"You don't know of anybody hereabouts that wants to hire a good hand, I
s'pose?" asked a stranger one August afternoon, as, without unslinging
his pack, he set his gun against the log wall beside the door, and
leaned upon his axe at the threshold.
By degrees Seth Beeman had enlarged his clearing so far that he already
needed stronger hands than Nathan's to help him in the care of the land
already in tilth and in the further extension of his betterments, but he
scanned the man closely before he answered. Though unprepossessing,
low-browed, and surly looking, he was evidently a stout fellow, and
accustomed to work. At length a reply was made by asking such questions
as were a matter of course in those days, and are not yet quite obsolete
in Yankeeland.
The stranger readily said his name was Silas Toombs, that he was from
Jersey way, and wished, when he had earned enough, to take up a right of
land hereabouts, in a region he had often heard extolled by his father,
who had served here in Captain Bergen's company of Rogers's Rangers.
Seth had previously ascertained that no grown-up son of any of his
neighbors could be spared to help him, so he finally hired this man, who
proved to be efficient and faithful, although not a genial companion,
such as an old-time farmer wished to find in his hired help. Ruth
treated him with the kindness so natural to her, though she could
scarcely conceal her aversion. This, if he understood, he did not seem
to notice any more than he did the undisguised dislike of Nathan.
The remainder of the summer and half of the fall passed uneventfully,
till one day, when Ruth had been called to the bedside of Mrs. Newton,
who was ill of the fever so prevalent in new clearings, Nathan and his
sister were left in charge of the house, while their father and hired
man worked in a distant field.
The children spent half the pleasant forenoon in alternate rounds of
housework and out-door play, now sweeping the floor with hemlock brooms,
now running out into the hazy October sunshine to play "Indians" with
Nathan's bow and arrows and Martha's rag doll. This was stolen and
carried into captivity, from which it was rescued by its heroic little
mother. Then they threw off their assumed characters and ran into the
house to replenish the smouldering fire, and to find that the sunshine,
falling upon the floor through the window, was creeping towards the
"noon mark," making it time to begin dinner.
Nathan raised the heavy trap-door to the cellar and descended the
ladder, with butcher knife and pewter plate, to get the pork, but had
barely got the cover off the barrel when he was recalled to the upper
world by a loud cry from his sister:
"Nathan, Nathan, come here quick!"
He scrambled up the ladder and ran to her, where, just outside the door,
she was staring intently toward the creek.
"Who be them?" she asked anxiously, as she pointed at two figures just
disclosed above the rushes, as they moved swiftly up the narrow channel
in an unseen craft.
"I guess they're Injins," said Nathan, after a moment's scrutiny, "and I
guess they're a-trappin' mushrat. Let's run over to the bank and see."
So they ran to the crown of the low bank, where they could command a
good view of the rushy level of the marsh, and the narrow belt of clear
water that wound through it, reflecting the hazy blue of the sky, the
tops of the scarlet water maples, the bronze and yellow weeds, and, here
and there, the rough dome of a newly built muskrat house. At each of
these the two men, now revealed in a birch canoe, halted for a little
space, and then, tying a knot in the nearest tuft of sedge, passed on to
the next. There was no mistaking the coppery hue of the faces, the
straight black hair, though men of another race might wear the dirty,
white blanket coats, and as skilfully manage the light craft.
"Yes, they be Injins," said Nathan, "and I wish they'd let my mushrat
alone. But I s'pose there's enough for them and me."
Presently the Indians passed quite near them, and one, speaking so
softly that the children thought his voice could never have sounded the
terrible war-whoop, accosted them:
"How do? You Beenum boy?"
"Yes," Nathan answered; and then, obeying the Yankee instinct of
inquiry, asked: "Be you gettin' many mushrat?"
"No ketch um plenty," the Indian replied. "Ol' Capenteese ketch um mos'
all moosquas," and Nathan understood that he attributed the scarcity of
muskrats to Job, whose fame as a hunter and trapper was known to every
Waubanakee who visited this part of the lake.
"Me come back pooty soon," the Indian said, pointing up the creek with
his paddle. "Den go house, see um Beenum. Buy um some pig eese.[1]
S'pose he sell um lee'l bit?"
[1] Pork
Nathan nodded a doubtful assent, and then, reminded of dinner-getting by
the mention of pork, caught Martha's hand and hurried homeward, while
the Indians resumed their way upstream.
When the children entered the open door, they were for a moment dumb
with amazement at the confusion that had in so short a time usurped the
tidiness whereof they had left the room possessed. The coverlets and
blankets of one bed were dragged from their place, two or three chairs
were overturned, and the meal barrel was upset and half its contents
strewn across the floor.
"What in tunket," cried Nathan, when speech came to his gaping mouth.
"Has that old sow got outen the pen?" Then he saw in the scattered meal
some broad tracks that a former adventure had made him familiar with,
and he heard a sound of something moving about in the cellar.
"It's a bear," he cried, "and he's down cellar."
As quick as the thought and words, he sprang to the open hatch, and
heaved it upright on the hinges, to close it. But just as it hung in
midway poise, the bear, alarmed by the noise overhead, gave a startled
"whoof," and came scrambling up the ladder. His tawny muzzle was above
the floor, when Nathan, with desperate strength, slammed down the hatch,
and its edge caught the bear fairly on the neck, pressing his throat
against the edge of the hatchway. The trap door had scarcely fallen when
the quick-witted boy mounted it and called to his frightened sister to
mount beside him, and with their united weight, slight as it was, they
kept him from forcing his way upward, till in his frantic struggles he
dislodged the ladder and hung by the neck helpless, without foothold.
The children held bravely to their post, hand in hand, while to the
gasping moans of the angry brute succeeded cries of anger, that were in
turn succeeded by silence and loss of all visible motion but such as was
imparted to the head by the huge body still slowly vibrating from the
final struggle. When this had quite ceased they ventured off the trap
door, and, pale and panting, they stood before the ghastly head as
frightful now in death, with grinning, foam-flecked jaws, protruding
tongue, and staring, bloodshot eyes, as it had been in living rage.
Nathan caught his sister in his arms and hugged her, shouting:
"We've killed him. We've killed a bear," while she, in the same breath,
laughed and cried, till they both bethought themselves of the
dinner-getting not yet begun.
"I can't get down cellar," said Nathan, "for I dasn't open that door.
What be we goin' to do?"
A grunt of surprise caught his attention, and, looking up, he saw the
two Indians at the door, staring with puzzled faces on the strange
scene. Then one, with a hatchet half uplifted, cautiously approached the
grim head, which, after an instant's scrutiny, he touched with his
hatchet and then with his finger.
"He dead. You boy do dat?" And Nathan told him all the adventure. The
Indian gave the boy an approving pat on the head that made Nathan's
scalp shiver.
"You big Nad-yal-we-no. Too much good for be Pastoniac. You come 'long
me to Yam-as-ka, I make you Waubanakee. Den be good for sometings.
Nawaa," he said to his companion, and the other coming in, the two
reached down and laid hold of the bear's forelegs, and when, by their
instructions, Nathan lifted the door, they dragged the limp, shaggy
carcass out upon the floor.
When the full proportions of the huge brute were revealed, the boy's
rejoicings broke forth anew, just as his father and the hired man came
hurrying in, when he received fresh praise for his deed. The dinner was
bounteous, if late, and the Indians, Toksoose and Tahmont, had their
full share of it, with a big chunk of pork and as much bear's meat as
they cared to take, which was small, since they liked better the
daintier meat of the musquash, wherewith their trapping afforded them an
ample supply.
When toward nightfall the mother returned, she was told the story by the
victors, and with equal delight was it rehearsed when Job happened to
come, and the unstinted praise of the old hunter was sweetest of all.
Many a day was the tale rehearsed for the benefit of new listeners. Even
when Nathan was an old man, and looked back on the many adventures of
his life, not one stood forth so clearly in the haze of the past as this
adventure with the bear, wherein he had borne the chief part.