IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS
“How d’ye like to hole up with me this winter and try yer luck
a-trappin’?” asked Uncle Dave as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
“Fine!” Fred responded enthusiastically, “that is, if mother could be
cared for.”
“Is she dependin’ on you?”
“Yes, partly; her little farm doesn’t pay much now that she has to let
it out on shares; and she’s getting too old to do much for herself. I
came up here to earn something to help her. It was our plan to spend the
winter in the city so that I could finish high school; but my bad luck
has upset all that. I shouldn’t care for myself so much, but I’m anxious
for mother.”
Uncle Dave listened thoughtfully. “Wall, boy,” he said cheerily, “many’s
the time I’ve had to find a new trail by makin’ it. This idee came to me
last night, but I didn’t say anything till I’d slept on it. We might
make a good haul by hitchin’ up together. I’m gittin’ a little too
stiff to chase around after the traps, but I kin skin beaver and stretch
the hides as spry as ever; and I reckon you kin larn the business quick
enough if you’ll listen to me. There are some streams up here that are
full o’ fur--flat-tails and mink--and otter, too, though they ain’t so
plenty. I b’lieve we kin make some money.”
Fred’s heart lightened as he saw this clearing through his thicket of
troubles. “I’ll do it in a minute,” he said, “if I can find a way to
make mother comfortable.”
“As to that,” said Uncle Dave, “I think I kin let you hev some money out
of my rainy day savin’s. You can pay me when we cash our pelts in the
spring.”
“That’s mighty good of you,” responded the boy, “but I’m afraid you are
too generous.”
“Tut, tut, boy! jest write your mother and make it right with her. I’ll
do the rest.”
So the plan was settled.
“If this storm clears to-day, as it ’pears likely to, I’ll take ye up
the mountain to help ye git the lay o’ things. We’ll need some more meat
anyway.”
The mountaineer’s weather instinct proved true. A clear sunset followed
by a sharp night brought the morning sky out clear and crisp. Before
the sun was very high, the two were well up the wooded slopes. Uncle
Dave led the way; Fred, leading old Buck, brought up the rear.
Their trail led through a wildly beautiful country. Autumn had flung a
riot of colors over the leaves and grasses. Wild life was astir. The
pine hens, startled from their morning meal among the seeds and berries,
would whir from the ground and perch up in the trees within easy reach
of Fred’s shotgun. He bagged half a dozen of the blue fantails, then
tied his gun to his horse; for as Uncle Dave suggested, they weren’t
“out on a murderin’ expedition, like tom fool dudes.”
A climb of about two hours brought them up to the rim of the first
range. As they lifted to the top, a panorama of craggy grandeur burst
into full view. A wild mountain valley patched with pine and aspen
groves lay below them. Its farther side--a mighty saw-tooth range of
jagged granite peaks, barren, savage spires and broken domes and
buttresses of ragged rock, streaked with ancient snow banks--towered
high into the blue. Shaggy canyons, down which foaming streams leaped
and shouted, had made great chasms in the face of the range, scarring
and carving it into fantastic forms. The valley floor was gentler, a
meadowy, flower-tangled stretch of quiet beauty. The streams here,
though still playful, had spread in places into delightful little lakes,
glimpses of which could be caught shining through the trees.
“That’s the doin’s of the flat-tails,” remarked Uncle Dave, as they
paused on the summit to breathe a spell.
“Did the beaver make those lakes?” asked Fred.
“Sartinly.”
“How did they do it?”
“Maybe we kin ketch ’em at their work if we’ll go careful; then you kin
see fer yerself,” was the quiet reply.
“This is the place I call Grizzly Cove,” he went on; “I killed a big
silvertip over by that grove o’ pine once. There’s a heap o’ beaver in
this stream and further down in the main canyon. Don’t think it’s ever
been trapped much. Old Pierre, the French trapper, might o’ nosed about
here, but I reckon he found all he wanted in his hole further down. Over
by them dead aspens I killed the elk whose big antlers are above my
fireplace. Shouldn’t wonder if we’d scare up a bunch o’ ’em to-day, or
maybe some black-tail.”
“Do deer get up here too?”
“Not so many. They like the lower hills; but there’s mountain sheep
a-plenty among them rocks. Wall, I reckon we’d better be movin’.”
He rose as he spoke and began the descent, winding by an easy way of his
own choosing down into the canyon. They had gone a mile perhaps, when
they emerged from a thick pine grove upon a small mountain lake.
It was a picture framed with pine-trimmed crags, a double picture,
indeed; for the water, crystal clear, had mirrored sky, crags, trees,
and hedgy banks so perfectly that one could scarce tell substance from
shadow. Fred was ready to shout his joy at sight of it.
“Quiet now,” cautioned his guide, half divining the boy’s impulse;
“beaver are ticklish. We’ll hev to step keerful if we get a glimpse o’
’em. Here, Tobe, you and Buck stay back while we do some prospectin’.”
He took off the bridle from the old horse to let him graze freely, and
then led the way with Indian tread toward a rocky point that rose among
the trees between them and an arm of the lake. Fred tried to imitate the
cautious step. They stole up the slope. Gaining the crest, they peered
over and looked upon the beaver-made bay--a rounded stretch of meadowy
mountain lake in which the busy creatures had pitched their rustic
lodges,--ragged, dome-shaped heaps of sticks, plastered and thatched
with mud and grasses.
“The dam is over thar,” whispered Uncle Dave. “There comes one now
towing a stick towards it.”
Fred looked at the V-shaped wave toward which his companion pointed, and
saw the little brown animal. Then he saw others, old and young, at work
and play. One sat atop his house making his dinner off some succulent
root he had pulled; two others were industriously cutting down a sapling
with their teeth. Some young ones were chasing one another about in the
water. The boy, in eagerness to see them better, began to crawl up the
cliff. In doing so he dislodged a stone, which tumbled with a rattle and
splash into the lake. In a flash the beaver had dropped work and play
and dived out of harm’s reach. A few seconds and there was no sign of
life about the lodges but the plashy ripples dying one by one on the
shores.
“You hev to be mighty still around them critters,” said Uncle Dave; “but
I reckon you’ve seen enough; let’s go back and hev a bite to eat.”
“All right,” said Fred, and they retraced their steps to the old horse
and dog. Here they untied their lunch from the saddle and sat down to
eat and talk about the habits of the beaver.
“I b’lieve we’d better try another trail home,” said Uncle Dave; “mebbe
we kin strike some big game if we rise a bit over this ridge to the
south and strike down into the other canyon thar.”
“You’re chief,” said Fred.
They followed up the creek for a way, rising gradually up a ridge; then
gaining the summit, they began to trail down between two ledges into the
main canyon.
They were just emerging from this side gorge when the old man suddenly
stopped, and giving a warning gesture to Fred, reached for his rifle,
which hung in its leathern scabbard under the flap of his saddle.
Fred looked up quickly to see another crag-framed picture thrilled with
wild life. It was a band of mountain sheep filing calmly and
unsuspectingly along the rocky trail just below. A stately ram, with
great, gracefully curved horns led the march. Following him came a band
of about fifteen ewes, younger bucks, and lambs. They stepped springily
in single file behind their proud captain.
The old mountaineer stood tense till the leader came within about two
hundred yards of him. Then, just as the ram neared a big rock by the
trail, he aimed, fired, and missed.
Like a steel spring suddenly released, the ram leaped and landed
squarely atop the big rock. And there he stood above the trail, his
proud head turning nervously from side to side while he looked with wild
eyes to sight the cause of his alarm. The rest of the band,
terror-stricken, bounded forward to gather about the rock whereon their
leader stood, and there they waited tremblingly for the signal to strike
for a safer place.
The old trapper in a flash had thrown another cartridge into his rifle.
Again he raised--this time with the poise of a statue, and leveled at
the kingly target. A sharp “ping” cut the still air. The proud ram,
mortally hurt, sank and tumbled from the rock to the trail, while the
leaderless band broke, scattered, and fled.
The mountaineer did not fire again, though he might have dropped several
before they bounded out of gunshot. Fred, unable to restrain himself,
threw his hat in the air and giving a shout that waked the echoes,
bounded past the old man down to the dying ram, reaching it just as the
life-light faded from his great pleading eyes. That sight dulled the joy
of the kill for Fred, and his heart echoed Uncle Dave’s quiet words.
“It’s hard to do it, boy, hard and cruel. In all these years’ trapping
and killing, I have never found it easy to snuff out the life of God’s
creatures. Wall, they’ll soon get another leader, and there won’t be any
lambs a-bleatin’ for him. Fine sheep, ain’t he?”
“He’s a wild prince,” said Fred; “look at those horns. My, but I’d like
to have that head mounted.”
“I reckon you kin, if you’ll take the trouble o’ carrying it home. I’ll
skin it for you, when we get there. Then you can get it stuffed and get
eyes fer it. Take a good look, so you’ll know the right color.”
“That’s good of you,” said Fred, as they set to work to get the sheep
ready to pack on old Buck’s back. Tied securely there, they took up
their way again. As they reached the broader trail in the main canyon,
the mountaineer stopped and looked sharply at the tracks.
“Bunch o’ Injuns has gone down the canyon this mornin’. ’Bout time they
was gettin’ back. Wall, we’ll just keep clear o’ their trail by taking
another. Same bunch, I reckon, that I see the other day.”
“Is their camp near here?” asked Fred.
“Right up in the cove at the head of that gorge.” Uncle Dave pointed to
the south. “That’s the only trail into it, and it ain’t fit fer a
mountain sheep. I can’t figure out how they got their squaws and
papooses into it. Mighty curious to me why they’ve holed up so smart.”
“They’re a bunch of thieves, that’s why,” said Fred, positively.
“Wall, whatever they be, we’d best not cross their trail; let’s slip
down on the other side of the creek. Foller me close and keep your eyes
peeled.”
They had just forded the stream and were following a deer trail
cautiously through the brush, when the old mountaineer suddenly stopped,
eyes and ears alert. He listened a moment, then motioning Fred to
follow, stepped quietly into the thicker willows; and there they waited,
peering through the brush to the main trail just across the creek, a few
rods away.
A moment more and here came the band of Indian marauders, single file up
the trail, with Flying Arrow at their head and Ankanamp just behind him.
They had almost filed past when Buck snorted. The old horse could never
stand the smell of Injuns. One of the hindmost of the band caught the
sound, stopped, and looked sharply through the willows to catch sight
of the hunters. He passed the word ahead, and the whole band drew rein
and turned around.
Uncle Dave, seeing that they were discovered, began calmly to take up
the trail toward home; but with a whoop several of the young bucks
plunged their ponies across the creek and headed the hunters off. Old
Tobe, bristling like a cornered panther, leaped in front of his master,
ready to defend him.
“Quiet, Tobe,” said the mountaineer, as the savages plunged through the
brush around them. An ugly look of triumph lighted Nixon’s face when he
recognized Fred.
“Oh, ho! the cow-kid!” he gloated. “Playin’ the sneak on us, huh!”--the
tone turned hateful. “I’ll teach you a trick or two. Here,” he ordered,
“tie ’em up.”
Half a dozen Indians leaped from their ponies to obey. In their scramble
one of them brushed too close to old Buck, and the old horse kicked
savagely, sending the Redskin head over heels into a bunch of willows.
The band roared with laughter at their companion’s upset; while the old
horse snorted and plunged through the band down the canyon, with two
bucks on their ponies after him. As they neared the runaway, Buck kicked
again, landing squarely on the head pony’s shoulder. They tried in vain
to head him back, but he dodged and finally escaped; and they came
whooping back to their comrades.
“You cowardly cur!” Fred broke out, as Nixon with the others grabbed him
and began to tie his arms with buckskin thongs, “I’ll--”
“Keep cool, boy, cool,” came the quiet voice of the old mountaineer.
Fred held his tongue, but his heart thumped with distress and anger.
“Now git across that creek,” ordered the White Injun. “Hustle up!” he
fetched Fred a stinging blow with his quirt.
The boy, furious with the insult, could hardly hold his temper; but he
obeyed, plunging through the icy stream behind Uncle Dave, with Bud on
his pony, crowding and splashing them.
“Nothin’ like cold water for keepin’ cool,” jeered Nixon.
“You know it, damn you!” retorted Fred, unable to restrain himself.
“Shut up!” snapped his tormentor, giving him another biting crack with
his quirt.
“Strike again, you dirty devil!” Fred defied him, tugging at the thongs.
“Quiet, boy, quiet,” cautioned the old mountaineer.
“I’ll larn ye to be impudent with your betters,” snarled the bully,
cutting the boy a third time.
They had reached the main trail; the White Injun ordered the captives
lashed to some pine trees that stood near; then with his band he
withdrew to a spot some rods away and held a council. The mountaineer
studied their movements carefully, but he could not divine their
purpose.
“What will they do with us?” asked Fred anxiously.
“I dunno, boy, but keep cool, whatever comes.”
“Will they murder us?” The boy’s face was tense and pale.
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet; it’ll take all of ’em to agree to that; that
dirty white is stirrin’ up some mischief, but I can’t tell just what.”
They could not hear what was being said.
A whoop came from the savages; they leaped on their ponies and came
dashing back.
“Keep yer head, boy,” cautioned Uncle Dave, his voice still steady, but
in his heart were serious misgivings as to the outcome.
The band circled round their captives, yelling and whooping, and
occasionally taking a shot. Two of the bucks flung their knives into
the trees just above the prisoners’ heads; then Nixon capped the brutal
scare by emptying his revolver at the knives. This done, the band gave a
furious yell and burst away up the canyon.
Fred, dazed with fright, could hardly rouse himself to the reality that
they were gone, when Uncle Dave called gently,
“Hev they hurt ye, boy?”
“I guess not,” the voice trembled, “but they’ve left us here to die.”
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet,” came the reassuring tone; “try to git loose.”
They both began to struggle to free themselves from the thongs.
It seemed impossible. They worked and tugged till they were exhausted
and sore. As they hung there resting, to try again, they suddenly heard
the hoof beats of a horse. A moment more and it appeared with Flying
Arrow on its back. The Indian rode swiftly up behind the trees to which
the captives were bound, jerked out his hunting knife from its scabbard,
and with a few swift strokes, cut the thongs that held them. This done,
he sped back up the canyon without a word.
As the Indian band was entering the gorge, the young chief had leaped
from his horse, and, pretending to fix his saddle, had let his
companions file past him. The moment they were out of sight, he had
dashed back to free the prisoners. The band was just riding into camp
when he caught up with them.
“What you been doin’?” demanded the White Injun, as Flying Arrow rode up
on his panting pony.
“Fixin’ saddle.”
“You lie,” snapped Nixon, half guessing the truth; for his suspicions
had been aroused by the young brave’s actions in behalf of the captives
during the council.
The Indian’s eyes flashed angrily, but he held his tongue.
“You been up to some Injun deviltry; now you keep your place while I’m
chief, or I’ll horsewhip you.”
Flying Arrow took the insult with princely poise. No outward sign
revealed how deeply his proud heart was cut and Nixon supposed he had
cowered under his abuse. The bully had something yet to learn of Indian
nature.
Uncle Dave and Fred, meanwhile, finding themselves free, staggered down
the trail toward home together, inwardly blessing their deliverer and
wondering the while what had caused him to befriend them.
If the old mountaineer had got a good look at the young brave he might
have guessed, for he had known Flying Arrow well. Some ten years before
when he was trapping with the Indians, there was one boy papoose to whom
he had taken a great fancy, a lithe and manly little fellow full of
promise. The old trapper had won his confidence by little acts of
kindness, and the boy had reciprocated the friendship. They had many
pleasant hours chatting and fishing and hunting together.
But the boy had changed so greatly since then that Uncle Dave did not
recognize him quickly; Flying Arrow, however, could not forget “Long
Beard,” as the Indians had named the old mountaineer. It is a beautiful
trait with the Redmen always to remember their friends, and this was no
ordinary friendship.
When the weary hunters finally did reach their cabin along toward
midnight, they found Buck patiently cropping the grass near by. On the
saddle still hung the rifle and the mountain sheep. They quickly
relieved his tired old back of its burdens and went in to prepare
supper.
“Do you think those devils will stir up more trouble for us?” asked
Fred.
“There’s no tellin’, boy; but don’t worry; the Lord has brought us over
a pretty rough trail to-day. I reckon we kin trust him fer the rest o’
the way.”
“That white devil is at the bottom of their meanness; he ought to be
given his just deserts, and I’m going to see that he gets them.” Fred’s
tone had a new ring in it. His latent manliness had been aroused.
“You’re right, boy,” returned his old friend calmly; “but let’s say our
prayers now and go to sleep. Give your nerves a rest before you grip
that job.”
“All right,” said Fred, “but I’m going to grip it.”