A PECULIAR PREDICAMENT.
“Sha’n’t I speak to him?” asked Billy Stark, as he watched the peculiar
action, or rather non-action, of Goodman Bitlock, who remained
perfectly motionless.
The Woodranger silenced the young speaker with a motion of the hand,
while he said, in a low tone:
“There be nothing without reason, and there be reason for that silence.
Do you not see under the maple that leetle varmint o’ a skunk? Can it
be possible the simpleton has been treed by a skunk? Maybe it is not
harder to believe than that a man could be drove into ambushment by a
porcupine. Sich I have known.”
Now that the forester had called their attention in that direction, the
boys saw an animal of the unpopular family named by their companion.
It was sitting quietly on its haunches, looking up into the tree with
an air of triumph at having run its big game to earth, or rather into
air. But before either of the boys could express their surprise at the
situation, the Woodranger made another and more startling discovery.
“Look in the pines on the right, lads. D’you see them dark balls curled
up in the crotch? They are what keeps our man so still. They be a
couple o’ wolverines, and, seeing they be tough leetle customers to
handle sometimes, it looks so we had a lively leetle amazement ahead.
Hi!”
The single exclamation was called from the Woodranger by a sudden
commotion in both maple and pine. Zack Bitlock, either becoming too
tired of remaining in his cramped position longer without moving, or
else alarmed at some threatening movement of his enemies, shifted
himself slightly higher.
He had barely done so before two short screams came from the pine,
and a pair of lissom forms shot out toward the frightened man, who
uttered a wild yell of terror, and pitched head first into the water.
The forester’s ever handy rifle was brought to his shoulder, and its
ringing report rang out as the twin creatures were midway in their
flight. The next moment Rob Rogers fired, but whether his bullet
hit its mark or not, or whether he had shot at the same animal the
Woodranger had, one of the wolverines suddenly plunged downward, while
the other reached the maple.
It was the turn of Norman and the Stark boys now, and simultaneously
they fired at the snarling brute in the tree, which, with an angry
growl, dropped headlong into the pond. But the creatures seemed to die
hard. The first had struck almost on top of the struggling man, and
instantly attacked him, with snarls and growls of rage.
Zack Bitlock shrieked for help, while he strove to beat off his
ferocious assailant. The second, with a willingness to succour its mate
really creditable, went to its assistance, and between the two the
situation of the half-drowned man was getting to be serious.
Rob began to reload his weapon with all haste possible. Norman shifted
his gun, so as to club off the angry brutes, while Johnny Stark
proposed to carry “war into camp” by jumping into the water, that he
might mingle in the fight.
With a few swift, silent movements of the paddle the Woodranger sent
the canoe alongside the struggling combatants, churning the water into
foam with their desperate endeavours. Drawing the long, keen knife he
always carried, the forester quickly buried its blade to the handle in
the nearest wolverine. But before he could reach the other it retreated
out of harm’s way. Then, as if determined on a last furious resort, _it
charged on the canoe_!
The Woodranger thus found it necessary to turn his efforts toward
keeping the frail craft right side up. Johnny Stark hit the wolverine
a tremendous blow over the head, just as its claws grasped the rim of
the canoe, and Norman next dealt it such a whack that it fell back into
the water. As if possessed of a charmed life, it still offered battle,
but it finally retreated, swimming rapidly toward a little headland
projecting into the pond a dozen yards below.
“It’s going to get away!” cried Johnny, and he would have followed it
into the water had not the hand of the Woodranger held him back.
“Let the varmint go, lad! You can do no good, and you may get a scratch
you’ll remember. Let the pesky leetle varmint go.”
But the plucky wolverine was not destined to escape. As it crawled upon
the rocky shore, Rob Rogers had his rifle to his shoulder, and, with a
good aim, he sent a bullet into its brain. Springing high into the air,
with an angry snarl, the doomed creature fell upon the rocks.
“Well done, Robby!” said the Woodranger. “That fixes him. On the
whole I’m glad the creatur’ weren’t allowed to get away. O’ all the
four-footed denizens o’ the wilderness I set the wolverine down as the
meanest. It’s a sort o’ cross between the bear and the weasel, having
all the vices and cunning o’ both, with their good qualities left out,
and the temper o’ the wolf added. It shows its ugliness in its looks,
its only claim to beauty being its bushy tail, which it seems to have
got from the wolf. Its savageness is only equalled by its cunning. It
is not as clumsy as a bear, and it can climb trees almost as well as a
wildcat. It is nothing unusual for one to lie on some perch overhead,
and wait for something to come along for it to pounce on to and devour.
It don’t hesitate to take man for its victim, and I tell you, with its
long, sharp claws and teeth, it’s no frolic to have it clinging to your
back, as I have found more’n once. But Goodman Bitlock has crawled out
o’ the water, and we must see what we can do for him.”
As the water was not over four feet deep where he had fallen into the
pond, Zack Bitlock had easily reached the shore, the moment he had
managed to get clear from the wolverines. The water was dripping from
his clothes, and as he stood there, trembling from fright and the
chilling effects of his impromptu bath, he presented a most ludicrous
figure.
“Is thet ye, Ranger?” he asked between his chattering teeth, as the
forester brought the canoe close to the shore. “I’m mighty glad to see
ye.”
“What sort o’ an amazement was you up to?” asked the other. “Looked so
you were handsomely treed.”
“Wuss’n thet, Ranger! I was clean, teetotally cornered. I was jes’
beginning to wonder how I was goin’ to git out, when ye hove in sight.”
“How did it happen?”
“It didn’t happen, Ranger; it jes’ did. Ye see I was comin’ down
through th’ woods a-harkin’ fer a deer, when all ter-wunst one o’ th’
gol-dangest, meanest lookin’ skunks you ever seed slid under my feet!
Mebbe I didn’t holler, knowin’ whut th’ pesky creetur’s air liable to
do. When I’d got over my holler I ups ol’ Ginger――they say guns do
better ef ye name ’em, so I chucked on mine th’ bes’ I could think of,
an’ th’ most ’propriate. Wull, I let ol’ Ginger flop. Thet is I gin
him a chaince, but he didn’t flip a yip! He didn’t so much as wink.
Seein’ then th’ skunk wus purty lively, I shinned the nearest tree in
double-quick time. Then I s’posed the tarnal warmint would git erway,
but it sort o’ set up guard duty like right under thet tree, an’ th’
Lord only knowed when it’d git off. So I begun to holler like blazes.
When I had fetched erbout my third whoop, I heerd a move in thet pine,
an’ I looked thet way, an’ saw thet pair o’ wolverines, which I s’pose
had been thar all th’ time waitin’ fer me. I see thet my hollerin’ wuz
goin’ to make ’em take me at short notice, so I shet my mouth an’ kept
as still as I could fer th’ tree shakin’. But, Lord Harry! I don’t know
how I sh’u’d kem out ef ye hadn’t kem erlong.”
“Where’s your gun, Bitlock?”
“Where I drapped yit when I clumb the tree. Didn’t expect me to climb
a tree with a gun in my fist, did ye?”
“Well, I see the leetle varmint that driv you to roost has left in a
hurry, so get your weapon and come with us, if you want to.”
“I sh’u’d be most s’prisin’ happy to do so, Ranger, but ye see ’twon’t
do fer me to git inter thet canoo in my wet clothes. I sh’u’d git my
sartin death o’ cold. No, Ranger, I must keep on my feet till I git th’
circulation to movin’. Much obleeged, though.”
“Just as you say, Bitlock. We expect to camp down by the Devil’s Den
to-night, and you can follow the shore to the place if you want to.”
“Mebbe I will; I’ll see. I’m jes’ on aidge to bark a deer.”
Seeing they could not help him any further, the Woodranger turned the
canoe again toward the north and sent it flying over the pond, leaving
Bitlock still standing on the shore wringing the water from his clothes.