KAHWA.
We soon found that the country which we were now in was simply full of
animals. Of course it had had its share of inhabitants before the fire,
and, in addition, all those that fled before the flames had crowded into
it; besides which the beasts of prey from all directions were drawn
towards the same place by the abundance of food which was easy to get.
We heard terrible stories of sufferings and narrow escapes, and the
poor deer especially, when they had at last won to a place of safety
from the flames, were generally so tired and so bewildered that they
fell an easy prey to the pumas and wolves. All night long the forest was
full of the yelping of the coyotes revelling over the bodies of animals
that the larger beasts had killed and only partly eaten, and every
creature seemed to be quarrelling with those of its kind, the former
inhabitants of the neighborhood resenting the intrusion of the
newcomers. For ourselves, nobody attacked us. We found two other
families of bears quite close to us, but though we did not make friends
at first, they did not quarrel with us. We were glad enough to live in
peace, and to be able to devote ourselves to learning something about
the new country.
In general it was very much like the place that we had left--the same
succession of mountain after mountain, all densely covered with trees,
and with the streams winding down through gulch and valley. The stream
that we had followed was now a river, broader all along its course than
the beavers' pool which had saved our lives, and at one place, about two
miles beyond the end of the burned region, it passed through a valley,
wider than any that I had seen, with an expanse of level land on either
side. Here it was, on this level bottom-land, that I first tasted what
are, I think, next to honey, of all wild things the greatest treat that
a bear knows--ripe blueberries. But this "berry-path," as we called it,
was to play a very important part in my life, and I must explain.
We had soon learned that we were now almost in the middle of men. There
was the party which had passed us going up the stream into the burned
country. There were two more log-houses about a mile from the edge of
the burned country, and therefore also behind us. There were others
farther down the stream, and almost every day men passed either up or
down the river, going from one set of houses to another. Finally we
heard, and, before we had been there a week, saw with our own eyes, that
only some ten miles farther on, where our stream joined another and made
a mighty river, there was a town, which had all sprung up since last
winter, in which hundreds of men lived together. This was the great
draw-back to our new home. But if we went farther on, the chances were
that we should only come to more and more men; and for the present, by
lying up most of the day, and only going out at night in the direction
of their houses, there was no difficulty in keeping away from them.
Familiarity with them indeed had lessened our terror. We certainly had
no desire to hurt them, and they, as they passed up and down or went
about their work digging in the ground along the side of the river or
chopping down trees, appeared to give no thought to us; and with that
fear removed, even though we kept constantly on the alert, lest they
should unexpectedly come too near us, our life was happy and free from
care. Father and mother grew to be like their old selves again, less
gruff and nervous than they had been since the memorable day when we saw
Cinnamon with his broken leg; and as for Kahwa and me, though we romped
less than we used to do--for we were seven months old now, and at seven
months a bear is getting to be a big and serious animal--we were as
happy as two young bears could be. After a long hot day, during which we
had been sleeping in the shade, what could be more delightful than to go
and lie in the cool stream, where it flowed only a foot or so deep, and
as clear as the air itself, over a firm sandy bottom? There were frogs,
and snails, and beetles of all sorts, along the water's edge, and the
juicy stems of the reeds and water-plants. Then, in the night we
wandered abroad finding lily roots, and the sweet ferns, and camas, and
mushrooms, with another visit to the river in the early morning and
perhaps a trout to wind up with before the sun drove us under cover
again. And above all there was the berry-patch.
The mere smell of a berry-patch at the end of summer, when the sun has
been beating down all day, so that the air is heavy with the scent of
the cooking fruit, is delicious enough, but it is nothing to the
sweetness of the berries themselves.
It was in the evening, after our dip in the river, when twilight was
shading into night, that we used to visit the patch. It was a great open
space in a bend of the river, half a mile long and nearly as wide,
without a tree on it, and nothing but just the blueberry bushes growing
close together all over it, reaching about up to one's chest as one
walked through, and every bush loaded with berries. Not only we, but
every bear in the neighborhood, used to go there each evening--the two
other families of whom I have spoken, and also two other single
he-bears who had no families. One of these was the only animal in the
neighborhood--except the porcupines, which every bear hates--whom I
disliked and feared. He was a bad-tempered beast, bigger than father,
with whom at our first meeting he wanted to pick a quarrel, while making
friends with mother. She, however, would not have anything to say to
him. When he was getting ready to fight my father--walking sideways at
him and snarling, while my father, I am bound to confess, backed
away--mother did not say a word, but went straight at him as she had
rushed at the puma that day when she saved my life. Then father jumped
at him also, and between them they bundled him along till he fairly took
to his heels and ran. But whenever we met him after that--and we saw him
every evening at the patch--he snarled viciously at us, and I, at least,
was careful to keep father and mother between him and me. If he had
caught any one of us alone, I believe he would have killed us; so we
took care that he never should.
I can see the berry-patch now, lying white and shining in the moonlight,
with here and there round the edges, and even sometimes pretty well out
into the middle, if the night was not too light, the black spots showing
where the bears were feeding. We enjoyed our feasts in silence, and
beyond an occasional snapping of a twig, or the cry of some animal from
the forest, or the screech of a passing owl, there was not a sound but
that of our own eating. One night, however, there came an interruption.
It was bright moonlight, and we were revelling in our enjoyment of the
fruit, but father was curiously restless. The air was very still, but in
a little gust of wind early in the evening father declared that he had
smelled man. As an hour passed and there was no further sign of him,
however, we forgot him in the delight of the ripe berries. Suddenly from
the other side of the patch, nearly half a mile away from us, rang out
the awful voice of the thunder-stick. We did not wait to see what was
happening, but made at all speed for the shelter of the trees, and tore
on up the mountain slope. There was no further sound, but we did not
dare to go back to the patch that night, nor did we see any of the other
bears; so that it was not until some days afterwards that we heard that
the thunder-stick had very nearly killed the mother of one of the other
families. It had cut a deep wound in her neck, and she had saved
herself only by plunging into the woods. If we had known all this at the
time, I doubt if we should have gone back to the berry-patch as we did
on the very next night.
On our way to the patch we met the bad-tempered bear coming away from
it. That was curious, and if it had been anybody else we should
undoubtedly have asked him why he was leaving the feast at that time in
the evening. Had we done so, it might have saved a lot of trouble. As it
was, we only snarled back at him as he passed snarling by us, and went
on our way. We were very careful, however, and took a long time to make
our way out of the trees down to the edge of the bushes; but there was
no sound to make us uneasy, nor any smell of man in such wind as blew.
Of course we took care to approach the patch at the farthest point from
where we had heard the thunder-stick on the night before. It was a
cloudy night, and the moon shone only at intervals. Taking advantage of
a passing cloud, we slipped out from the cover of the trees into the
berry-bushes. We could see no other bears, but they might be hidden by
the clouds. In a minute, however, the moon shone out, and had there
been any others there--at least, as far out from the edge as
ourselves--we must have been able to see them. Certainly, alas! we were
seen, for even as I was looking round the patch in the first ray of the
moonlight to see if any of our friends were there, the thunder-stick
rang out again, and once more we plunged for the trees. But this time
the sound was much nearer, and there was a second report before we were
well into the shadow, and then a third. So terrified were we that there
was no thought of stopping, but after we got into the woods we kept
straight on as fast as we could go, father and mother in front, I next,
and Kahwa behind; and none of us looked back, for we heard the shouts of
men and the crashing of branches as they ran, and again and again the
thunder-stick spoke.
Suddenly I became aware that Kahwa was not behind me. I stopped and
looked round, but she was nowhere to be seen. I remembered having heard
her give a sudden squeal, as if she had trodden on something sharp, but
I had paid no attention to it at the time. Now I became frightened, and
called to father and mother to stop. They were a long way ahead, and it
was some time before I could get near enough to attract their attention
and tell them that Kahwa was missing.
Mother wished to charge straight down the hill again at the men,
thunder-sticks or no thunder-sticks; but father dissuaded her, and at
last we began to retrace our steps cautiously, keeping our ears and
noses open for any sign either of Kahwa or of man. As we came near the
edge of the wood, noises reached us--shouts and stamping; and then,
mixed with the other sounds, I clearly heard Kahwa's voice. She was
crying in anger and pain, as if she was fighting, and fighting
desperately. A minute later we were near enough to see, and a miserable
sight it was that we saw.
Out in the middle of the berry-patch, in the brilliant moonlight, was
poor Kahwa with four men. They had fastened ropes around her, and two of
them at the end of one rope on one side, and two at the end of one on
the other, were dragging her across the middle of the patch. She was
fighting every inch of the way, but her struggles against four men were
useless, and slowly, yard by yard, she was being dragged away from us.
But if she could not fight four men, could not we? There were four of
us, and I said so to my father. But he only grunted, and reminded me of
the thunder-sticks. It was only too true. Without the thunder-sticks we
should have had no difficulty in meeting them, but with those weapons in
their hands it would only be sacrificing our lives in vain to attempt a
rescue. So there we had to stand and watch, my mother all the time
whimpering and my father growling, and sitting up on his haunches and
rubbing his nose in his chest. We dared not show ourselves in the open,
so we followed the edge of the patch, keeping alongside of the men, but
in the shadow of the trees. They pulled Kahwa across the middle of the
patch into the woods on the other side, and down to the riverbank,
where, we knew, there began an open path which the men had beaten in
going to and from their houses half a mile farther on. Here there were
several houses in a bunch together. Inside one of these they shut her,
and then all went in to another house themselves. We stayed around, and
two or three times later on we saw one or more of the men come out and
stand for a while at Kahwa's door listening; but at last they came out
no more, and we saw the lights go out in their house, and we knew that
the men had gone to sleep.
Then we crept down cautiously till we could hear Kahwa whimpering and
growling through the walls. My mother spoke to her, and there was
silence for a moment, and then, when mother spoke again, the poor little
thing recognized her voice and squealed with delight. But what could we
do? We talked to her for awhile, and tried to scratch away the earth
from round the wall, in the hope of getting at her; but it was all
useless, and as the day began to dawn nothing remained but to make off
before the men arose, and to crawl away to hide ourselves in the woods
again.
What a wretched night that was! Hitherto I do not think that I had
thought much of Kahwa. I had taken her as a matter of course, played
with her and quarrelled with her by turns, without stopping to think
what life might be without her. But now I thought of it, and as I lay
awake through the morning I realized how much she had been to me, and
wondered what the men would do with her. Most of all I wondered why they
should have wanted to catch her at all. We had no wish to do them any
harm. We were nobody's enemy; least of all was little Kahwa. Why could
not men live in peace with us as we were willing to live in peace with
them?
Long before it was dusk next evening we were in the woods as near to the
men's houses as we dared to go, but we could hear no sound of my
sister's voice. There appeared to be only one man about the place, and
he was at work chopping wood, until just at sunset, when the other three
men came back from down the stream, and we noticed that they carried
long ropes slung over their arms. Were those the ropes with which they
had dragged Kahwa the night before? If so, had they again, while we
slept, dragged her off somewhere else? We feared it must be so.
Impatiently we waited until it was dark enough to trust ourselves in the
open near the houses, and then we soon knew that our fears were
justified. The door of the house in which Kahwa had been shut was open;
the men went in and out of it, and evidently Kahwa was not there. Nor
was there any trace of her about the buildings. So under my father's
guidance we started on the path down the stream by which the three men
had returned, and it was not long before we found the marks of where she
had struggled against her captors, and in places the scent of her trail
was still perceptible, in spite of the strong man-smell which pervaded
the beaten path.
So we followed the trail down until we came to more houses; then made a
circuit and followed on again, still finding evidence that she had
passed. Soon we came to more houses, at ever shortening intervals, until
the bank of the stream on both sides was either continuously occupied by
houses or showed traces of men being constantly at work there. And
beyond was the town itself. It was of no use for us to go farther. In
the town we could see lights streaming from many of the buildings, and
the shouting of men's voices came to our ears. We wandered round the
outskirts of the town till it was daylight, and then drew back into the
hills and lay down again, very sad and hungry--for we had hardly thought
of food--and very lonesome.
Kahwa, we felt sure, was somewhere among those houses in the town. But
that was little comfort to us. And all the time we wondered what man
wanted with her, and why he could not have left us to be happy, as we
had been before he came.