AT LITTLE MOOSE PORTAGE
Dick Kent thought swiftly. There was no time to lose. The canoe was
filling fast. Already it was growing perceptibly heavier. Ahead he could
see the canoe they had set adrift. It was a long chance, but it was the
only thing to be done, aside from swimming to the other shore and
abandoning all their packs and camp equipment.
“Sandy!”
“What?” panted his chum.
“We’ve got to switch our packs into that empty canoe.”
“Catch it first, I’ll say!” cried Sandy.
They redoubled their efforts on the paddles. The drifting canoe was
spinning slowly in the stream. Waterlogged as they were, they yet were
slowly gaining on the empty craft. Out of rifle range from the sand
point, the bullets of their pursuers no longer endangered them as they
skipped across the water yards short of their mark.
Slowly they overhauled the empty canoe, and at last Dick reached out and
grasped the prow, hauling it to the side of their own sinking craft.
Dropping their paddles then, they straddled the two gunwales and with
their legs held the canoes together while with all haste they
transferred their dunnage. Working grimly and silently they had almost
finished when the canoes began to whirl slowly in the current. Sandy
lost his balance and toppled into the water, his hoarse shout of
surprise muffled as the river closed over his head.
Sandy came up from the cold bath. Dick shouted encouragement, extending
a paddle to his chum while he alone held the canoes together. In a
moment, spluttering and shivering, Sandy crawled back into the loaded
canoe.
The leaking canoe was rolling on its side when the last blanket was
taken from it. The young men picked up their paddles and struck out with
all speed. They feared their pursuers, since they no longer appeared on
the sand point, had run back into the forest and were coming along the
river bank into rifle range.
“B-r-r-r, that sure was no warm bath,” chattered Sandy.
“Keep paddling, and warm up,” Dick called over his shoulder. “We’ll go
ashore and dry your clothes when we’re sure we’ve got away from them.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth when a rifle shot sounded from
the shore some distance behind them. A bullet whined over their heads
and plunked into the river.
“There they go again!” cried Dick. “Let’s bear toward the other shore
and see if we can’t get out of range.”
Crouching over their paddles they swerved to the right and gradually
paddled out of range once more.
Until late in the afternoon the boys kept up a killing pace with the
paddles. Sandy, warmed by the stiff exercise, would not permit Dick to
go in shore on his account, and so they drew into the swift current
above Little Moose Portage.
The canoe was beached on the shore opposite the one where the enemy had
put in an appearance miles behind. It was an excellent camp site. They
were only about three hundred yards above the rapids, whose swift
current, filled with sharp stones, made it necessary to go on by land to
a point where the river was less dangerous. They could hear the sound of
the rushing water.
“We’ll keep sharp watch while we make camp,” said Dick. “Those fellows
may have found another canoe and caught up with us.”
“Even if they come on by land they can’t be so very far behind,” Sandy
added, shivering a little now that the warming work on the paddle was
discontinued.
Dick and Sandy had paddled many miles that day and they were very tired.
A year before they could not have kept on that far. But the north
country had hardened their already healthy bodies, until they laughed at
the exertion that would have put a southland boy flat on his back.
A campfire of pine cones and dead wood soon was crackling cheerily. Dick
set on the coffee pot and mixed up some flapjacks while Sandy took off
his moccasins and sox by the fire. By the time Sandy was fairly dry the
meal was ready, and the boys fell to ravenously. Now and again they were
startled by some sound from the forest, but each time the noise proved
to be only that made by a wild animal investigating their campfire.
“We’ll take turns on watch tonight,” Dick said, sipping his last cup of
coffee.
“Let’s draw straws for the first trick,” Sandy suggested.
“No,” Dick objected, “that ducking you had gave you the hardest day.
I’ll take the first watch.”
Sandy wanted it otherwise, but Dick insisted.
“Well, if you’ll be sure to wake me up when my turn comes,” Sandy was
already yawning, “it’s all right with me.”
Soon Sandy was rolled in his blankets, close by the fire, which was
welcome indeed in the chill of the autumn evening.
Dick took a position in the shadow of a clump of willows where the
firelight would not reveal him to any prowlers of the night that might
investigate too closely. Here he squatted Indian fashion, his rifle
across his knees. Many thoughts passed through his mind as the time
slowly passed. That Sandy and he were on the most perilous mission of
their lives he knew. But contrary to being frightened by impending
danger, he was overjoyed. It was what he and Sandy had come north
for—adventure. And they were getting it.
“We ought to get to Mackenzie’s Landing day after tomorrow,” he mused,
talking low to himself to keep from going to sleep. It was too dangerous
to walk about. “That means three or four more camps before we get a
guide. Gee, I wish we could go on by ourselves. If Sandy or I only knew
the country around Fort Dunwoody—but we’d get lost, and we can’t afford
to lose any time with Sandy’s uncle in Bear Henderson’s hands. Wonder——”
Dick sat up suddenly, listening. It seemed to him that above the ripple
of the river water and the low rumble of the distant rapids he heard the
scrape of a canoe bottom on the gravel. His heart leaped and beat on
painfully. What if some one stole their canoe, or crept up and attacked
them! The thought galvanized him into action.
He dropped to his hands and knees, his rifle clutched in his right
fingers. It was only a short distance to that part of the beach where
they had dragged the canoe up out of the water. Dick crawled quietly
along among the shadows to the fringe of undergrowth bordering the
beach. At first the glare of the firelight in his eyes made all appear
very dark by contrast, but gradually his vision was adjusted, and he
could make out the vague form of the canoe.
“Wonder if it was only my imagination,” he mumbled, not seeing anything
amiss. “But——” he caught his breath. The canoe had moved!
Sure enough, difficult as it was to see distinctly, he knew the canoe
had rocked from side to side.
“What could it be?” he whispered, straining his eyes.
It seemed now that he could see a darker blot of darkness moving above
the rim of the canoe, but he was not sure. There was but one thing to
do—crawl out of the sheltering bushes and across the sand to a point
from which he could ascertain just what was moving the canoe.
The decision made, Dick did not hesitate a moment. Half way to the
canoe, he stopped and lay prone on his stomach, listening and watching.
What little breeze there was blew from the canoe toward him, so that an
animal would not easily detect his approach unless it heard him.
Faintly, Dick could hear a scratching sound, as if some sharp instrument
agitated the sand and gravel. He was more puzzled than ever.
He moved on again, drawing one knee cautiously after the other, careful
that his rifle was ready for instant firing. Ten feet further and the
scratching sound ceased suddenly. Dick was now within a few feet of the
prow of the canoe. He stopped dead still, and, resting on his knees,
raised his rifle.
“Who’s there?” he called sternly.
A sudden commotion followed. Around the prow of the canoe flashed two
round glowing eyes, and a bearded, tuft-eared cat face. Dick’s rifle
crashed. There was an inhuman squall of pain; a ball of fur and fury
bounded high into the air and fell writhing, spitting and snarling
within three feet of Dick, who leaped to one side.
“Hi! Hi! Dick, where are you?” It was Sandy calling from the campfire.
He had been awakened by the gun shot.
“It’s all right, Sandy,” Dick called back, stooping over the animal he
had killed. “Only a lynx scratching around the canoe. Come and take a
look. Gosh! I must have hit him right between the eyes.”
Sandy came running up, and bent over the dead lynx. When the cat’s last
struggles ceased, the boys hauled it into the firelight.
“I was scared half to death,” Sandy grinned sheepishly. “I was dreaming
we were in Fort Good Faith with Uncle Walter and about a million wild
Indians were whooping and shooting at the stockade.”
“You can bet your bottom dollar I didn’t feel so calm about the time
that lynx came around the canoe and looked me in the eye,” Dick
confessed. “I never took aim at all—just blazed away. Lucky shot I call
it. I thought it was some one trying to steal our canoe.”
“What time is it?” Sandy inquired, getting up and stretching.
Dick drew out a fine watch which had been a graduation present. “Only
ten o’clock,” he reported. “You can go back to bed, Sandy. My watch
isn’t half done.”
The young adventurers talked a few minutes after Sandy was back in his
blankets. But Sandy soon fell asleep. In spite of the excitement brought
on by the killing of the lynx, Sandy was so tired that he went back to
sleep almost immediately.
Dick looked down at the lynx. “He’s sure a beauty,” he whispered
proudly. “I kind of wish I hadn’t killed him now. It’s a shame to kill
animals when a fellow can’t use their fur or meat.”
He returned to his position in the shadow of the willows and sat there
patiently until midnight, when it was time to awaken Sandy. The fire had
died down and he heaped more wood on it. He never felt more wide awake
in his life. Sandy was sleeping soundly.
“Sandy, you’re pretty tired,” Dick murmured, looking down at his chum,
“and I feel just about as fresh as when we pitched camp. Guess I won’t
wake you up—just let you sleep until morning.”
There was an affection like brotherhood between the two boys, who had
been neighbors and chums from infancy up. And since Dick was two years
older than Sandy, he often felt somewhat like an older brother would
feel toward a younger. Perhaps this induced Dick to resume his watch
without awakening Sandy.
When Dick sat down again he was sure he could stay awake all night, but
the flicker of the firelight, the whispering silence of the forest, and
the ripple of the river were like a pleasant lullaby. Before he knew it
he was nodding, and presently he fell sound asleep. Head drooping over
his knees, Dick slept unknowing, while the fire died down and the deep
blackness of the northland night crept over the silent camp.
Sandy awakened with a start at four o’clock. It still was dark, as the
days were shortening with the approach of winter. He did not know why
Dick had not awakened him, and he was at first fearful that something
had happened to his chum.
“Dick, Dick,” he called softly, sitting up in his blankets, trying to
pierce the gloom with his eyes.
There came no answer. Quietly Sandy reached out and one hand closed on
his rifle. The feel of the cold steel comforted him. He had begun to
learn what an encouraging companion a firearm can be in those lonely
climes where they are necessary if one would live long.
Arising, Sandy began a search of the camp and quickly came upon Dick,
sound asleep a little way off.
“Ho, ho,” laughed Sandy mischievously, “I’ve got one on you now, old
boy. Asleep on watch, huh. I’ll fix you.”
His fears relieved, Sandy’s sense of humor cropped out. He could not
resist playing a good joke on his chum.
Sandy thought a moment, then hit upon an idea, which he quickly put into
execution. The fire had gone out, and Sandy’s scheme was no other than
to rebuild it so close to Dick that it would sizzle the sleeping lad’s
chin.
Soon Sandy had the fire crackling and snapping within two feet of Dick’s
face, as he lay on the pine needles where he had fallen over during the
night.
Setting about breakfast, Sandy chuckled as he watched Dick begin to
squirm and mutter in his sleep as the heat reached him.
At last Dick turned over, and flinging out one hand, almost plunged it
into the fire. Sandy cried out sharply, and jumped forward to keep
Dick’s hand out of the fire, when his chum leaped up wide awake.
“What! How——” Dick stammered, blinking his eyes.
Sandy doubled up with laughter. Dick soon saw the joke and joined Sandy
in a hearty laugh. Then he quickly grew serious.
“That’s the worst thing I could have done,” Dick accused himself.
“Suppose Henderson’s men had crept up on us while I was asleep. Sandy,
I’ll never forgive myself for this. I can’t blame them for shooting
soldiers that sleep on guard duty—after tonight.”
“Oh, never mind,” Sandy’s optimism came to the front. “What’s the
difference. We’re safe and sound, aren’t we?”
“That doesn’t excuse me for neglecting my duty,” Dick insisted. But as
he reached for the tin plate of bacon and camp bread that Sandy handed
him, Dick cheered up. “What beats me,” he concluded, “is that I was
going to let you sleep till morning, Sandy. Guess I wasn’t as tough as I
thought I was.”
“That’s just like you,” Sandy retorted. “Just because you’re a couple of
years older than I you think you ought to do all the heavy work.”
“Well, I’ll see that you do your night watching after this,” Dick
promised. “And now we’d better get started. If those fellows kept on
after us they’ve had just about time enough to catch up.”
It did not take the boys long to break camp. The trail that led along
the bank past the dangerous Little Moose Rapids to safe water was on the
other bank of the river, and Dick and Sandy prepared to paddle across.
Once on the trail, they planned to shoulder their packs and the canoe
for the jaunt over the portage. They shoved out the canoe without mishap
and were cutting across the swift current of the Big Smokey river above
the rapids, when on the other shore, at the point where they intended
landing, Dick thought he saw a wisp of smoke ascending, as from a
campfire recently extinguished.
“Sandy, do you see any one over there?” Dick called.
“I see a kind of smoke haze among those little spruce trees,” Sandy
replied.
“You know what I think?” Dick went on, sturdily plying his paddle, “that
gang is waiting for us over there. They’re in ambush. As soon as we get
close in they’ll open fire. I’ll bet I’m right. If I am we don’t dare
try to land.”
“Well, there’s no trail around the rapids on the side we camped,” Sandy
returned. “We’d have to detour about twelve miles that way to get back
to the Big Smokey.”
They were slowly drawing closer to the opposite bank, the swift current
pulling them downstream a little in spite of their efforts. The boys
were silent as they drew closer, undecided which way to turn, almost
certain now that a warm reception awaited them on the portage trail
landing. Suddenly Dick spoke cooly, but tensely:
“Backwater, Sandy. Don’t act excited. We don’t dare go on. I just saw
two rifle barrels thrust over a hump of moss on a fallen tree.”
Sandy did not falter at the warning. He reversed his paddle, as Dick was
doing, and the canoe came almost to a standstill.
“We’ll have to shoot the rapids!” Dick’s voice was like the snap of a
whip as he made known his daring resolve.