THE STORY OF WEEWAH THE HUNTER
It had been a hard day’s work for both of them, and strange as
everything was to Larry, and awful as the black woods seemed as he
peeped out beyond the light of the fire, he had a strange feeling of
security and contentment. It might be that there were terribly hard
days of toil and danger and privations ahead, but he was too cozily
situated now to let that worry him.
Besides he was feeling the satisfaction that every boy feels in the
knowledge that he has done something well. And even the exacting old
Martin, always slow to praise or even commend, had told him over his
cup of tea and his soup at supper, that he “would make a hunter of
him some day.” And what higher praise could a boy hope for?
“Nobody knows just how old Weewah was when he became a mighty
hunter,” Martin began presently, without looking up from his sewing,
“because Indians don’t keep track of those things as we white folks
do. But he couldn’t have been any older than you are, perhaps not
quite so old.
“He was old enough to know how to handle his bow and arrows, though,
to draw a strong enough bow to shoot an arrow clean through a
woodchuck or a muskrat, or even a beaver, although he had never
found the chance to try at the beaver. He carried his own tomahawk,
too--a new one that the factor at Hudson Bay Post had given him,--and
was eager to show his prowess with it on larger game.
“But the hunting was done by the grown up men of the village, who
thought Weewah too small to hunt anything larger than rabbits. Yet
there were other boys of his own age who found more favor in the
hunters’ eyes because they were larger than he. ‘Some day you will
be a hunter,’ they told him, ‘but now you are too small.’
“Weewah’s heart was big, even if his body was small. And so one day
he took all his long arrows, his strongest bow, and his tomahawk and
resolved to go into the big woods at some distance from the village,
and do something worthy of a hunter.
“It was winter time, and the snow on the ground was knee-deep with
just a little crust on it. On his snow-shoes Weewah glided through
the forest, noticing everything he passed and fixing it in his
memory instinctively so that he could be sure of finding the back
trail. For this day he meant to go deep, deep into the spruce swamp
in his hunting. There he would find game worthy of the bow of the
mighty hunter he intended to prove himself.
“The tracks of many animals crossed his path, little wood dwellers
such as rabbits and an occasional mink. But these did not interest
him to-day. He had brought his snares, of course, for he always
carried them; but to-day his heart was too full of a mighty ambition
to allow such little things as rabbit snares to interrupt his plans.
“Once he did stop when he saw, just ahead of him on the snow, a
little brown bunch of fur with two big brown eyes looking at him
wonderingly. In an instant he had drawn the poised arrow to his
cheek and released it with a twang. And a moment later the little
brown bunch of fur was in Weewah’s pouch, ready for making into
rabbit stew in the evening.
“Weewah took it as a good omen that he had killed the rabbit on the
very edge of the spruce swamp that he had selected for his hunting
ground. Soon he would find game more worthy of his arrows or his
axe. And so he was not surprised, even if his heart did give an
extra bound, when presently he came upon the track of a lynx. It was
a fresh track, too, and the footprints were those of a very big
lynx.
“Weewah knew all this the moment he looked at the tracks, just as he
knew a thousand other things that he had learned in the school of
observation. He knew also that in all probability the animal was not
half a mile away, possibly waiting in some tree, or crouching in
some bushes looking for ptarmigan or rabbit. He was sure, also, that
he could run faster on his snow-shoes than the lynx could in that
deep soft snow.
“So for several minutes he stood and thought as fast as he could.
What a grand day for him it would be if he could come back to the
village dragging a great lynx after him! No one would ever tell him
again that he was too small to be a hunter.
“But while he was sorely tempted to rush after the animal with the
possibility of getting a shot, or a chance for a blow of his axe, he
knew that this was not the surest way to get his prey. He had
discovered the hunting ground of the big cat, and he knew that there
was no danger of its leaving the neighborhood so long as the supply
of rabbits held out. By taking a little more time, then, Weewah knew
he could surely bring the fellow into camp. And so he curbed his
eagerness.
“Instead of rushing off along the trail, bow bent and arrow on the
string, he opened his pouch and took out a stout buckskin string--a
string strong enough to resist the pull of the largest lynx. In one
end of this he made a noose with a running knot. Next he cut a stout
stick three inches thick and as tall as himself. Then he walked
along the trail of the lynx for a little distance, looking sharply
on either side, until he found a low-hanging, thick bunch of spruce
boughs near which the animal had passed. Here the boy stopped and
cut two more strong sticks, driving them into the ground about two
feet apart, so that they stood three feet above the snow and right
in front of a low-hanging bunch of spruce boughs.
“At the top of each he had left a crotch, across which he now laid
his stick with the looped string dangling from the center. The
contrivance when completed looked like a great figure H, from the
cross-bar of which hung the loop just touching the top of the snow.
“Now Weewah carefully opened the loop of the noose until it was
large enough for the head of any lynx to pass through, and fastened
it deftly with twigs and blades of dead grass, so as to hold it in
place firmly. From its front the thing looked like a miniature
gallows--which, indeed, it was.
“Next Weewah took the rabbit from his pouch, and creeping under the
thicket carefully so as not to disturb his looped string, he placed
the still warm body an arm’s length behind the loop, propping the
head of the little animal up with twigs, to look as lifelike as
possible. In an hour, at most, the rabbit would freeze and stiffen,
and would then look exactly like a live rabbit crouching in the
bushes.
“Then the little Indian broke off branches, thrusting them into the
snow about the rabbit, until he had formed a little bower facing the
snare. Any animal attempting to seize it would thrust its own head
right through the fatal hangman’s loop.
“When Weewah had finished this task he gathered up his tomahawk and
bow and arrows, and started back along his own trail. He made no
attempt to cover up the traces of his work, as he would if trapping
a fox; for the lynx is a stupid creature, like all of his cousins of
the cat family, and will blunder into a trap of almost any kind.
“The little Indian hurried along until he reached the point from
which he had first crossed the lynx tracks. Here he turned sharply,
starting a great circle, which would be about a mile in diameter. He
did this to make sure that the lynx had not gone on farther than he
thought. If he found no sign of fresh tracks he could feel certain
that the animal was still close at hand.
“This took him several hours, and it was almost dark when he pulled
back the flap and entered his home lodge in the village. He was
tired, too, but his eyes shone with suppressed emotion.
“As soon as he entered his mother set before him a smoking bowl of
broth without a word of comment or a question as to what his luck
might have been in his rabbit hunting. His father was there, gorging
himself on fat beaver meat that he had just brought in; but neither
he, nor Weewah’s brothers and sisters, offered any comment at the
little boy’s entrance.
“It is not correct etiquette, in Algonquin families, to ask the
hunter what luck he has had until he has eaten. Even then a verbal
question is not asked. But when the repast is finished the Indian
woman takes a pouch of the hunter and turns its contents out upon
the floor.
“The emptiness of Weewah’s pouch spoke for itself, for he had flung
it upon the floor on entering, where it lay flat. His father scowled
a little when he noticed it; for he wanted his son to be a credit to
him as a hunter. But his scowl turned into a merry twinkle when he
saw how radiant his son’s face was despite his ill luck, and what a
small, delicately formed little fellow he was. Besides the old
warrior was in an unusually good humor. Had he not killed a fat
beaver that day? And was not beaver tail the choicest of all foods?
“In a few hours Weewah’s brothers and sisters, rolled in their warm
Hudson Bay blankets, were breathing heavily, and his father and
mother were far away in dreamland. Weewah was in dreamland, too; but
not the land that comes with sleep. He was in the happy state of
eager expectation that comes when to-morrow is to be a great day in
one’s life. And so he lay, snugly wrapped in his blanket, his black
eyes shining as he watched the embers of the fire in the center of
the tepee slowly grow dim and smoulder away. Meanwhile the very
thing he was dreaming about was happening out in the dark spruce
swamp.
“The great lynx, whose tracks Weewah had seen, started out just at
dusk on his nightly rabbit and grouse hunt. He had spent the day
curled up under the protecting boughs of a drooping spruce almost
within sound of Weewah’s hatchet where the snare was being set. Now
he took his way leisurely along his former trail, sniffing the air,
and examining every likely looking nook that might hide the material
for his supper. His great, fur-padded feet gave out no sound as he
glided along over the now frozen crust, and he was the embodiment of
stealth as he glided forward with ears erect, and stubby tail
straight out.
“Suddenly he stopped, raised his head and distended his nostrils,
drinking in the familiar odor wafted to him from some point near at
hand. Then he dropped low, his long fur dragging noiselessly on the
snow crust, as he wormed snake-like along toward a clump of
low-hanging spruces. His keen, yellow eyes had caught sight of the
crouching rabbit held in place at first by the twigs that Weewah had
placed there, but now stiff and rigid as iron.
“Closer and closer crept the lynx, until he was within six feet of
his victim. And still the rabbit did not move. The great body,
quivering with suppressed energy, now slowly lowered itself and the
hind legs were carefully drawn under for the spring. Then like a
flash the gray body shot forward and with a snarl the dagger-like
teeth closed upon the bunch of fur.
“At the same time the lynx felt a violent tug at his throat, and a
heavy club dealt him a sharp blow across the back as it fell from
overhead. In amazement the great brute dropped the rabbit, springing
violently backward as he did so. But the leather thong about his
neck and the club attached to it followed him in the spring, the
noose tightening about his neck.
“With a scream of rage he pulled violently to free himself, bracing
with his great fore feet against the club as he did so. But instead
of freeing himself he felt a quick tightening of the noose at his
throat. Frantic with rage and fright he continued to jerk and pull,
sometimes changing his attack to viciously biting the stick. But the
only effect produced was to gradually tighten the noose, which was
now tangled with the thick throat hair, and did not relax.
“Time and again he returned furiously to the attack, bracing his
feet against the stick, and pulling with all his strength.
Inevitably he would have choked himself to death, as Weewah had
planned he should, but for the fact that the little Indian had made
the loop a little too long, so that the pulling produced a violent
but not fatal choking. Many a lynx commits suicide in this way just
as the trapper plans it.
“For hours the lynx wrestled vainly to free itself, varying the
attacks on the club by trying to run away from it. But running away
from it was quite as much out of the question as tearing it loose.
For when the animal attempted to run the club was jerked about its
limbs, tripping it, and frequently becoming entangled in brush and
bushes. At last, exhausted, and thoroughly sulky, the great cat
laboriously climbed a tree, and extended itself along one of the
lower limbs, the club still dangling at one side from its neck. In
all its struggles it had not gone more than two hundred yards from
where the trap had been set.
“An hour before daylight the next morning, Weewah, who had been
waiting for the first indications of morning, stole silently out of
the tepee without awakening even the light-sleeping members of his
family. He carried with him his own tomahawk, and his bow and arrow;
but also he carried the heavy axe that his mother used for cutting
the wood for the fire. She would miss it, he knew, and also he knew
that he would be in for a solid whack from the first stick that lay
handy when he returned; but he was willing to brave all this. The
axe must be had at any cost.
“The sun was just pushing its blood red rim above the low hills in
the east when he reached the edge of the spruce swamp. And it was
still only an oval, fire red ball when the little Indian approached
the place where he had set the snare the day before. He had swung
along lightly and swiftly over the beginning of the trail, but now
as he approached the goal his heart beat hard against his chest,
just as any white boy’s would have done under the circumstances. But
long before he actually reached the spot where the trap had been
left he knew that he had been successful. Successful, at least, in
having lured the prey into his snare.
“He could tell this by the condition of the snow, which had been dug
up and thrown about by the wild struggle of the lynx. He loosened
his tomahawk, therefore, held his arrow in readiness on the string,
and approached the scene of turmoil.
“One glance at the trampled snow, the dead rabbit still lying where
the lynx had dropped it, and the broad twisting trail leading
further into the swamp, told him the story of what had taken place
more completely than any white man could write it. And almost
without pausing he began following this trail cautiously forward,
his arrow still poised; for one never knows what a captive animal
may do when driven to desperation.
“Suddenly the little Indian stopped, his eyes snapping as he drew
the arrow to the head with every ounce of strength in his arms and
back. There, crouching on an upper limb of a tree perhaps a foot in
diameter, was the huge lynx, watching him with curling lips,
crouching ready to spring.
“Weewah’s first impulse was to send the finishing shaft through the
great body on the limb. It would be a great triumph for Weewah--the
little Indian boy, too small yet to be a hunter--to drag into his
father’s tepee early that morning a great forest cat killed with his
own bow and arrow. But after all, would a really great hunter feel
much pride in killing a captive lynx from a safe distance with an
arrow?
“He knew very well that doing such a thing would not mark him as a
great hunter. And he was determined that he should be called a great
hunter before he was a day older.
“So he lowered his arrow, removed it from the string, and laid the
bow down beside the tree. He loosened his own tomahawk, also, and
laid that close at hand near the tree trunk. Then he seized the big
axe of his mother that he had brought with him and began chopping at
the trunk, making the chips fly rapidly under his skillful aim.
“At the first blow of the axe against the trunk the lynx had half
risen, giving a fierce growl of rage. For a moment it hesitated,
ready to spring on the boy. But that moment of hesitancy was
decisive. And as the strokes of the axe continued uninterruptedly
the great animal gradually settled down sulkily on the branch, cowed
by its fruitless battle with the cord and stick.
“Meanwhile Weewah was swinging his axe to good purpose. Nor was he
directing his blows in a haphazard manner. With practiced eye he had
selected a clear spot where he wished the tree to fall, and now by
cutting half way through the trunk on the side facing in that
direction, and then cutting on exactly the opposite side a little
higher up he knew that the tree would fall precisely as he wished.
“Presently the tree began to waver slightly. It was sufficient,
however, to make the great cat on the bough crouch and whine with
fright. A few more sharp blows of the axe made the top limbs tremble
ominously. A puff of wind now would have toppled it over; but there
was not a breath of air stirring. Another axe stroke or two and it
would bring it to the ground.
“But before delivering the finishing strokes Weewah paused long
enough to replace his snow-shoes which he had removed before he
began chopping. He also picked up his tomahawk and thrust it half
way into his belt, where he could seize it instantly. Then he took
the axe and gave three vigorous, carefully directed finishing blows.
“And still the lynx did not leap. When the creature felt the limb
quivering beneath it, it rose as if to jump; then, confused and
uncertain, it crouched low again, clinging tightly to the branch as
if for protection. Just before the limb reached the ground, however,
it sprang far out into the snow, making violent leaps with the club
whirling about it, and quickly becoming entangled.
“Weewah, with tomahawk raised, was close upon its heels. Another
stride and he would have buried the blade in the animal’s skull. But
at that moment the lynx wheeled suddenly, dodging the blow aimed at
its head, and sprang toward its pursuer. Its great claws as it
struck at him cat fashion, scratched Weewah’s cheek, and cut two
deep grooves in his shoulder. It was a blow that would have been
disastrous had not the entangled club jerked the animal to one side.
“With a yell the little Indian sprang toward the crouching, snarling
animal, thrusting out his right snow-shoe as he did so. Instantly
the frame and lacings of the shoe were crushed in the savage jaws of
the lynx. But at the same moment the tomahawk blade flashed through
the air and buried itself deep in the thick skull.
“Without a sound the great fur-covered body relaxed, quivered, and
then lay still with the teeth still buried in the snow-shoe frame
only an inch from Weewah’s foot.
“The little Indian stood for a few moments looking at his victim.
Then he reached down and tried to pry loose the fixed jaws. It was
no easy task. For the muscles had set in the last convulsive death
grip and it was only with the aid of his tomahawk blade that they
could finally be relaxed.
“Weewah now lashed the forepaws to the dead animal’s lower jaw to
prevent them from catching against things as he dragged the body
over the snow. Then he unfastened the strap from the club, and
taking the line over his shoulder started for home, scuffing along
as best he could on his broken snow-shoe, towing the big cat after
him.
“All that morning Weewah’s mother had scolded about the missing axe.
Weewah was missing too, but she felt no solicitude about that. With
the axe it was different: people who took away axes were not always
particular about returning them, whereas boys always came back. It
hadn’t occurred to her that the boy and the axe had gone away
together.
“She had grumblingly gathered wood for the fire without the aid of
her usual implement, and now was busily engaged in boiling roots and
meat in a great pot, while her husband smoked his pipe, paying no
attention to his spouse’s complaints. Some of the smaller children
were playing noisy games, running in and out of the tepee, shouting
and laughing like a pack of white school children.
“Presently one of Weewah’s younger sisters, squatted on a stump,
raised a shrill cry, ‘Weewah, Weewah is coming!’
“The playing stopped at once, the children gathering in front of the
tepee to gaze in mute astonishment at their older brother. Tired as
he was from dragging the load, and leg weary from stumbling along
with his broken snow-shoe, he now held his head erect and his chin
high. Without a word he strode into the open flap of the tepee,
dragging the dead lynx after him. In front of his father he stopped
and dropped his burden; then he drew the blood-stained tomahawk from
his belt and laid it beside the dead animal, and stood silently
before his parent with folded arms.
“For several minutes the warrior smoked his pipe in silence. Then he
gave a grunt of satisfaction, laid his pipe aside, and ran his hand
deliberately over the body of the dead animal. He found no arrow
holes. Next he turned the great head and examined the clean wound,
and then the blood-stained blade of the tomahawk, and the tightened
cord of buckskin about the neck.
“His examination told him the story of what had happened out there
in the woods. He knew that Weewah had first caught the lynx in his
snare, and then had killed it with a blow from his tomahawk instead
of shooting it with an arrow. And he was proud of his son. But no
one but an Indian would have known it.
“With another grunt of satisfaction, however, he drew his hunting
knife from the sheath in his belt. By a few deft strokes he severed
two toes from the forepaw of the lynx, with the long curved claws
protruding, leaving a strip of fur at the back. Then he quickly
fashioned a loop in the skin so that the claws hung as a pendant
from it. When this was finished to his satisfaction he stood up and
beckoned to the boy; and when Weewah stepped forward the old Indian
placed the fur string about his neck with the lynx claws suspended
in front.
“Then he placed his hands on the little fellow’s shoulders and
looked sharply into his eyes, the little Indian returning the gaze
with quiet dignity.
“‘Weewah, the mighty hunter,’ the old Indian said slowly.
“Then he seated himself and resumed his pipe as if nothing had
happened.”
Martin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and threw an extra chunk of
wood on the fire.
“Time we were turning in,” he said.
“But tell me,” Larry asked; “did Weewah’s mother give him the
beating for taking her axe?”
“What, beat a mighty hunter like Weewah?” Martin asked in feigned
surprise. “No indeed! No more beatings for him. From that day on no
woman, not even his mother, would ever give him a blow. And his
father would now take him with him on his hunting trips, even into
the most dangerous places, just as he would any other hunter. For he
had proved his title, you see.”
Then the old man took his pipe from his lips, and said to the boy
earnestly:
“You see I am the old Indian and you are Weewah in this case. Only
you haven’t had a chance to kill your lynx yet. But we are going
right into that country where the lynx lives, and sooner or later
you’ll have a chance to show your metal. When that time comes
remember the story of little Weewah.
“And now you must turn in for the night.”