AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
Mount Pawtuckaway is the highest of three mountain peaks. Rearing its
serried heights nearly a thousand feet above sea level, this rocky
range is about as rugged a place as can be found in New England. At
that time it was covered, wherever there was earth enough upon the
rocks to support a shrub of any kind, by a forest of stunted pines,
hemlocks, spruces, and cedars. But at frequent intervals the naked
head of some granite cliff raised its gray crown into plain sight.
Surrounding the heights at their base were forests of pines, divided at
certain angles and corners by patches of white beeches, black maples,
or walnuts. In the distance a silvery disc, glimmering above the
tree-tops, marked the shores of a sheet of water.
The boys were tired, but they took hold with a hearty good-will to
assist the Woodranger in preparing the evening meal, for they were
hungry as well as weary. Generous portions of the venison had been
reserved, and as soon as a fire had been kindled the forester was
roasting goodly slices to an appetising brown.
At that season of the year evening comes on quickly after sunset, and
as the five finished their camp meal, the last rays of daylight had
faded from the mountain crags.
“You said, Woodranger,” ventured Rob, during a lull in the conversation,
“that there was a story connected with the naming of this mountain
Pawtuckaway. We should like to hear it.”
“There _is_ an Indian legend, lad, which pretends to explain why it is
called by the name you give, which means the place o’ the big buck. I
don’t mind telling the tale, though mebbe it be but a bit o’ fancy work
cleverly wrought by the red man’s cunning. The reds _did_ have a knack
o’ weaving pretty consaits together, the better than the white man,
perhaps, because he lived nearer to natur’.
“’Cording to the traditions o’ the red man, this locality has always
been a favourite stamping-ground for the brown deer. Among the many
which lived hereabouts was a buck, bigger, fleeter o’ foot, and more
cunning than any o’ his kind. So wide did his fame become that hunters
came from afar to trail him down. But he had the knack o’ outwitting
his pursuers, none of whom were able to track him arter he had reached
the side o’ this mountain. So the simple red man kem to believe this
buck possessed a charmed life.
“’Mong the others that come and hunted in vain the cunning creatur’
was the Pennacook brave, Kinkinnasett, the warrior o’ the flying foot.
He vowed by the stars that he’d run down the big buck or ne’er follow
the trail ag’in. There was a girl mixed up in the ’fair, too, for
Kinkinnasett loved an Indian maid, who was also beloved by another. But
with sich coyness had she shown her favours that both warriors were
hopeful. At last, to settle a matter that was beginning to stir bad
blood, the maid said she would marry the one who would bring her the
antlers o’ this buck. Kinkinnasett and his rival at once set forth on a
hunt which later became a legend among the red men, the bold and fiery
relating it while the more timid held their breath. It was told to me
by an old chief in a low tone, while he kept the camp-fire burning its
brightest, for one and all believed that the foolish braves had angered
the Great Spirit by their action.
“Kinkinnasett, so the story runs, was the one to start the big buck
from its favourite haunt just below here. It was then about midday, and
he at once gave chase. It was such a chase as Kinkinnasett had ne’er
known, as no living red man had e’er taken. He had failed three times,
with fair range, to bring down the buck with his far-flying arrows,
and now he tried all the artifices known to him to entrap the wary
creatur’. When he had given it chase for awhile, he paused to see if
the hunted buck would stop to look back.
“Unlike the brown deer, many o’ which he had run down ’twixt sun and
sun, the star-eyed buck did not stop,――did not look back! With his
head thrown back on his shoulders, and his broad antlers cutting a
path through the forest wherever he went, the very mountain resounding
with his terrible tread, he bounded on and on, Kinkinnasett following
as best he could. Once completely around the mountain did he pursue
the buck, and, though he boasted o’ the flying foot, he ne’er got any
nearer the fugitive.
“From a high perch the rival Pennacook, Sagawa, the Fox, looked down
on the failure o’ his brother brave, and he resolved, notwithstanding
that he, by doing it, broke the true code o’ hunters, to bring down the
buck with the charmed life, or prove that it could not be done. Unknown
to any one, he had that morning dipped his arrow in the oil o’ the
witch-hazel, and under sich incantations as to ensure it the power to
pierce the spell that might be thrown o’er a common shaft.
“Seeing the buck finally coming near him, he poised his stout bow that
was fitted with the arrow of cur’us power. The flying creatur’ was just
below him, when he sent the winged shaft on its deadly mission. Then
his joy knew no bounds, as he saw the star-eyed buck o’ the charmed
life actually fall on his knees!
“Sure now o’ his victim, if he could reach it before Kinkinnasett
should come along, he leaned out over the rock, holding on by a shrub,
so as to swing himself downward. Under his weight the bush parted from
its frail support, and he was sent headlong toward the rocks below, to
what seemed certain death. So thought Kinkinnasett, who had got near
enough to see the accident to his rival. To his surprise, the warrior
struck on the back of the crippled buck. Then, instead o’ throwing off
his burden, the wounded animal sprang upon its feet and bounded away,
with Sagawa clinging to it!
“Not one whit slower did the buck flee, so Kinkinnasett was still
obliged to do his utmost to keep in sight o’ the wildest flight he had
e’er seen.
“After going half-way around the mountain ag’in, and seeing that there
was a chance to cut off the fleeing buck, Kinkinnasett climbed a spur
o’ rock, and let himself down right in the pathway o’ the creatur’.
It was a critical p’int, where a gulf o’ a hundred feet opened at his
feet, and, on the other hand, a sheer wall o’ granite reached upward
from a rocky shelf not more’n a gun-rod wide. Sure o’ his game now,
Kinkinnasett raised his bow for his last shot. Then the heels o’ the
buck rattled around his head, and he was flung back upon the narrow
shelf o’ rock, while the desperate animal, with Sagawa still on its
back, leaped o’er the brink into the depths below! A terrific noise
followed, and, with the sound of rushing water ringing in his ears,
Kinkinnasett was left in darkness.
“A party o’ Pennacooks, in search o’ the missing warriors, found
Kinkinnasett the next day, where the heels o’ the star-eyed buck
had sent him. It was seen that he must soon depart to the happy
hunting-grounds, but he lived long enough to tell them o’ the fate o’
Sagawa and the strange buck. In the gorge, which had been dry before,
a tempest o’ boiling water was raging, the only evidence ever found
o’ Sagawa and the star-eyed buck. The reds have always believed that
the pond is bottomless and that it would be death to the warrior who
should be bold enough to go near it. So the tale ends in a tragedy, as
most Indian tales do. It is natural they should, for their lives were
tragedies in themselves.”
“I have been to the pond,” said Rob, “and an ugly place it is. A
quaking bog encircles it, so one cannot very well get to the water. The
first time I was there it was still enough, but the next it was boiling
and tossing just as if there was a big fire under it.”
“Ah, lad,” said the Woodranger, “it is a onnatural spot, and I have no
hankering to hang around it.”
“But I should like to have seen the star-eyed buck,” said Johnny. “Do
you suppose it was bigger than a moose, Woodranger?”
“Scurcely, lad, scurcely. I opine the reds exaggerated in their
descriptions. It was but human natur’ for ’em to do it.”
“Don’t you suppose we could find a moose, Woodranger?”
“We can find one pretty soon if we want to,” replied the forester. “I
have heerd the call o’ a bull moose twice sence I was telling that
Indian tale. It was fur away, but it is coming nearer.”
“Then we can see one! Can’t we stalk it, Woodranger?”
Billy Stark asked this question, but he was scarcely more excited than
his young companions.
“Nay, nay, lads! Calm yourselves. Stalking moose is dangerous bizness
for youngsters, and I may be committing a sinful indiscretion in
permitting it. You must promise me you will keep by me and do just as I
say.”
“We promise that, Woodranger. Lead the way!”
“Hush, lads! it may not be the old fellow’s whim to come any nearer,
though it be a fine night for creeping. List, lads!”
In answer to the Woodranger’s request, the boys instantly became
perfectly still, though their hearts beat with unwonted quickness, as
they listened and waited. A perfect silence lay on the scene around
them. After five minutes of this breathless stillness, when a strange
feeling of oppression bound one and all, the dull, heavy cry of an owl
came from the beech. It was actually a relief to hear it. Then, from
far away, was borne faintly to their ears the plaintive, prolonged howl
of a restless wolf. This was answered from another direction, soon
succeeded by the scream of a wildcat not far distant. Again the uneasy
owl broke forth with his glum _tu whoot, tu whoot_!
These outcries, of nightly occurrence, had died away, and silence once
more reigned, when a wild, peculiar sound filled the forest, ending
more abruptly than it had begun, as if the creature giving it utterance
had been suddenly checked in the midst of its cry. It seemed a sort of
cross between a grunt and a roar, with a harsh, grating sound at the
end. Appearing to open from a far distance, it ended apparently near at
hand.