Saladine listened silently to Westley’s request; but he looked at Proutt
with an eye before which Proutt uneasily turned away his head.
Nevertheless, being by nature a taciturn man, he made no comment or
suggestion. He only said: “I can find a deer.”
“Where?” Westley asked.
“Over in the Sheepscot,” said Saladine. “I’ve got mine for this season;
but I know some hardwood ridges over there where they’re like to be
feeding, come evening.”
Proutt said uneasily: “Hell, there’s a deer nearer than Sheepscot.”
“Where?” Westley asked.
“Everywhere.”
“We ain’t got time to cover that much territory to-day,” the hunter said
mildly. “If the Sheepscot suits, I’ll go along. I’m most sure well pick
up deer.”
Westley asked: “Do you think I’m testing Reck fair?”
Saladine spat. “Yes, I’d say so,” he agreed.
“I’ve got work to do,” Proutt still objected. “Sheepscot’s a danged long
way.”
“I want you to come,” said Westley.
So Proutt assented at last; and they set off in his team. He and Westley
in the front seat, Saladine and Reck behind. A five-mile drive over the
Sheepscot Ridge. “Past Mac’s Corner,” Saladine told them; and they went
that way.
The road took them by Proutt’s house; and old Dan, Proutt’s hound, came
out to bark at them, and saw Proutt, and tried to get into the buggy.
Proutt bade him back to the house; then, as an afterthought, got out and
shut the hound indoors. “Don’t want him following,” he said.
Saladine’s eyes were narrow with thought, but he made no comment, and
they moved on their way.
That part of Maine in which Fraternity lies is a curious study for
geologists. A good many centuries ago, when the great glaciers graved
this land, they slid down from north to south into the sea, and in their
sliding plowed deep furrows, so that the country is cut up by ridges,
running almost true north and south, and ending in peninsulas with bays
between. Thus the coast line is jagged as a saw.
These ridges run far up into the State; and the Sheepscot Ridge is as
bold as any one of them. There is no break in it; and it herds the
little waterways down into Sheepscot River, and guides the river itself
south till it meets the sea. There are trout in Sheepscot; and thirty
years ago the valley was full of farms and mills; but these farms are
for the most part deserted now, and the mills are gone, leaving only
shattered dams to mark the spots where they stood. The valley is a
tangle of second-growth timber, broken here and there by ancient meadows
through which brooks meander. Here dwells every wild thing that the
region knows.
Proutt’s old buggy climbed the long road up the eastern slope of the
ridge; and the somber beauty of the countryside lay outspread behind
them. The sun was falling lower; the shadows were lengthening; and a
cold wind blew across the land. Across George’s Valley and George’s Lake
lay the lower hills, the Appleton Ridge beyond, and far southeast the
higher domes of Megunticook and the Camden Hills. The bay itself could
not be seen, but the dark top of Blue Hill showed, twenty miles beyond
the bay; and Mount Desert, ten miles farther still....
The men had no eyes for these beauties. They rode in silence, watching
the road ahead. And they passed through Liberty, and past Mac’s Corner,
and so up to top the ridge at last. Paused there to breathe Proutt’s
horse.
* * * * *
Back at Proutt’s home, about the time they were in Liberty, some one had
opened the door of the shed in which old Dan was locked; and the hound,
watching his chance, scuttled out into the open. What well-founded habit
prompted him can only be guessed; certain it is that he wheeled, never
heeding the calls from behind him, and took the road by which Proutt had
gone, hard on his master’s trail.
If the dog trainer had known this, matters might have turned out
differently. But Proutt could not know.
V
The roads from Sheepscot Ridge down into Sheepscot Valley are for the
most part rough and little used. An occasional farmer comes this way; an
occasional fisherman drops from the steep descent to the bridge. But the
frost has thrown boulders up across the road; and grass grows between
the ruts, and the young hardwood crowds close on either side. Down this
road, at Saladine’s direction, Proutt turned; and the westering sun
shone through the leafless branches and laid a bright mosaic before the
feet of the horse.
Halfway down the hill Saladine spoke. “Let’s light out,” he said. “We’ll
find something up along this slope.”
Westley nodded; and Proutt, after a moment’s hesitation, stopped his
horse. They got out, and Reck danced about their feet. Proutt tied the
horse to a sapling beside the road; and they climbed the ruined stone
wall and turned into the wood. Westley alone had a gun; the others were
unarmed.
The course Saladine set for them was straight along the slope, moving
neither up nor down; and the three men, accustomed to the woods, went
quickly. Westley spoke to Reck now and then. His only word was the
hunter’s command. “Get in there,” he said. “Get in. Go on.” And Reck
ranged forward, and up, and down, covering a front of half a dozen rods
as they advanced. Westley was in the middle, Saladine was below, Proutt
above the other two.
Westley had suggested putting his hunting bell on Reck; but Proutt
negatived that with a caustic word. “He’d know, then, you wanted birds,”
he said. “And, anyways, it’d scare the deer.” So they followed the dog
by sight or by the stirring of his feet among the leaves; and at times
he was well ahead of them, and at times when he moved more slowly they
were close upon his heels. At such moments Westley held them back till
Reck should work ahead.
Whether Reck had any knowledge of what was in their minds, no man can
say. There were moments when they saw he was uncertain, when he turned
to look inquiringly back at them. But for the most part he worked
steadily back and forth as a good dog will, quartering the ground by
inches. And always he progressed along the ridge, and always they
followed him. And Saladine, down the slope, watched Proutt as they moved
on.
No man spoke, save that Westley urged Reck softly on when the dog turned
back to look at them. And at the last, when he saw that Reck had found
game, it needed no word to bring the three together, two or three rods
behind the dog.
Reck, as the gunners say, was “marking game.” Nose down, he moved
forward, foot by foot; and now and then he stopped for long seconds
motionless, as though at point; but always he moved forward again. And
Westley felt the cold sweat upon his forehead; and he looked at Proutt
and saw the dog trainer licking his tight lips. Only Saladine kept a
steady eye upon the dog and searched the thickets ahead.
After a rod or two Reck stopped, and this time he did not move. And
Westley whispered to the others: “Walk it up, whatever it is. Move in.”
So the men went slowly forward, eyes aching with the strain of staring
into the shadows of the wood.
When Reck took his point he was well ahead of them. He held it while
they came up beside him; and then, as they passed where the dog stood,
something plunged in the brush ahead, and they all saw the swift flash
of brown and the bobbing white tail as a buck deer drove straight away
from them along the slope. And Proutt cried triumphantly:
“A deer, by God! I said it. I told you so. Shoot, Westley. Damn you,
shoot!”
Westley stood still as still, and his heart was sunk a hundred fathoms
deep. His hand was shaking and his eyes were blurred with tears. For
Reck, who had no rightful concern with anything that roved the woods
save the creatures which go on the wing, had marked a deer. Enough to
damn him! Had hunted deer!...
He tried to lift the gun, but Saladine spoke sharply. “Hold on. Look at
the dog. He didn’t chase the deer.”
Westley realized then that Reck was, in fact, still marking game, moving
slowly on ahead of them. But Proutt cried: “He’d smelled it; he didn’t
see it go. Or there’s another ahead.”
“He didn’t chase the deer,” said Saladine. Westley, without speaking,
moved forward behind the dog. And of a second his heart could beat
again.
For they came to where the buck had been lying, to his bed, still warm.
And Reck passed over this warm bed, where the deer scent was so strong
the men could almost catch it themselves; passed over this scent as
though it did not exist, and swung, beyond, to the right, and up the
slope. The buck had gone forward and down.
“He’s not after deer,” said Saladine.
They knew what he was after in the next instant; for wings drummed ahead
of them, and four partridges got up, huge, fleeting shadows in the
darkening woods. And Reck’s nose followed them in flight till they were
gone, then swung back to Westley, wrinkling curiously, as though he
asked:
“Why did you not shoot?”
Westley went down on his knees and put his arms about the dog’s neck;
and then he came to his feet uncertainly as Proutt exclaimed: “Hell, he
was after deer. He knew we were watching. Took the birds.”
Westley tried to find a word, but Saladine, that silent man, stepped
forward.
“Westley,” he said, “wait a minute. You, Proutt, be still.”
They looked at him uncertainly, Proutt growling. And Saladine spat on
the ground as though he tasted the unclean. “I’ve kept my mouth shut.
Wanted to see. Meant to tell it in the end. Westley, Proutt broke your
dog.”
Westley nodded. “Yes.” He looked at Proutt.
“He broke him to run deer.”
Westley began to tremble, and he could not take his eyes from Saladine;
and Proutt broke out in a roaring oath, till Saladine turned slowly upon
him.
The deer hunter went on: “I waited to see. I knowed what would come; but
I wanted to see. A bird dog’s bred to birds. If he’s bred right, it’s in
him. Reck’s bred right. You can make him run deer. Proutt did. But you
can’t make him like it. Birds is his meat. You saw that just now. He
didn’t pay any heed to that buck; but he did pay heed to the pa’tridge.”
Proutt cried: “Damn you, Saladine, you can’t say a thing like that.”
Saladine cut in: “I saw you. Month ago. Down by Fuller’s Brook. A deer
crossed there, up into the meadow. You was in the alders with Reck, and
you tried to set him on. He wouldn’t run, and you drove him. I saw you,
Proutt.”
Westley looked down at Reck; and he looked at Proutt, the trainer; and
he looked back at Reck again. There was something in Reck’s eyes which
made him hot and angry; there was a pleading something in Reck’s slowly
wagging tail.... And Westley turned to Proutt, cool enough now; and he
said:
“I can see it now, Proutt. I’ve known there was something, felt there
was something.” He laughed joyously. “Why, Proutt, you man who knows
dogs. Didn’t you know you could not kill the soul and the honor of a dog
like mine? Reck is a thoroughbred. He knows his work. And you--”
He moved a little toward the other. “Proutt,” he said, “I’m going to
lick you till you can’t stand.”
Proutt’s big head lowered between his shoulders. “So--” he said.
And Westley stepped toward him.
Saladine said nothing; Reck did not stir; and the woods about them were
as still as still. It was in this silence, before a blow could be
struck, that they heard the sound of running feet in the timber above
them; and Saladine said swiftly: “Deer!”
He moved, with the word, half a dozen paces back by the way they had
come, to an old wood road they had crossed, and stood there, looking up
the slope. Westley and Proutt forgot each other and followed him; and
Reck stayed close at Westley’s heel. They could hear the beating feet
more plainly now; and Saladine muttered:
“Scared. Something chasing it.”
On the word, abruptly startling them, the deer came into view--a doe,
running swiftly and unwearied. Striking the wood road, the creature
followed the easier going, down the slope toward them; and because they
were so still it failed to discover the men till it was scarce two rods
away. Sighting them then, the doe stopped an instant, then lightly
leaped into the brush at one side, and was gone.
The men did not look after the deer; they waited to see what pursued it.
And after a moment Saladine’s face grimly hardened, and Westley’s became
somber and grave, and Proutt turned pale as ashes.
For, lumbering down the hill upon the deer’s hot trail, came Dan, that
hound which Proutt had shut away at home--came Dan, hot on the trail as
Proutt had taught him.
The dog saw them, as the deer had done, and would have swung aside. But
Proutt cried, in a broken voice: “Dan, come in.”
So came the hound to heel, sullenly and slowly, eyes off into the wood
where the doe had gone; and for a moment no one spoke, till Saladine
slowly drawled:
“Westley, give Proutt your gun.”
Westley did not speak. He was immensely sorry for Proutt, and all his
anger at the man had gone. Proutt looked old, and shaken, and weary; and
he had dropped his heavy hand across Dan’s neck. He caught Westley’s eye
and said harshly: “To hell with your gun. I’ll use my own.”
An instant more they stood; then Westley turned to Saladine. “Jim, let’s
go,” he said. And Saladine nodded, and they moved away, Reck at
Westley’s heels. After a moment, an odd panic in his voice, Proutt
called after them: “Wait, I’ll ride you home.”
But Saladine answered: “I’ll walk!” And Westley did not speak at all. He
and Reck and the deer hunter went steadily upon their way.
The sun was setting; and dark shadows filtered through the trees to hide
old Proutt where he still stood close beside his dog.
“JESHURUN WAXED FAT”
I
It was an evening at Chet McAusland’s farm, on the hill above
Fraternity. Chet and I had been all day in the woodcock covers with the
dogs, Reck and Frenchy, and with the ghost of old Tantrybogus going on
before us. We had come home to a heaping supper of fried woodcock,
boiled potatoes, sweet salt pork, squash, doughnuts, cheese, and Mrs.
McAusland’s incomparable biscuits, with pie to follow after. When Chet’s
chores were done, we went down to Will Bissell’s store to brag about our
day’s bag and get the mail; and now we were at home again, and Chet, to
confirm his recollection in connection with an ancient catch of trout of
which he spoke, brought from the desk in the front room an old
leather-backed account-book and conned its yellowing pages.
When he had found that which he sought, he laid the book down between
us, and as he talked, I picked it up and looked it through, idly. The
covers were worn and ragged with age, and there was a flap upon the one
that entered a slit upon the other, holding the book securely closed.
The pages were filled with entries in pencil or in pen, and some of
these were concerned with matters of business concluded twenty years
before; and some recorded the results of days with rod or gun; while
here and there, dropped at random, were paragraphs or pages devoted to
casual incidents that had struck Chet’s fancy through a space of forty
years. On one such series I chanced, and read the entries through, first
to myself, and then, with some amusement, aloud. They ran in this wise:
June 6, 1883. Jed was taken sick to-day with a pain in his stomach.
He seems very weak. The old man won’t last long.
March, 1887. The old man’s stomach is bothering him again. He has
to stay in bed right along.
September 2, 1892. Abbie Grant says Uncle Jed’s pain is worse. He’s
not long for this world.
July, 1895. That pain in Uncle Jed’s insides still hangs on. It
will be the death of him.
August 2, 1898. Deborah Grant was here to-day. The old man still
breathes.
May, 1900. Uncle Jed is still alive and kicking.
When I had finished reading these items aloud, Chet drew his chin back
against his neck and laughed with that robust vigor which is
characteristic of him; and I, without at all understanding the jest,
nevertheless laughed in sympathy.
“But it seems to me,” I suggested, “that the record ends here a bit
abruptly. What happened to the old man, anyway?”
“That was old Uncle Jed Grant,” Chet told me, tears of mirth in his
eyes. “I could tell you things about Uncle Jed that ’u’d surprise you.”
Mrs. McAusland called from the kitchen to warn me that if I didn’t look
out I’d get Chet started; but I reassured her, and bade Chet tell on.
That which follows is the substance of his telling.