THE WOODRANGER AND THE DEER REEVE.
So sudden and strange was the leap to death of the hunted deer, that
Norman McNiel stood for a moment stupefied by a sense of horror at
the strange sight. The hound, a magnificent animal, as if sharing its
master’s feeling with an added shame for the part it had taken in the
matter, crept to his side, and sank silently upon the rock at his feet.
“He escaped you, Archer,” said the young master, patting the dog on its
head, “and me, too, for that matter. But I cannot see that either was
to blame. The poor creature met his fate bravely.”
Then, to satisfy himself that the deer was really killed, he approached
to the extremity of the cliff, and peered into the depths below. He
discovered, at his first glance, the mutilated form of the creature.
There could be no doubt of its death. The sound of footsteps at that
instant arrested his attention. Looking from the shapeless body of
the deer, he saw two men pushing their way through the dense growth
skirting the bit of clearing at the foot of the ledge.
The foremost of the newcomers was an entire stranger to him, though he
guessed that he belonged to the Tyng colonists, who had settled below
the falls. He wore a suit of clothes made from the coarse homespun
cloth so common among the Massachusetts men, and his firearm was of the
English pattern usually carried by them. He was not much, if any, over
thirty years of age, with a countenance robbed of its slight share of
good looks by a stubble of reddish beard.
His companion, whom Norman remembered as having seen once or twice the
previous season, was several years the senior of the other, and of
altogether different appearance. He was clad in a well-worn suit of
buckskin, the frills on the leggins badly frayed from long contact with
the briars and brushwood of the forest. His feet were encased in a pair
of Indian moccasins, while he wore on his head a cap of fox skin, with
the tail of the animal hanging down to the back of his neck. Though
bronzed by long exposure to the summer sun and winter wind, scarred by
wounds, and rendered shaggy by its untrimmed beard, his face bore that
stamp of frank, honest simplicity which was sure to win for the man
the respect and confidence of those he met. The silver streaks in the
hair falling in profusion about his neck told that he was passing the
prime of life. Still there was great strength in the long, muscular
limbs, and, while he moved generally with a slow, shuffling gait, he
was capable of astonishing swiftness of movement whenever it was called
for.
He showed his natural instinct as a woodsman by the noiseless way in
which he emerged from the forest, in marked contrast to the slouching
steps of his companion. Stuck in his belt could be seen the handle of a
serviceable knife, while he carried a heavy, long-barrelled rifle of a
pattern unknown in this vicinity at that time. The weapon showed that
it had seen long and hard service.
Norman was about to speak to him, when the other exclaimed, in the tone
of one announcing an important discovery:
“Look there, Woodranger! if you want to believe me. It’s the critter
that got the shot we heerd, and it’s a deer as I told ye. A shot out o’
season, too, mind ye, Woodranger. Ef I could clap my eyes on the fool
he’d walk to Chelmsford with me to-morrer, or I ain’t deer reeve o’
this grant o’ Tyng Township, honourably and discreetly ’p’inted by the
Gineral Court o’ the Province o’ Massachusetts.”
“It seems to me, Gunwad,” said his companion, speaking in a more
deliberate tone, as he advanced to the deer’s mutilated form, “that the
creetur must have taken a powerful tumble over the rock hyur. I reckon
a jump off’n Rock Rimmon would be nigh ’bout enough to stop the breath
o’ most any deer.”
“What made the deer jump off’n the rock, Woodranger? It was thet air
dog at its heels! And ef there ain’t a hunk o’ lead in the critter
big ernough to send the man thet fired it to Chelmsford I’ll eat the
carcass, hoofs, horns, and, hide.”
With these words he bent over the still warm body of the deer, and
began a diligent search for some sign of the wound supposed to have
been made by the shot.
Woodranger dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground, and stood
leaning on its muzzle, while he watched with curious interest the
proceeding of his companion.
Gunwad’s search was not made in vain, for a minute later he held up
between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, which was reeking
with blood from its contact with the dead deer, the bullet he had hoped
to find.
“What do you think of it now?” he demanded, showing by his tone and
manner that he was highly pleased with his discovery. “What do ye call
thet?”
“I suppose it would require no great knowledge o’ warfare to pronounce
it a bullet,――leastways a pellet o’ lead fit for the weepon o’ a red.
It was never the bullet o’ a white man’s gun. But that does not enter
into the question. That bullet was not the death o’ this deer.”
“You’re talking at random now. Mebbe it didn’t kill the deer, but ef
the dog hadn’t driven the critter over the rock, thet lead would hev
fixed it for salting.”
“I’m not so sure o’ that, friend Gunwad. If you’ll look a leetle cluser
you’ll see that the bullet didn’t touch any vital. It sort o’ slewed
up’ards and side――”
“Much has thet got to do erbout it!” broke in Gunwad, beginning to show
anger. “I shall begin to think ye air consarned in the matter. Fust ye
say it wasn’t the bullit o’ a white man, and I should like to know what
cause ye hev for saying thet.”
“It was never run by any mould,” replied Woodranger, calmly, as he took
the bullet in his hand; “it was hammered out.”
“Say!” exclaimed Gunwad, suddenly changing the drift of the
conversation, “Ye’re a sharp one, Woodranger. They say ye’re the best
guide and Injun trailer in the two provinces. Help me fasten this
bizness on that Injun at the Falls, and I’ll gin ye the best pair o’
beaver skins ye ever sot eyes on for years.”
“You mean Christo,” said the other.
“I reckon he’s the only red left in these parts, and ’arly riddance to
him! Jess show thet is an Injun bullit, and I’ve settled his ’count,
sure’s one and one make two.”
“That savours too much o’ wanton killing, Gunwad. I ain’t no special
grudge ag’in this Christo, though it may be I have leetle fellowship
for the race. There be honest men, for all I can say, among the
dusky-skins, and Christo may be one o’ ’em. At any rate till I ketch
him in red devilryment I’m not going to condemn him. Ah, Gunwad, I ’low
I live by the chase, and if I do say it, who has no designment to boast
o’ the simple knack o’ drawing bead on wildcat or painter, bear or
stag, Old Danger never barks at the same creetur but once; but he never
spits fire in the face o’ any creetur that can’t do more good by dying
than living.”
“Look here, Woodranger!” exclaimed Gunwad, impatiently, “I can see
through yer logic. Ye air ag’in this law o’ protecting deer.”
“I’m ag’in the law that’s ag’in man. ’Tain’t natur to fill the woods
with game, and then blaze the trees with notices not to tech a creetur.
Mind you, I’m ag’in wanton killing, and him don’t live as can say I
ever drew bead on a deer out o’ pure malice. I have noticed that it’s
the same chaps as makes these laws as are the ones to resort to wanton
destruction. To kill jess for the fun o’ killing is wanton. It is the
great law o’ natur for one kind to war on another, the strong on the
weak, from the biggest brute to the smallest worm, and man wars on ’em
all. If he must do so, let there be as much fairness as is consistent
with human natur. No, I’m not a liker o’ the law that professes to
defend the helpless, but does it so the wanton slayer can get his glut
o’ slaughter in a fall’s hunt. I――”
The Woodranger might have continued his rude philosophy much longer had
not a movement of the hound on the cliff attracted their attention, and
both men glanced upward to see, with surprise, Norman McNiel looking
quietly down upon them.
“Hilloa!” exclaimed Gunwad, divining the situation at once, “here is
the deer slayer, or I’m a fool. Stand where ye air, youngster!” raising
his gun to his shoulder, as he spoke.