Calvinist?"
"Dudley, ma son," said the engineer, "dinna airgue a point that ye canna
understond. There's guid an' suffeecient reasons for the train. But
ye'll ne'er be claimin' that moose huntin' is a wark o' necessity or
maircy?"
"No, no, of course not; but then, you see, barring Sundays, we felt that
it was necessary to do all we could to get a moose, just for the sake of
our reputations. Billy, the cook, was particularly strong about it. He
said that an old woman in Bathurst, a kind of fortune teller, had told
him that he was going to have 'la bonne chance' on this trip. He wanted
to try his own mouth at 'calling.' He had never really done it before.
But he had been practicing all winter in imitation of a tame cow moose
that Johnny Moreau had, and he thought he could make the sound 'b'en
bon.' So he got the birch-bark horn and gave us a sample of his skill.
McDonald told me privately that it was 'nae sa bad; a deal better than
Pete's feckless bellow.' We agreed to leave the Indian to keep the camp
(after locking up the whisky flask in my bag), and take Billy with us on
Monday to 'call' at Hogan's Pond.
"It's a small bit of water, about three quarters of a mile long and four
hundred yards across, and four miles back from the river. There is no
trail to it, but a blazed line runs part of the way, and for the rest
you follow up the little brook that runs out of the pond. We stuck up
our shelter in a hollow on the brook, half a mile below the pond, so
that the smoke of our fire would not drift over the hunting ground, and
waited till five o'clock in the afternoon. Then we went up to the pond,
and took our position in a clump of birch trees on the edge of the open
meadow that runs round the east shore. Just at dark Billy began to call,
and it was beautiful. You know how it goes. Three short grunts, and then
a long ooooo-aaaa-ooooh, winding up with another grunt! It sounded
lonelier than a love-sick hippopotamus on the house top. It rolled and
echoed over the hills as if it would wake the dead.
"There was a fine moon shining, nearly full, and a few clouds floating
by. Billy called, and called, and called again. The air grew colder and
colder; light frost on the meadow grass; our teeth were chattering,
fingers numb.
"Then we heard a bull give a short bawl, away off to the southward.
Presently we could hear his horns knock against the trees, far up on
the hill. McDonald whispered, 'He's comin',' and Billy gave another
call.
"But it was another bull that answered, back of the north end of the
pond, and pretty soon we could hear him rapping along through the woods.
Then everything was still. 'Call agen,' says McDonald, and Billy called
again.
"This time the bawl came from another bull, on top of the western hill,
straight across the pond. It seemed to start up the other two bulls, and
we could hear all three of them thrashing along, as fast as they could
come, towards the pond. 'Call agen, a wee one,' says McDonald, trembling
with joy. And Billy called a little seducing call, with two grunts at
the end.
"Well, sir, at that, a cow and a calf came rushing down through the
brush not two hundred yards away from us, and the three bulls went
splash into the water, one at the south end, one at the north end, and
one on the west shore. 'Land,' whispers McDonald, 'it's a meenadgerie!'"
"Dud," said the engineer, getting down to open the furnace door a crack,
"this is mair than murder ye're comin' at; it's a buitchery--or else
it's juist a pack o' lees."
"I give you my word," said Hemenway, "it's all true as the catechism.
But let me go on. The cow and the calf only stayed in the water a few
minutes, and then ran back through the woods. But the three bulls went
sloshing around in the pond as if they were looking for something. We
could hear them, but we could not see any of them, for the sky had
clouded up, and they kept far away from us. Billy tried another short
call, but they did not come any nearer. McDonald whispered that he
thought the one in the south end might be the biggest, and he might be
feeding, and the two others might be young bulls, and they might be
keeping away because they were afraid of the big one. This seemed
reasonable; and I said that I was going to crawl around the meadow to
the south end. 'Keep near a tree,' says Mac; and I started.
"There was a deep trail, worn by animals, through the high grass; and in
this I crept along on my hands and knees. It was very wet and muddy. My
boots were full of cold water. After ten minutes I came to a little
point running out into the pond, and one young birch growing on it.
Under this I crawled, and rising up on my knees looked over the top of
the grass and bushes.
"There, in a shallow bay, standing knee-deep in the water, and rooting
up the lily stems with his long, pendulous nose, was the biggest and
blackest bull moose in the world. As he pulled the roots from the mud
and tossed up his dripping head I could see his horns--four and a half
feet across, if they were an inch, and the palms shining like tea trays
in the moonlight. I tell you, old Silverhorns was the most beautiful
monster I ever saw.
"But he was too far away to shoot by that dim light, so I left my birch
tree and crawled along toward the edge of the bay. A breath of wind must
have blown across me to him, for he lifted his head, sniffed, grunted,
came out of the water, and began to trot slowly along the trail which
led past me. I knelt on one knee and tried to take aim. A black cloud
came over the moon. I couldn't see either of the sights on the gun. But
when the bull came opposite to me, about fifty yards off, I blazed away
at a venture.
"He reared straight up on his hind legs--it looked as if he rose fifty
feet in the air--wheeled, and went walloping along the trail, around the
south end of the pond. In a minute he was lost in the woods. Good-by,
Silverhorns!"
"Ye tell it weel," said McLeod, reaching out for a fresh cigar. "Fegs!
Ah doot Sir Walter himsel' couldna impruve upon it. An, sae thot's the
way ye didna murder puir Seelverhorrns? It's a tale I'm joyfu' to be
hearin'."
"Wait a bit," Hemenway answered. "That's not the end, by a long shot.
There's worse to follow. The next morning we returned to the pond at
day-break, for McDonald thought I might have wounded the moose. We
searched the bushes and the woods where he went out very carefully,
looking for drops of blood on his trail."
"Bluid!" groaned the engineer. "Hech, mon, wouldna that come nigh to
mak' ye greet, to find the beast's red bluid splashed over the leaves,
and think o' him staggerin' on thro' the forest, drippin' the heart oot
o' him wi' every step?"
"But we didn't find any blood, you old sentimentalist. That shot in the
dark was a clear miss. We followed the trail by broken bushes and
footprints, for half a mile, and then came back to the pond and turned
to go down through the edge of the woods to the camp.
"It was just after sunrise. I was walking a few yards ahead, McDonald
next, and Billy last. Suddenly he looked around to the left, gave a low
whistle and dropped to the ground, pointing northward. Away at the head
of the pond, beyond the glitter of the sun on the water, the big
blackness of Silverhorns' head and body was pushing through the bushes,
dripping with dew.
"Each of us flopped down behind the nearest shrub as if we had been
playing squat tag. Billy had the birch-bark horn with him, and he gave a
low, short call. Silverhorns heard it, turned, and came parading slowly
down the western shore, now on the sand beach, now splashing through the
shallow water. We could see every motion and hear every sound. He
marched along as if he owned the earth, swinging his huge head from side
to side and grunting at each step.
"You see, we were just in the edge of the woods, strung along the south
end of the pond, Billy nearest the west shore, where the moose was
walking, McDonald next, and I last, perhaps fifteen yards farther to
the east. It was a fool arrangement, but we had no time to think about
it. McDonald whispered that I should wait until the moose came close to
us and stopped.
"So I waited. I could see him swagger along the sand and step out around
the fallen logs. The nearer he came the bigger his horns looked; each
palm was like an enormous silver fish fork with twenty prongs. Then he
went out of my sight for a minute as he passed around a little bay in
the southwest corner, getting nearer and nearer to Billy. But I could
still hear his steps distinctly--slosh, slosh, slosh--thud, thud, thud
(the grunting had stopped)--closer came the sound, until it was directly
behind the dense green branches of a fallen balsam tree, not twenty feet
away from Billy. Then suddenly the noise ceased. I could hear my own
heart pounding at my ribs, but nothing else. And of Silverhorns not hair
nor hide was visible. It looked as if he must be a Boojum, and had the
power to 'softly and silently vanish away.'
"Billy and Mac were beckoning to me fiercely and pointing to the green
balsam top. I gripped my rifle and started to creep toward them. A
little twig, about as thick as the tip of a fishing rod, cracked under
my knee. There was a terrible crash behind the balsam, a plunging
through the underbrush and a rattling among the branches, a lumbering
gallop up the hill through the forest, and Silverhorns was gone into the
invisible.
"He had stopped behind the tree because he smelled the grease on
Billy's boots. As he stood there, hesitating, Billy and Mac could see
his shoulder and his side through a gap in the branches--a dead-easy
shot. But so far as I was concerned, he might as well have been in
Alaska. I told you that the way we had placed ourselves was a fool
arrangement. But McDonald would not say anything about it, except to
express his conviction that it was not predestinated we should get that
moose."
"Ah dinna ken ould Rob had sae much theology aboot him," commented
McLeod. "But noo I'm thinkin' ye went back to yer main camp, an' lat
puir Seelverhorrns live oot his life?"
"Not much, did we! For now we knew that he wasn't badly frightened by
the adventure of the night before, and that we might get another chance
at him. In the afternoon it began to rain; and it poured for forty-eight
hours. We covered in our shelter before a smoky fire, and lived on short
rations of crackers and dried prunes--it was a hungry time."
"But wasna there slathers o' food at the main camp? Ony fule wad ken
enough to gae doon to the river an' tak' a guid fill-up."
"But that wasn't what we wanted. It was Silverhorns. Billy and I made
McDonald stay, and Thursday afternoon, when the clouds broke away, we
went back to the pond to have a last try at turning our luck.
"This time we took our positions with great care, among some small
spruces on a joint that ran out from the southern meadow. I was farthest
to the west; McDonald (who had also brought his gun) was next; Billy,
with the horn, was farthest away from the point where he thought the
moose would come out. So Billy began to call, very beautifully. The long
echoes went bellowing over the hills. The afternoon was still and the
setting sun shone through a light mist, like a ball of red gold.
"Fifteen minutes after sundown Silverhorns gave a loud bawl from the
western ridge and came crashing down the hill. He cleared the bushes two
or three hundred yards to our left with a leap, rushed into the pond,
and came wading around the south shore toward us. The bank here was
rather high, perhaps four feet above the water, and the mud below it was
deep, so that the moose sank in to his knees. I give you my word, as he
came along there was nothing visible to Mac and me except his ears and
his horns. Everything else was hidden below the bank.
"There were we behind our little spruce trees. And there was
Silverhorns, standing still now, right in front of us. And all that Mac
and I could see were those big ears and those magnificent antlers,
appearing and disappearing as he lifted and lowered his head. It was a
fearful situation. And there was Billy, with his birch-bark hooter,
forty yards below us--he could see the moose perfectly.
"I looked at Mac, and he looked at me. He whispered something about
predestination. Then Billy lifted his horn and made ready to give a
little soft grunt, to see if the moose wouldn't move along a bit, just
to oblige us. But as Billy drew in his breath, one of those fool flies
that are always blundering around a man's face flew straight down his
throat. Instead of a call he burst out with a furious, strangling fit of
coughing. The moose gave a snort, and a wild leap in the water, and
galloped away under the bank, the way he had come. Mac and I both fired
at his vanishing ears and horns, but of course----"
"All Aboooard!" The conductor's shout rang along the platform.
"Line's clear," exclaimed McLeod, rising. "Noo we'll be off! Wull ye
stay here wi' me, or gang awa' back to yer bed?"
"Here," answered Hemenway, not budging from his place on the bench.
The bell clanged, and the powerful machine puffed out on its flaring way
through the night. Faster and faster came the big explosive breaths,
until they blended in a long steady roar, and the train was sweeping
northward at forty miles an hour. The clouds had broken; the night had
grown colder; the gibbous moon gleamed over the vast and solitary
landscape. It was a different thing to Hemenway, riding in the cab of
the locomotive, from an ordinary journey in the passenger car or an
unconscious ride in the sleeper. Here he was on the crest of motion, at
the forefront of speed, and the quivering engine with the long train
behind it seemed like a living creature leaping along the track. It
responded to the labor of the fireman and the touch of the engineer
almost as if it could think and feel. Its pace quickened without a jar;
its great eye pierced the silvery space of moonlight with a shaft of
blazing yellow; the rails sang before it and trembled behind it; it was
an obedient and joyful monster, conquering distance and devouring
darkness.
On the wide level barrens beyond the Tete-a-Gouche River the locomotive
reached its best speed, purring like a huge cat and running smoothly.
McLeod leaned back on his bench with a satisfied air.
"She's doin' fine, the nicht," said he. "Ah'm thinkin', whiles, o' yer
auld Seelverhorrns. Whaur is he noo? Awa' up on Higan' Pond, gallantin'
around i' the licht o' the mune wi' a lady moose, an' the gladness juist
bubblin' in his hairt. Ye're no sorry that he's leevin' yet, are ye,
Dud?"
"Well," answered Hemenway slowly, between the puffs of his pipe, "I
can't say I'm sorry that he's alive and happy, though I'm not glad that
I lost him. But he did his best, the old rogue; he played a good game,
and he deserved to win. Where he is now nobody can tell. He was
traveling like a streak of lightning when I last saw him. By this time
he may be----"
"What's yon?" cried McLeod, springing up. Far ahead, in the narrow apex
of the converging rails stood a black form, motionless, mysterious.
McLeod grasped the whistle cord. The black form loomed higher in the
moonlight and was clearly silhouetted against the horizon--a big moose
standing across the track. They could see his grotesque head, his
shadowy horns, high, sloping shoulders. The engineer pulled the cord.
The whistle shrieked loud and long.
The moose turned and faced the sound. The glare of the headlight
fascinated, challenged, angered him. There he stood defiant, front feet
planted wide apart, head lowered, gazing steadily at the unknown enemy
that was rushing toward him. He was the monarch of the wilderness. There
was nothing in the world that he feared, except those strange-smelling
little beasts on two legs who crept around through the woods and shot
fire out of sticks. This was surely not one of those treacherous
animals, but some strange new creature that dared to shriek at him and
try to drive him out of its way. He would not move. He would try his
strength against this big yellow-eyed beast.
"Losh!" cried McLeod; "he's gaun' to fecht us!" and he dropped the cord,
grabbed the levers, and threw the steam off and the brakes on hard. The
heavy train slid groaning and jarring along the track. The moose never
stirred. The fire smoldered in his small narrow eyes. His black crest
was bristling. As the engine bore down upon him, not a rod away, he
reared high in the air, his antlers flashing in the blaze, and struck
full at the headlight with his immense fore feet. There was a shattering
of glass, a crash, a heavy shock, and the train slid on through the
darkness, lit only by the moon.
Thirty or forty yards beyond, the momentum was exhausted and the engine
came to a stop. Hemenway and McLeod clambered down and ran back, with
the other trainmen and a few of the passengers. The moose was lying in
the ditch beside the track, stone dead and frightfully shattered. But
the great head and the vast spreading antlers were intact.
"Seelverhorrns, sure enough!" said McLeod, bending over him. "He was
crossin' frae the Nepisiguit to the Jacquet; but he didna get across.
Weel, Dud, are ye glad? Ye hae kilt yer first moose!"
"Yes," said Hemenway, "it's my first moose. But it's your first moose,
too. And I think it's our last. Ye gods, what a fighter!"
FOOTNOTE:
[1] From _Days Off_. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Used
by permission of the publishers.
[Illustration]
II.--The Wild-Horse Hunter[2]
_By Zane Grey_
I
THREE wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in
the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil's
Ford.
These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses.
They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the
saddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them
appeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the
meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged
tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence.
The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor
billowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls
of stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the
valley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range.
The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made
the desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a
loneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even
after sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enough to
ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.
The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the
hunters finished the meal. Then the camp fire had burned low. One of the
three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly
it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry
cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted
cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood smoke into the faces of
the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move.
"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind," said one.
"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'd
not say smoke."
"Why?"
"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left."
"Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe with
us."
The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the
bright light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe,
powerful.
"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied.
Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down
beside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his
companions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.
"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, his
sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire.
"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Gee! the relief I feel!" replied one.
"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake," replied
the other.
Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to
part with it. "Let's go on," he said, quietly.
"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet wild stallion," returned Bill,
shortly.
The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the
one called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out," he said. "There's only a
little flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the
hosses except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strange
country. An' you know what we've heerd of this an' all to the south.
It's all canyons, an' somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none of
our people ever seen. But we've heerd of it. An awful cut-up country."
He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the
common sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed.
Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can't
ketch Wildfire!"
That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his
comrade's.
"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," went on the other.
"Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet's the longest
chase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, an'
left them, one by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. An' he's
too smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but gone to the
dogs chasin' Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad of it."
There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips to
break.
"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long time
I've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laid
eyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a
one. But now thet's neither here nor there. . . . We've got to hit the
back trail."
"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said Lin, in the same
quiet tone.
Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned.
"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?"
"I--reckon," replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed
could be plainly seen by his companions.
Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding
between them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged their
heads doubtfully. . . . It was significant of the nature of riders that
they accepted his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. For
them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been three
wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had
failed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their
endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone had
conceived that strange and rare longing for a horse--a passion
understood, if not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would
catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their attitude
toward Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling.
The gravity and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might have
regretted what they had said about the futility of catching Wildfire.
They did not want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task.
"I tell you, Lin," said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when we
started."
"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to lose
some weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?"
"No full set. Only three left," replied Lin, soberly.
"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An' _mebbe_ thet red
stallion will get sore feet an' go lame. Then you'd stand a chance."
"But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys--the soft ground," said Slone.
"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound to strike sandstone
sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he'll wear off them hoofs."
"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill.
"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired Slone,
anxiously.
"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased off
the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for new
country, when you push him hard."
"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's
traveled a bee line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time.
Wildfire's about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was
born wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--a
wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but
one thet has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild
stallion thet's a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he be
broke?"
"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's the
job. I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch a
streak of lightnin'."
"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get
him--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow
canyon, or run him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet might
happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire
thet hoss?"
"Not yet."
"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched
thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at a hard
gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"
"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbe
more. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"
"Wal, Nagger ain't so slow, come to think of thet," replied Bill, with a
grunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss."
"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow--is
thet the plan?" asked the other comrade.
"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a deer."
"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the
best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah."
Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his
dark face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. They
rolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen wind
was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head on his saddle, with
a goatskin under him and a saddle blanket over him.
All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes and
smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and from
the valley ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desert
night grew darker and colder.
* * * * *
The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades and
occasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he had
captured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, and
the love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His type
was rare in the uplands.
These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few of
the hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert in
the southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of that
wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horses
were really more important and necessary than men; and this singular
fact gave these lonely riders a calling.
Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Those
explorers left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them were
Arabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at the
outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of wild
horses all over the plains. Across the Grand canyon, however, wild horses
were comparatively few in number in the early days; and these had
probably come in by way of California.
The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses.
The game had not developed fast enough for that. Every chase of horse or
drove was different; and once in many attempts they met with success.
A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water hole
frequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to build
round this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then
the hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in to
drink, a gate was closed across the opening.
Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a coveted horse up on a mesa
or highland, places which seldom had more than one trail of ascent and
descent, and there block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into which
the quarry was run till captured. Still another method, discovered by
accident, was to shoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting him. This
last, called creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in
any method ten times as many horses were killed as captured.
Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especial
liking for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures of remarkable
horses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the brothers claimed
to be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the fault of
saving his mount, and to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. He
would much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone on the trail
of the stallion Wildfire when the Stewarts had joined him.
* * * * *
Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usual
early hour. But he was not early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts.
They were gone.
The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him more
than his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slipped
off before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would not
have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation at
abandoning a chase which he chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone,
apparently without breakfast.
The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a storm,
and in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a redness growing
brighter.
Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades,
but he saw nothing moving against that cedar-dotted waste.
"Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying good-by to more
than comrades.
"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again--an' maybe never," he
soliloquized.
There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who had
been kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of the
wilderness. Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the red
valley to the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had been
lost in the massacre of a wagon train by Indians, and he had been one of
the few saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened when he was
ten years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his sturdy
Texas training he might not have survived. The last five years he had
been a horse hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah.
Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts had
divided the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he was
greatly mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of the
salt.
"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said Slone, regretfully. "But
I could have got along without it better 'n they could."
Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In the
midst of his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slone
paused in his work to look up.
The sun had risen over the eastern wall.
"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath.
The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It was
now a world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, with everywhere
the endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making the
fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the moment he
heard the whistle of his horse.
"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you this
mornin'."
Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustang
that he used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patch
among the trees, but the pack horse was missing. Slone seemed to know in
what direction to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very soon.
The pack horse wore hobbles, but he belonged to the class that could
cover a great deal of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect the
horse to go far, considering that the grass thereabouts was good. But in
a wild-horse country it was not safe to give any horse a chance. The
call of his wild brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found the
mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, removing the
hobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of him
and came at his call.
This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rare
among riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though black
predominated. His coat was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep.
He was huge, raw-boned, knotty, long of body and long of leg, with the
head of a war charger. His build did not suggest speed. There appeared
to be something slow and ponderous about him, similar to an elephant,
with the same suggestion of power and endurance.
Slone discarded the pack saddle and bags. The latter were almost empty.
He roped the tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a small
bundle of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blanket
he used for a saddle blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by the
Stewarts he chose a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. The
rest he left. In his saddle bags he had a few extra horseshoes, some
nails, bullets for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade.
"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. Slone did not talk very
much, and when he did he addressed Nagger and himself simultaneously.
Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which he would not return,
and light as his outfit was it would grow too heavy.
Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and
the black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yards
from camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize
the ground.
The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The hoof
marks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly they
were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then
he looked across the dotted red valley up to the vast ridgy steppes,
toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indian
gives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt
to scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown into the
depressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He took his
time about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sand
into the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finally he
stood up and addressed Nagger.
"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he said,
with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before sunup."
Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack horse
followed with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness.
As straight as a bee line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor
of the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for
water. Slone had hoped to find a water hole in one of the deep washes in
the red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would have
scented it. He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knew of.
And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas water bag
hanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny himself, as
far as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like an Indian, Slone
ate and drank but little.
It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of
that wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of
it, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had
only to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality that
he did not have to veer from the stallion's course.
It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the
sand. But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. The
wind rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse and
rider. Except lizards Slone did not see any living things.
Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almost
imperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedars
beckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail of
Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed short.