Late one winter afternoon, when the sun was gilding the pines on the
western mountains and the shadows stretched long and chill through the
snow-laden woods, a huge bull moose broke out of the gloom of the
spruces and went swinging up the long, sunlit barren at a stride whose
length and power would have discouraged even a wolf from following.
Five minutes later I came out of the same tunnel under the spruces
just as the fringe of green across the barren swished back to cover
the flanks of the plunging bull, and then nodded and nodded in twenty
directions--_This way! that way! here! yonder!_--to mislead any that
might follow on his track. For at times even the hemlocks and the
alders and the waters and the leaves and the creaking boughs and the
dancing shadows all seem to conspire to shield the innocent Wood Folk
from the hostile eyes and hands of those that pursue them. And that is
one reason why it is so hard to see game in the woods.
The big moose had fooled me that time. When he knew that I was
following him he ran far ahead, and then circled swiftly back to stand
motionless in a hillside thicket within twenty yards of the trail that
he had made scarcely an hour agone. There he could see perfectly,
without being seen, what it was that was following him. When I came
by, following swiftly and silently the deep tracks in the snow, he let
me pass below him while he took a good look and a sniff at me; then he
glided away like a shadow in the opposite direction. Unfortunately a
dead branch under the snow broke with a dull snap beneath his cautious
hoof, and I turned aside to see--and so saved myself the long tramp up
and down the cunning trails. When he saw that his trick was discovered
he broke away for the open barren, with all his wonderful powers of
eye and ear and tireless legs alert to save himself from the man whom
he mistook for his deadly enemy.
It was of small use to follow him further, so I sat down on a
prostrate yellow birch to rest and listen awhile in the vast silence,
and to watch anything that might be passing through the cold white
woods.
Under the fringe of evergreen the soft purple shadows jumped suddenly,
and a hare as white as the snow bounded out. In long nervous jumps,
like a bundle of wire springs, he went leaping before my face across a
narrow arm of the barren to the shelter of a point below. The soft
arms of the ground spruces and the softer shadows beneath them seemed
to open of their own accord to let him in. All nodding of branches and
dropping of snow pads and jumping of shadows ceased instantly, and
all along the fringe of evergreen silent voices were saying, There is
nothing here; we have not seen him; there is nothing here.
Now why did he run that way, I thought; for Moktaques is a crazy,
erratic fellow, and never does things in a businesslike way unless he
has to. As I wondered, there was a gleam of yellow fire under the
purple shadows whence Moktaques had come, and the fierce round head of
a Canada lynx was thrust out of the tunnel that the hare had made only
a moment before. His big gray body had scarcely pushed itself into
sight when the shadows stirred farther down the fringe of evergreen;
another and another lynx glided out; and I caught my breath as five of
the savage creatures swept across the narrow arm of the barren, each
with his head thrust out, his fierce eyes piercing the gloom ahead
like golden lances, and holding his place in the stately, appalling
line of fierceness and power as silent as the shadow of death. My
nerves tingled at the thought of what would happen to Moktaques when
one of the line should discover and jump him. Indeed, having no rifle,
I was glad enough myself to sit very still and let the savage
creatures go by without finding me.
The middle lynx, a fierce old female, was following the hare's trail;
and in a moment it flashed across me who she was and what they were
all doing. Here, at last, was the secret of the lynx bands that one
sometimes finds in the winter woods, and that occasionally threaten or
appall one with a ferocity that the individual animals never manifest.
For Upweekis, though big and fierce, is at heart a slinking, cowardly,
treacherous creature--like all cats--and so loves best to be alone.
Knowing that the rest of his tribe are like himself, he suspects them
all and is fearful that in any division of common spoils somebody else
would get the lion's share. And so I have never found among the cats
any trace of the well-defined regulations that seem to prevail among
nearly all other animals.
In winter, however, it is different. Then necessity compels Upweekis
to lay aside some of his feline selfishness and hunt in savage bands.
Every seven years, especially, when rabbits are scarce in the woods
because of the sickness that kills them off periodically, you may
stumble upon one of these pirate crews haunting the deer yards or
following after the caribou herds; but until the ferocious line swept
out of the purple shadows under my very eyes I had no idea that these
bands are--almost invariably, as I have since learned--family parties
that hold together through the winter, just as fawns follow the old
doe until the spring comes, in order that her wisdom may find them
food, and her superior strength break a way for them when snows are
deep and enemies are hard at heel.
The big lynx in the middle was the mother; the four other lynxes were
her cubs; and they held together now, partly that their imperfect
education might be finished under her own eyes, but chiefly that in
the hungry winter days they might combine their powers and hunt more
systematically, and pull down, if need be, the larger animals that
might defy them individually.
As she crossed the fresh trail of the bull moose the old mother lynx
thrust her big head into it for a long sniff. The line closed up
instantly and each lynx stood like a statue, his blunt nose down into
a reeking hoof mark, studying through dull senses what it was that had
just passed. The old lynx swung her head up and down the line of her
motionless cubs; then with a ferocious snarl curling under her
whiskers she pushed forward again. A score of starving lynxes all
together would scarcely follow a bull of that stride and power. Only
the smell of blood would drag them unwillingly along such a trail; and
even then, if they overtook the author of it, they would only squat
around him in a fierce solemn circle, yawning hungrily and hoping he
would die. Now, somewhere just ahead, easier game was hiding. An
unvoiced command seemed to run up and down the line of waiting cubs.
Each thrust his head out at the same instant and the silent march went
on.
When the last of the line had glided out of sight among the bushes of
the point below, I ran swiftly through the woods, making no noise in
the soft snow, and crouched motionless under the spruces on the lower
side of the point, hoping to see the cunning hunters again. There was
but a moment to wait. From under a bending evergreen tip Moktaques
leaped out and went flying across the open for the next wooded point.
Close behind him sounded a snarl, and with a terrific rush as she
sighted the game the old lynx burst out, calling savagely to her line
of hunters to close in. Like the blast of a squall they came,
stretching out in enormous bounds and closing in from either end so as
to cut off the circling run of the flying game. In a flash the two
ends of the line had met and whirled in sharply; in another flash
Moktaques was crouching close in the snow in the center of a fierce
circle that rolled in upon him like a whirlwind. As the smallest lynx
leaped for his game an electric shock seemed to touch the motionless
hare. He shot forward as if galvanized, leaping high over the
crouching terror before him, striving to break out of the terrible
circle. Then the lynx over whose head he passed leaped straight up,
caught the flying creature fairly in his great paws, fell over
backwards, and was covered in an instant by the other lynxes that
hurled themselves upon him like furies, snapping and clawing
ferociously at the mouthful which he had pulled down at the very
moment of its escape.
There was an appalling scrimmage for a moment; then, before I could
fairly rub my eyes, the hare had vanished utterly, and a savage ring
of lynxes were licking their chops hungrily, glaring and growling at
each other to see which it was that had gotten the biggest mouthful.
When they disappeared at last, slinking away in a long line under the
edge of the barren, I took up the back track to see how they had been
hunting. For a full mile, straight back toward my camp, I followed the
tracks and read the record of as keen a bit of bush beating as was
ever seen in the woods. They had swept along all that distance in an
almost perfect line, starting every living thing that lay athwart
their path. Here it was a ruffed grouse that one had jumped for and
missed, as the startled bird whirred away into the gloom. There one
had climbed a tree and shaken something off into the snow, where the
others licked up every morsel so clean that I could not tell what the
unfortunate creature was; but a curious bit of savage daring was
manifest, for the lynx that had gone up the tree after the game had
hurled himself down like a catapult, leaving a huge hole in the snow,
so as to be in at the death before his savage fellows, which had come
flying in with great bounds, should have eaten everything and left not
even a smell for his own share. And there, at last, at the very end of
the line, another hare had been started and, running in a short
circle, as hares often do, had been met and seized by the fourth lynx
as the long line swung in swiftly to head him off.
Years later, and miles away on the Renous barrens, I saw another and
more wonderful bit of the same keen hunting. From a ridge above a
small barren I saw a herd of caribou acting strangely and went down to
investigate. As I reached the fringe of thick bushes that lined the
open I saw the caribou cluster excitedly about the base of a big rock
across the barren, not more than two hundred yards away. Something was
there, evidently, which excited their curiosity,--and caribou are the
most inquisitive creatures, at times, in all the woods,--but I had to
study the rock sharply through my field-glasses before I made out the
round fierce head of a big lynx pressed flat against the gray stone.
One side of the rock was almost perpendicular, rising sheer some
fifteen or twenty feet above the plain; the other side slanted off
less abruptly toward the woods; and the big lynx, which had probably
scrambled up from the woods to spy on the caribou, was now hanging
half over the edge of rock, swaying his savage head from side to side
and stretching one wide paw after another at the animals beneath.
The caribou were getting more excited and curious every moment.
Caribou are like turkeys; when they see some new thing they must die
or find out about it. Now they were spreading and closing their ranks,
wavering back and forth, stretching ears and noses at the queer thing
on the rock, but drawing nearer and nearer with every change.
Suddenly the lynx jumped, not at the caribou, for they were still too
far away, but high in the air with paws outspread. He came down in a
flurry of snow, whirled round and round as if bewitched, then vanished
silently in two great jumps into the shelter of the nearest
evergreens.
The caribou broke wildly at the strange sight, but turned after a
startled bound or two to see what it was that had frightened them.
There was nothing in sight, and like a flock of foolish sheep they
came timidly back, nosing the snow and stretching their ears at the
rock again; for there at the top was the big lynx, swinging his round
head from side to side as before, and reaching his paws alternately
at the herd, as if to show them how broad and fine they were.
Slowly the little herd neared the rock and the lynx drew back, as if
to lure them on. They were full of burning curiosity, but they had
seen one spring, at least, and measured its power, and so kept at a
respectful distance. Then one young caribou left the others and went
nosing along the edge of the woods to find the trail of the queer
thing, or get to leeward of the rock, and so find out by smell--which
is the only sure sense that a caribou possesses--what it was all
about. A wind seemed to stir a dried tuft of grass on the summit of
the great rock. I put my glasses upon it instantly, then caught my
breath in suppressed excitement as I made out the tufted ears of two
or three other lynxes crouching flat on their high tower, out of sight
of the foolish herd, but watching every movement with fierce, yellow,
unblinking eyes.
The young caribou found the trail, put his nose down into it, then
started cautiously back toward the rock to nose the other hole in the
snow and be sure that it smelled just like the first one. Up on the
rock the big lynx drew further back; the herd pressed close, raising
their heads high to see what he was doing; and the young caribou stole
up and put his nose down into the trail again. Then three living
catapults shot over the high rim of the rock and fell upon him. Like a
flash the big lynx was on his feet, drawing himself up to his full
height and hurling a savage screech of exultation after the flying
herd. Then he, too, shot over the rock, fell fair on the neck of the
struggling young caribou, and bore him down into the snow.
[Illustration: "Then he, too, shot over the rock"]
Upweekis is a stupid fellow. He will poke his big head into a wire
noose as foolishly as any rabbit, and then he will fight savagely with
the pole at the other end of the noose until he chokes himself. But no
one could follow that wonderful trail in the snow, or sit with
tingling nerves under the spruces watching that wild bit of fox-play,
without a growing respect for the shadowy creature of the big round
tracks that wander, wander everywhere through the winter woods, and
without wondering intensely in what kind of savage school Mother
Upweekis trains her little ones.