THE FIRST SUPPER
The next thing Larry knew he was being roused by old Martin’s
vigorous shakes. Something cold was pressing against his cheek,--the
black muzzle of one of the malamoots. Martin and the big dog were
standing over him, the man laughing and the dog wagging his bushy
tail. It seemed to the boy that he had scarcely closed his eyes, but
when he had rubbed them open he knew that he must have been asleep
some little time, for many things seemed changed.
It was night now, and the stars were out. But inside the tent it was
warm and cozy, for before the open flap a cheerful fire was burning.
The odor of coffee reached his nostrils and he could hear the bacon
frying over the fire, and these things reminded him that he was
hungry again.
“Sit right up to the table and begin,” Martin said to him, pointing
to a row of cooking utensils and two tin plates on the ground in
front of the tent. “Every one for himself, and Old Nick take the
hindmost.”
No second invitation was necessary. In a moment he was bending over
a plate heaped with bacon and potatoes, while the big malamoots sat
watching him wistfully keeping an expectant eye on Martin as he
poured the coffee. Such potatoes, such bacon, and such coffee the
boy had never tasted. Even the soggy bread which Martin had improved
by frying in some bacon fat, seemed delicious. This being
shipwrecked was not so bad after all.
Old Martin, seated beside him and busy with his heaping plate seemed
to read his thoughts.
“Not such a bad place, is it?” he volunteered presently.
“Bad?” the boy echoed. “It’s about the best place I ever saw. Only
perhaps it will get lonesome if we have to wait long,” he added
thoughtfully.
“Wait?” repeated Martin, poising his fork in the air. “Wait for who
and for what, do you suppose, boy?”
“Well, aren’t we going to wait for some one to come for us?” the boy
inquired.
Old Martin emptied his plate, drank his third cup of coffee, and
threw a couple of sticks on the fire before answering.
“If we waited for some one to come for us,” he said presently and in
a very serious tone, “we’d be waiting here until all these
provisions that we landed to-day are gone. And there’s a good full
year’s supply for us two up there under the canvas. Did you suppose
we are going to _wait_ here?”
The boy looked thoughtful.
“But we can’t get the yacht off the rocks, and she’d sink if we did.
And anyhow you couldn’t sail her home. You told me only yesterday
that you didn’t know a yacht from a battleship, Martin.”
“I told you the truth, at that,” Martin chuckled. “But I’m something
of a navigator all the same. I can navigate a craft as well as poor
old Captain Roberts himself, only I use a different craft, and I
navigate her on land. And, what’s more to the point, I’ve got the
land to do it on, the craft, and the crew.” And Martin pointed
successively at the pile of supplies in the distance, the two dogs,
and Larry.
“I don’t understand at all what you mean,” the boy declared; “tell
me what you intend to do, Martin, won’t you?”
“Why, boy, if I started in to tell you now you’d be asleep before I
could get well into the story,” said the old hunter.
“No, I wouldn’t,” the boy protested. “I never was more wide awake in
my life. I feel as if I could do another day’s work right now.”
“That’s the meat and potatoes and coffee,” old Martin commented.
“It’s marvellous what fuel will do for a tired engine. Well, if you
can keep awake long enough I’ll tell you just what we are going to
do in the next few weeks--or months, maybe.
“Here we are stranded away up on the Labrador coast, at least two or
three hundred miles from the nearest settlement, perhaps even
farther than that. And the worst of it is that I haven’t the least
idea where that nearest settlement is. It may be on the coast,
somewhat nearer than I think; and then again it may be ’cross
country inland still farther away than I judge. What we’ve got to do
is to make up our minds where we think that settlement is, and find
it. And we’ve got to go to it by land and on foot.”
“On foot!” Larry cried in amazement. “Three or four hundred miles on
foot in the winter time in a strange country where nobody lives!”
“That’s the correct answer,” the hunter replied: “and we’re two of
the luckiest dogs in the world to have the _chance_ to do it in the
style we can. If we hadn’t been given the chance to save all that
plunder from the ship to-day we would be far better off to be in the
bottom of the ocean with Mr. Ware and the other poor fellows. But we
had the luck, and now we have a good even fighting chance to get
back home. But it means work--work and hardships, such as you never
dreamed of, boy. And yet we’ll do it, or I’ll hand in my commission
as a land pilot.
“Did you notice those cans of stuff that you were throwing ashore
to-day--did you notice anything peculiar about those cans?” Martin
asked, a moment later.
“E--er, no I didn’t,” Larry hesitated. “Unless it was that some of
the bigger ones seemed lighter than tin cans of stuff usually do.”
“That’s the correct answer again,” the old man nodded; “that’s the
whole thing. They _were_ lighter, for the very good reason that they
are not made of tin. They are aluminum cans. They cost like the very
sin, those cans do, many times more than tin, you know. But Mr. Ware
didn’t have to think about such a small thing as cost, and when he
planned this hunting trip, where every ounce that we would have to
haul by hand or with the dogs had to be considered, he made
everything just the lightest and best that money could get it made.
If there was a way of getting anything better, or more condensed,
whether it was food or outfit, he did it. And you and I will
probably owe our lives to this hobby of his, poor man.
“Among that stuff that we unloaded to-day there are special
condensed foods, guns, tents, and outfits, just made to take such a
forced tramping trip through the wilderness as we are to take. You
see Mr. Ware planned to go on a long hunt back into the interior of
this land, a thing that has never been done at this time of year to
my knowledge. And as no one knows just what the conditions are
there, he had his outfit made so that he could travel for weeks, and
carry everything that he needed along with him.
“So it’s up to us to take the things that Mr. Ware had made, and
which we are lucky enough to have saved, and get back to the land
where people live. In my day I have undertaken just as dangerous,
and probably difficult things in the heart of winter; only on those
trips I didn’t have any such complete equipment as we have here.
“Why, look at that sleeping bag, for example,” the old man
exclaimed, pointing to one of the bags lying in the tent. “My
sleeping outfit, when I hiked from upper Quebec clear to the shore
of old Hudson’s Bay in the winter, consisted of a blanket. Whenever
my fire got low at night I nearly froze. But mind you, I could lie
out of doors in one of these fur bags without a fire on the coldest
night, and be warm as a gopher. They are made of reindeer skin, fur
inside, and are lined with the skin of reindeer fawn. So there are
two layers of the warmest skin and fur known, between the man inside
and the cold outside. Those bags will be a blessing to us every
minute. For when we strike out across this country we don’t know
what kind of a land we may get into. We may find timber region all
the way, and if we do there will be no danger of our freezing. But
it’s more than likely that we shall strike barren country part of
the time where there will be no fire-wood; and then we will
appreciate these fur bags. For I don’t care how cold it gets or how
hard it blows, we can burrow down into the snow and crawl into the
bags, and always be sure of a warm place to sleep.
“Then again, the very luckiest thing for us was the saving of those
two dogs,” Martin continued. “If they had gone overboard with the
other twelve I should be feeling a good deal sadder to-night than I
am. For there is nothing to equal a malamoot dog for hauling loads
through this country in winter. Look at this fellow,” he said
indicating one of the big shaggy dogs curled up a few feet from the
tent, caring nothing for the biting cold. “There doesn’t seem to be
anything very remarkable about him, does there? And yet that fellow
can haul a heavier load on a sled, and haul it farther every day,
than I can. And his weight is less than half what mine is.
“The dogs that Mr. Ware had selected were all veteran sledge dogs,
and picked because they had proved their metal. So we’ll give this
fellow a load of two hundred and fifty pounds to haul. And he could
do better than that I know if he had to.”
The wind, which had died down a little at dusk, had gradually risen
and was now blowing hard again, and fine flakes of snow and sleet
hissed into the camp-fire. The rock which sheltered the tent
protected it from the main force of the blast, but Larry could hear
it lashing its way through the spruce trees with an ominous roar.
Martin rose and examined the fastenings of the tent, tightened a
rope here and there, and then returned to his seat on the blankets.
“We can’t start to-morrow if it storms like this,” Larry suggested
presently.
“Well, we can’t start to-morrow anyhow,” the old trapper answered.
“And we surely can’t start until there is more snow. How are we
going to haul a pair of toboggans over the snow if there is no snow
to be hauled over, I’d like to know? But there is no danger about
the lack of snow. There’ll be plenty of it by the time we are ready
to start.”
“And when will that be?” the boy asked.
“In about ten days, I think,” Martin answered, “----that is, if you
have learned to shoot a rifle, harness the dogs, pitch a camp, set
snares, walk on snow-shoes, and carry a pretty good-sized pack on
your back,” he added, looking at Larry out of the corner of his
eyes. “Did you ever shoot a rifle?”
“Sure I have,” the boy answered proudly; “and I hit the mark,
too--sometimes.”
“I suppose you shot a Flobert twenty-two, at a mark ten feet away,”
Martin commented with a little smile. “Well, all that helps. But on
this trip you are not going to hit the mark sometimes: it must be
every time. And the ‘mark’ will be something for the camp kettle to
keep the breath of life in us. I’ve been turning over in my mind
to-day the question of what kind of a gun you are going to tote on
this trip. We’ve got all kinds to select from up there under the
canvas, from elephant killers to squirrel poppers, for Mr. Ware did
love every kind of shooting iron. I’ve picked out yours, and
to-morrow you will begin learning to use it--learning to shoot quick
and straight--straight, every time. For we won’t have one bullet to
waste after we leave here.”
Larry fairly hugged himself. Think of having a rifle of his very
own, a real rifle that would kill things, with the probability of
having plenty of chances for using it! One of his fondest dreams was
coming true. The old hunter read his happiness in his face, and
without a word rose and left the tent. When he returned he carried
in his hand a little weapon which, in its leather case, seemed like
a toy about two feet long. Handing this to Larry he said, simply:
“Here’s your gun.”
The boy’s countenance fell. To be raised to the height of bliss and
expectation, and then be handed a pop-gun, was a cruel joke. Without
removing the gun from its case he tossed it contemptuously into the
blankets behind him.
“Mr. Ware killed a moose with it last winter,” the old hunter
commented, suspecting the cause of the boy’s disappointment. “And it
shoots as big a ball, and shoots just as hard as the gun I am going
to carry,” he added. “You’d better get acquainted with it.”
There was no doubting the old man’s sincerity now, and Larry picked
up the gun and examined it.
It was a curious little weapon, having two barrels placed one above
the other, and with a stock like a pistol. Attached to the
pistol-like handle was a skeleton stock made of aluminum rods, and
so arranged that it folded against the under side of the barrels
when not in use. The whole thing could be slipped into a leather
case not unlike the ordinary revolver holster, and carried with a
strap over the shoulder. When folded in this way it was only two
feet long, and had the appearance of the toy gun for which Larry had
mistaken it.
Yet it was anything but a toy. The two barrels were of different
calibre, the upper one being the ordinary .22, while the lower one,
as Martin had stated, was of large calibre and chambered for a
powerful cartridge.
The old hunter watched the boy eagerly examining the little gun,
opening it and squinting through the barrels, aiming it at imaginary
objects, and strutting about with it slung from his shoulder in the
pure joy that a red-blooded boy finds in the possession of a fire
arm. Then, when Larry’s excitement cooled a little, he took the gun,
and explained its fine points to his eager pupil.
“From this time on,” he began, “I want you to remember everything I
am going to tell you just as nearly as you can, not only about this
gun, but everything else. For you’ve got to cram a heap of knowledge
into your head in the next few days, and I haven’t time to say
things twice.
“This gun was made specially for Mr. Ware after his own design and
to fit his own idea. He wanted a gun that was as light as possible
and could be carried easily, and at the same time be adapted to all
kinds of game, big and little. This upper barrel, the smaller one
you see, shoots a cartridge that will kill anything up to the size
of a jack rabbit, and is as accurate a shooter as any gun can be
made. Yet the cartridges are so small that a pocket full will last a
man a whole season.
“Now the best rule in all hunting is to use the smallest bullet that
will surely kill the game you are aiming at, and in every country
there are always ten chances to kill small things to one chance at
the bigger game. Up in this region, for example, there will be
flocks of ptarmigan, the little northern grouse, and countless
rabbits that we shall need for food, but which we couldn’t afford to
waste heavy ammunition on. And this smaller barrel is the one to use
in getting them.
“If you used the big cartridge when you found a flock of these
ptarmigans sitting on a tree, the noise of the first shot would
probably frighten them all away, to say nothing of the fact that the
big ball would tear the little bird all to pieces, and make it
worthless for food. With the .22 you can pop them over one at a time
without scaring them, and without spoiling the meat.
“But suppose, when you were out hunting for ptarmigan or rabbits you
came upon a deer, or even a moose. All right, you’ve got something
for him, too, and right in the same gun. All you have to do is to
shift the little catch on the hammer here which connects with the
firing-pin in the lower barrel, draw a bead, and you knock him down
dead with the big bullet--as Mr. Ware did last fall up in New
Brunswick. There will be a louder report, and a harder kick, but you
won’t notice either when you see the big fellow roll over and kick
his legs in the air.”
The very suggestion of such a possibility was too much for the boy’s
imagination. “Do you really think that I may kill a deer, or a
moose, Martin?” he asked eagerly. “Do you, Martin?”
“Perhaps,” the old man assented, “if you will remember all I tell
you. But first of all let’s learn all we can about the thing you are
going to kill it with.
“Mr. Ware and I had many long talks, and tried many experiments
before he could decide upon the very best size of cartridge for this
larger barrel. You see there scores of different kinds and sizes to
choose from. There are cartridges almost as long and about the same
shape as a lead pencil, with steel jacketed bullets that will travel
two or three miles, and go through six feet thickness of wood at
short range. It is the fad among hunters these days to use that
kind. But if a man is a real hunter he doesn’t need them.
“Mr. Ware was a real hunter. When he pulled the trigger he knew just
where the bullet was going to land. And when a man is that kind of a
shot he doesn’t have to use a bullet that will shoot through six
feet of pine wood. So he picked out one of the older style of
cartridges, one that we call the .38-40, which is only half as long
as the lead-pencil kind. By using a steel jacketed bullet and
smokeless powder this cartridge is powerful enough to kill any kind
of game in this region, if you strike the right spot.
“So don’t get the idea, just because this gun won’t shoot a bullet
through an old fashioned battleship, that it’s a plaything. It will
penetrate eighteen inches of pine wood, and the force of its blow is
very nearly that of a good big load of hay falling off a sled. This
little three-pound gun--just a boy’s sparrow gun to look at--shoots
farther and hits harder than the best rifle old Daniel Boone ever
owned. And yet Boone and his friends cleaned out all the Indians and
most of the big game in several States. So you see you’ve got the
better of Boone and all the great hunters and Indian killers of his
day--that is, as far as the gun is concerned. To-morrow I will begin
teaching you how to use it as a hunter should; but now we had better
turn in, for there are hard days ahead of us.”
And so Larry crawled into his snug fur-lined bag, too excited to
wish to sleep, but so exhausted by the hard day’s work that his eyes
would not stay open.