*CHAPTER III.*
_*THE FIRST SNOWSTORM.*_
IN the midst of the danger and excitement of the chase, Bowkett had nota thought to spare for Wilfred. He and Diome were far too busy to evenwonder what had become of him. It was not until their work was done,and the proverbial hunger of the hunter urged them to prepare fordinner, that the question arose.
"Where on earth is that young scoundrel of a boy? Has he fallen back sofar that it will take him all day to recover ground?" asked Bowkett.
"And if it is so," remarked Diome, "he has only to give that cunninglittle brute its head. It is safe to follow the track of thecart-wheel, and bring him in for the glorious teasing that is waiting tosugar his tea."
"Rare seasoning for the frying-pan," retorted Bowkett, as he lit hispipe, and proposed to halt a bit longer until the truant turned up.
"Maybe," suggested Diome, "if May bees fly in October, that moose-earedpony [the long ears of the moose detect the faintest sound at aninconceivable distance] has been more than a match for his rawequestrianism. It has heard the jog-trot of that solemn and sobercowherd, and galloped him off to join his old companions. What willbecome of the scattered flock?"
"Without a leader," put in Bowkett. "I have a great mind to bid for theoffice."
"Oh, oh!" laughed Diome. "I have something of the keen scent of myIndian grandfather; I began to sniff the wind when that mantle wastalked about last night. Now then, are we going to track back to findthis boy?"
"I do not know where you propose to look for him, but I can tell youwhere you will find him--munching cakes on his auntie's lap. We may aswell save time by looking in the likeliest place first," retortedBowkett.
The bivouac over, they returned to Acland's Hut with their well-ladencart, and Wilfred was left behind them, no one knew where. The hunters'careless conclusions were roughly shaken, when they saw a riderless ponytrotting leisurely after them to the well-known door. Old Pete came outand caught it by the bridle. An ever-rising wave of consternation wasspreading. No one as yet had put it into words, until Forgill emergedfrom the cattle-sheds with a sack on his shoulder, exclaiming, "Where'sthe boy?"
"With you, is not he? He did not say much to us; either he or his ponystarted off to follow you. He was an unruly one, you know," repliedBowkett. Forgill's only answer was a hoarse shout to Marley, who hadreturned from his wanderings earlier in the day, to come with torches.Diome joined them in the search.
Bowkett stepped into the house to allay Aunt Miriam's fears with hisregret the boy had somehow given them the slip, but Forgill and Diomehad gone back for him.
An abundant and what seemed to them a luxuriant supper had been providedfor the hunting party. Whilst Bowkett sat down to enjoy it to hisheart's content, Aunt Miriam wandered restlessly from room to room,cautiously breaking the ill news to her brother, by telling him onlyhalf the hunting party had yet turned up. Pete was watching for thestragglers.
He roused himself up to ask her who was missing.
But her guarded reply reassured him, and he settled back to sleep. Suchmishaps were of every-day occurrence.
"A cold night for camping out," he murmured. "You will see them with thedaylight."
But the chilly hour which precedes the dawn brought with it a heavy fallof snow.
Aunt Miriam's heart sank like lead, for she knew that every track wouldbe obliterated now. Bowkett still laughed away her fears. Find the boythey would, benumbed perhaps at the foot of a tree, or huddled up insome sheltering hollow.
Then Aunt Miriam asked Bowkett if he would earn her everlastinggratitude, by taking the dogs and Pete, with skins and blankets--
"And bringing the truant home," responded Bowkett boastfully.
The farm-house, with its double doors and windows, its glowing stoves inevery room, was as warm and cozy within as the night without wascheerless and cold. Bowkett, who had been enjoying his taste of trueEnglish comfort, felt its allurements enhanced by the force of thecontrast. Aunt Miriam barred the door behind him with a great deal ofunearned gratitude in her heart. Her confidence in Forgill was shaken.He ought not to have brought home the cows and left her nephew behind.Yet the herd was so valuable, and he felt himself responsible to hismaster for their well-being. She did not blame Forgill; she blamedherself for letting Wilfred go with him. She leaned upon the hunter'sassurances, for she knew that his resource and daring, and his knowledgeof the country, were far greater than that possessed by either of thefarming men.
The storm which had burst at daybreak had shrouded all around in a densewhite sheet of driving snowflakes. Even objects close at hand showeddim and indistinct in the gray snow-light. On the search-party went,groping their way through little clumps of stunted bushes, whichfrequently deceived them by a fancied resemblance to a boyish figure,now throwing up its arms to call attention, now huddled in a darklingheap. Their shouts received no answer: that went for little. The boymust long ago have succumbed to such a night without fire or shelterThey felt among the bushes. The wet mass of snow struck icily cold onhands and faces. A bitter, biting wind swept down the river from thenorth-east, breaking the tall pine branches and uprooting many asapling. The two search-parties found each other that was all. Suchweather in itself makes many a man feel savage-tempered and sullen. Ifthey spoke at all, it was to blame one another.
While thus they wandered to and fro over the hunting-ground ofyesterday, where was the boy they failed to meet? Where was Wilfred?Fortunately for him the grass grew thick and tall at the bottom of thebank down which he had fallen. Lost to view amid the waving yellowtufts which had sprung up to giant size in the bed of the dried-upstream, he lay for some time in utter unconsciousness; whilst thefrightened pony, finding itself free, galloped madly away over the sandyridges they had been crossing earlier in the morning.
By slow degrees sight and sound returned to the luckless boy. He wasbruised and shaken, and one ankle which he had bent under him made himcry out with pain when he tried to rise. At last he drew himself into asitting posture and looked around. Recollections came back confusedly atfirst. As his ideas grew clearer, he began to realize what hadhappened. Overhead the sky was gloomy and dark. A stormy wind swept thewhitened grass around him into billowy waves. Wilfred's first thoughtwas to shout to his companions; but his voice was weak and faint, and alonging for a little water overcame him.
Finding himself unable to walk, he dropped down again in the grassy nestwhich he had formed for himself, and tried to think. The weight of hisfall had crushed the grass beneath him into the soft clayey mud at thebottom of the valley. But the pain in his ankle predominated over everyother consideration. His first attempt to help himself was to take theknife out of his belt and cut down some of the grass within reach, andmake a softer bed on which to rest it. His limbs were stiffening withthe cold, and whilst he had still feeling enough in his fingers to undohis boot, he determined to try to bind up his ankle. Whilst he held itpressed between both his hands it seemed easier.
But Wilfred knew he must not sit there waiting for Forgill, who, he feltsure, would come and look for him if he had rejoined the hunting party:if--there were so many _ifs_ clinging to every thought Wilfred grewdesperate. He grasped a great handful of the sticky clay and pressed itround his ankle in a stiff, firm band. There was a change in theatmosphere. In the morning that clay would have been hard and crispwith the frost, now it was yielding in his hand; surely the snow wascoming. Boy as he was, he knew what that would do for him--he should beburied beneath it in the hole in which he lay. It roused him to theuttermost. Deep down in Wilfred's nature there was a vein of that cooldaring which the great Napoleon called "two o'clock in the morningcourage"--a feeling which rises highest in the face of danger, borrowinglittle from its surroundings, and holding only to its own.
"If," repeated Wilfred, as his thoughts ran on--"if they could not findme, and that is likely enough, am I going to lie here and die?"
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br /> He looked up straight into the leaden sky. "There is nothing between usand God's heaven," he thought. "It is we who see such a little way. Hecan send me help. It may be coming for what I know, one way or another.What is the use of sitting here thinking? Has Bowkett missed me? Willhe turn back to look me up? Will Forgill come? If I fall asleep downin this grass, how could they see me? Any way, I must get out of thishole." He tore the lining out of his cap and knotted it round hisankle, to keep the clay in place; but to put his boot on again was animpossibility. Even he knew his toes would freeze before morning if heleft them uncovered. He took his knife and cut off the fur edge downthe front of the old skin coat, and wound his foot up in it as fast ashe could. Then, dragging his boot along with him, he tried hard tocrawl up the bank; but it was too steep for him, and he slipped backagain, hurting himself a little more at every slide.
This, he told himself, was most unnecessary, as he was sore enough andstiff enough before. Another bad beginning. What was the use ofstopping short at a bad beginning? He thought of Bruce and his spider.He had not tried seven times yet.
Wilfred's next attempt was to crawl towards the entrance of thevalley--this was easier work. Then he remembered the biscuit in hispocket. It was not all gone yet. He drew himself up and began to eatit gladly enough, for he had had nothing since his breakfast. Thebiscuit was very hard, and he crunched it, making all the noise hecould. It seemed a relief to make any sort of sound in that awfulstillness.
He was growing almost cheery as he ate. "If I can only find thecart-track," he thought; "and I must be near it. Diome was behind uswhen I was thrown; he must have driven past the end of this valley. IfI could only climb a tree, I might see where the grass was crushed bythe cart-wheel."
But this was just what Wilfred could not do. The last piece of biscuitwas in his hand, when a dog leaped out of the bushes on the bank abovehim and flew at it. Wilfred seized his boot to defend himself; but thatwas hopeless work, crawling on the ground. It was a better thought tofling the biscuit to the dog, for if he enraged it--ah! it might tearhim to pieces. It caught the welcome boon in its teeth, and devouredit, pawing the ground impatiently for more. Wilfred had but one potatoleft. He began to cut it in slices and toss them to the dog. A brightthought had struck him: this dog might have a master near. No doubtabout that; and if he were only a wild Red Indian, he was yet a man.Full of this idea, Wilfred emptied out his pockets to see if a corner ofbiscuit was left at the bottom. There were plenty of crumbs. He forgothis own hunger, and held out his hand to the dog. It was evidentlystarving. It sat down before him, wagging its bushy tail and moving itsjaws beseechingly, in a mute appeal for food. Wilfred drew himself alittle nearer, talking and coaxing. One sweep of the big tongue and thepile of crumbs had vanished.
There was a sound--a crashing, falling sound--in the distance. How theyboth listened! Off rushed the furry stranger.
"It is my chance," thought Wilfred, "my only chance."
He picked up the half-eaten potato and scrambled after the dog, quiteforgetting his pain in his desperation. A vociferous barking in thedistance urged him on.
It was not Bowkett, by the strange dog; but another hunting party mightbe near. The noise he had heard was the fall of some big game. Hoperose high; but he soon found himself obliged to rest, and then heshouted with all his might. He was making his way up the valley now.He saw before him a clump of willows, whose drooping boughs must havelapped the stream. His boot was too precious to be left behind; heslung it to his belt, and then crawled on. One more effort. He hadcaught the nearest bough, and, by its help, he drew himself upright. Ohthe pain in the poor foot when he let it touch the ground! it made himcry out again and again. Still he persisted in his purpose. He graspeda stronger stem arching higher overhead, and swung himself clear fromthe ground. The pliant willow swayed hither and thither in the stormyblast. Wilfred almost lost his hold. The evening shadows were gatheringfast. The dead leaves swept down upon him with every gust. The windwailed and sighed amongst the tall white grass and the bulrushes at hisfeet. It was impossible to resist a feeling of utter desolation.
Wilfred shut his eyes upon the dreary scene. The snatch of prayer onhis lips brought back the bold spirit of an hour ago. He rested thepoor injured ankle on his other foot, and drew himself up, hand overhand, higher and higher, to the topmost bough, and there he clung, untila stronger blast than ever flung him backwards towards the bank. Hefelt the bough giving way beneath his weight, and, with a desperatespring, clutched at the stunted bushes which had scratched his cheekwhen for one moment, in the toss of the gale, he had touched the hard,firm, stony ridge. Another moment, and Wilfred found himself, gaspingand breathless, on the higher ground. An uprooted tree came down with ashock of thunder, shaking the earth beneath him, loosening thewater-washed stones, and crashing among the decaying branches of itsfellow pines.
At last the whirl of dust and stones subsided, and the barking of thedog made itself heard once more above the roar of the gale. Tremblingat his hair-breadth escape, Wilfred cleared the dust from his eyes andlooked about him. A dark form was lying upon the shelving ground. Hecould just distinguish the outstretched limbs and branching antlers of awild moose-deer.
Whoever the hunter might be he would seek his quarry. Wilfred felthimself saved. The tears swam before his eyes. He was looking upwardin the intensity of his thankfulness. He did not see the arrowquivering still in the dead deer's flank, or he would have known that itcould only have flown from some Indian bow.
He had nothing to do but to wait, to wait and shout. A warm touch on thetip of his ear made him look round; the dog had returned to him. It,too, had been struck--a similar arrow was sticking in the back of itsneck. It twisted its head round as far as it was possible, vainlytrying to reach it, and then looked at Wilfred with a mute, appealingglance there was no mistaking. The boy sat up, laid one hand on thedog's back, and grasped the arrow with the other. He tugged at it withall his might; the point was deep in the flesh. But it came out atlast, followed by a gush of blood.
"Stand still, good dog. There, quiet, quiet!" cried Wilfred quickly, ashe tore a bit of fur off his cap and plugged the hole.
The poor wounded fellow seemed to understand all about it. He onlyturned his head and licked the little bit of Wilfred's face that wasjust visible under his overwhelming cap. A doggie's gratitude is neverwanting.
"Don't, you stupid," said Wilfred. "How am I to see what I am about ifyou keep washing me between my eyes? There! just what I expected, it isout again. Now, steady."
Another try, and the plug was in again, firmer than before.
"There, there! lie down, and let me hold it a bit," continued Wilfred,carefully considering his shaggy acquaintance.
He was a big, handsome fellow, with clean, strong legs and a hairy coat,which hung about his keen, bright eyes and almost concealed them. Butthe fur was worn and chafed around his neck and across his back, leavingno doubt in Wilfred's mind as to what he was.
"You have been driven in a sledge, old boy," he said, as he continued tofondle him. "You've worn harness until it has torn your coat and madeit shabbier than mine. You are no hunter's dog, as I hoped. I expectyou have been overdriven, lashed along until you dropped down in thetraces; and then your hard-hearted driver undid your harness, and leftyou to live or die. Oh! I know their cruel ways. How long have youbeen wandering? It isn't in nature that I shouldn't feel for you, for Iam afraid, old fellow, I am in for such another 'do.'"
Wilfred was not talking to deaf ears. The dog lay down beside him, andstretched its long paws across his knee, looking up in his face, as if aword of kindness were something so new, so unimagined, so utterlyincomprehensible. Was it the first he had ever heard?
No sunset glory brightened the dreary scene. All around them was anever-deepening gloom. Wilfred renewed his shouts at intervals, and thedog barked as if in answer. Then followed a long silent pause, whenWilfred listened as if his wh
ole soul were in his ears. Was there thefaintest echo of a sound? Who could distinguish in the teeth of thegale, still tearing away the yellow leaves from the storm-tossedbranches, and scaring the wild fowl from marsh and lakelet? Who couldtell? And yet there was a shadow thrown across the white pine stem.
Another desperate shout. Wilfred's heart was in his mouth as he stroveto make himself heard above the roar of the wind. On came the statelyfigure of a wild Cree chief. His bow was in his hand, but he wasglancing upwards at the stormy sky. His stealthy movements and hislight and noiseless tread had been unheard, even by the dog.
The Indian was wearing the usual dress of the Cree--a coat of skin witha scarlet belt, and, as the night was cold, his raven elf-locks werecovered with a little cap his squaw had manufactured from a rat-skin.His blue cloth leggings and beautiful embroidered moccasins were not soconspicuous in the fading light. Wilfred could but notice thefingerless deer-skin mittens covering the hand which grasped his bow.His knife and axe were stuck in his belt, from which his well-filledquiver hung.
Wilfred tumbled himself on to one knee, and holding out the arrow he hadextracted from the dog, he pointed to the dead game on the bank.
Wilfred was more truly afraid of the wild-looking creature before himthan he would have been of the living moose.
Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story Page 3