by Kate Seredy
Then, Saturday morning around nine o’clock, Andy came ambling up the driveway. It was a very cold day; the night before it had been snowing and now a young north wind was playing games in the snow, like children play in the sand. It scooped the powdery snow up and dumped it down again, building sharp-edged little drifts, it threw snow up in the air, blinding people or blowing it down the open collars of the unwary.
Andy was not unwary; he knew his north wind. He was buttoned up to his chin and a cap with earmuffs on it met his coat collar protectively.
Dick was helping Janet with the chickens. Andy waved at them, but went straight up to the barn to meet Father who was on his way to the house for his second breakfast. They spoke to each other for a few minutes, then came over to the chickenyard.
“It’s all right with me, Andy,” Father was saying. “Pretty cold, but they can go if they bundle up well. How far is the grove?”
Andy rubbed his nose, thinking of Janet. “ ‘Tain’t more’n ten, twelve mile the round trip. Be home before nightfall. I ain’t figured on takin’ Janet, but . . . it’s right pretty thataways now.” He grinned at Dick’s impatient: “Where are we going?”
“Gramp’s sendin’ me up mountain to the sugar maple grove, to mark trees for tappin’. I figured you might want to come, but Gramp, he says to ask your Pa first. Might see some deer; they’re commencing to come down-valley. Blastin’ and timberin’ by the new watershed is sendin’ them down early; they don’t like that.”
Janet looked uncertain. “Big cats too? The kind you told us about . . . catamounts?”
Before Andy could answer, Father asked: “What in the world is a catamount?” He was smiling at Andy, expecting a joke. Andy’s eyes flickered. “Ain’t ever seen a one? Well, catamount is a . . . big cat. Some call it painter, some call it mountain-lion but it ain’t no more lion than . . . that hen there. It’s a big cat; ‘bout the size of a small calf, but it’s a powerful critter. Tawny like, like the Jersey calf you got. Shortlegged and it’s got a long tail.”
“Hmm. That sounds like a good description of a puma,” Father mused, his smile wide now. “Where did you hear that story, Andy? Those cats don’t come this far north. There might be some in the warm states, but not in New York.”
“Naw?” Andy blinked rapidly. He seemed peeved. “Well, if you say they don’t, maybe they don’t. I must have been a’dreamin’ when Mr. Decker drug one home. He shot it two year back, right behind his barn.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a big dog?” Father was plainly amused. “Is that why you are taking that . . . cannon with you?” He pointed to the heavy .32 caliber rifle hanging in the crook of Andy’s arm.
“I ain’t ever sure of nothin’ but what I see with my own eyes,” Andy said calmly. “I guess you’re the same, Mr. Preston. Gramp made me tote the gun, in case I meet up with a buck deer. Gramp, he’s right fond of venison. I am too, if somebody else does the shootin’. They’re too pretty to kill. But, I got to make tracks if I want to be home before nightfall. You comin’, or are you scared?” He cocked an eyebrow at Dick, then added in a conciliatory tone: “Cats don’t come afore real winter, anyways.”
“Scared! We are coming,” Dick exclaimed. Janet, after a moment’s hesitation, said she was going, too. Andy walked back to the house with them and Father, shaking his head in an amused way, followed.
“Can we take Funnyface?” Dick asked, buttoning his coat.
“Guess you better not. She’ll stray and just be trouble to watch. Ain’t trained her any, have you?”
“You know I didn’t have time. Shall I take my gun?”
Andy shrugged. “If’n you want to tote it all day. Better grab some cookies; I got bread an’ cheese in my pocket.”
Janet raided the cookie jar and stuffed every pocket of her coat with them. Dick picked up his gun from the rack. Father chuckled: “Bring home a couple of kitties; we need cats in the barn. Don’t bother with tigers or lions, a small housecat will do.”
Andy opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind. Dick and Janet shouted: “G’-by,” in the general direction of the back parlor where Gran and Mother were, then the three of them started off.
Out on the road Andy shook his head a little. “Ain’t figured on takin’ Janet at all. You sure you won’t drag an’ make us waste time?”
“Pooh! I can walk as fast as you boys can. Can’t I, Dick?”
“She’ll be all right, I guess. Janet isn’t a cry-baby, you ought to know that,” Dick assured Andy, but Andy wasn’t any too happy about it. “Take three steps to our one with those short little legs. Well, all right if you want her along.” Then a shy smile lighted up his face. “Suits me right well to have you, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The Van Keuran farm was at the very end of their road; after they passed the sloping pastures and the Van Keuran orchard, the road turned into a lumbertrail. It ran uphill, gently for a while, cut across a clearing and began to climb in earnest toward the heavily wooded mountain. It was leading them in the opposite direction from the path to Hollow Pond.
The children didn’t talk much. Andy was setting a pretty stiff pace; it didn’t seem very fast going, but it was a steady, long-strided climb that took all the breath they had, without leaving much for conversation. The trail hugged the side of the mountain; the heavy growth of timber cut off most of the wind. The higher they climbed, the crisper the snow felt underfoot; with each step it squeaked and crackled. Janet, laughing a little breathlessly, said: “It feels like walking on powdered sugar. I like it!”
Andy turned his head to smile at her rosy face. “Ain’t tuckered out yet?”
“Oh no! I could go on and on and on. It’s so pretty up here.”
They climbed higher and higher. The trees were thinning out as they approached the first low ridge; the road became a rough, double-track path now, winding around huge boulders and jutting rocks. Then suddenly they were on level ground. There was a small clearing on the edge, beyond it stretched the maple grove; a dark stand of old, gnarled sugar maple trees. Part of the grove was on the level stretch, the rest sloping up on the side of the real mountain beyond.
“Well, this is as far as we go now,” Andy announced. “I got to mark trees,” he was taking a bundle of white tape out of his pocket. “Gramp don’t believe in tappin’ the same ones every year. Most folks do, but Gramp, he is set in his ways. He and I marked them last year, but, Gramp says I am grown enough to do it alone.”
Andy stood, with the bundle of tape in his hand, gazing down into the valley. His eyes were soft and his voice a little dreamy when he said: “Gramp, he sure likes the new machines and . . . lights and all. And Granma. Sure made a powerful diff’rence in Granma. Four days and she ain’t been a’rantin’ at me or Gramp, not once. You folks,” he went on, looking anywhere but at Dick or Janet, “well, Granma, she sure thinks a powerful lot of you folks.”
A smile crossed his face. “I . . . I been figuring and pondering a lot myself about you folks. But I ain’t got it all figured out yet. Seems to me, your Pa, and the way Gramp says he got stuck with the farm, sudden like, not wantin’ it at all . . .”
Andy shook his head. “No. It’ll take a heap of figuring to get it right in my mind. So I guess I ain’t tellin’ what I think for a spell yet.”
He was very red and wiped his face with his mitten. Dick turned his head away and asked in a matter-of-fact way: “Can we help you mark the trees?”
“All right. I’ll just drop the markers by the tree an’ you can tie them. ‘Bout shoulder high; easy to see.”
Walking from tree to tree, he removed old, gray, hardly visible markers from some trees and indicated the others to be girdled. He explained how tapping and sugaring was done.
“There’s the sugarin’ house,” he pointed to a small log hut, barely visible between the brown-gray trunks of the trees. “Come good heavy snowfall in ‘bout two month, we come up with the bobsleigh an’ tap, then cook the sap in there, cook it down to syrup. The
n we drag the pails home an’ Granma, if she feels like botherin’, makes sugar. Else we just use the syrup and Gramp sells some to folks in town.”
It took quite a long time to mark the trees. They wound up high on the mountain slope, where maples made way for gnarled pine, tough ash, and hickory trees. Then they walked back to the sugaring house. Andy picked up an armful of dry branches and made a fire in the stone pit under the vat. They sat around it, eating bread and cheese and cookies. There was no more talk of Gramp’s birthday surprise or the change in Granma Van Keuran. There was no need of it; Andy had said all that was necessary to show that they were happy.
They had left the door open and suddenly Andy jerked up his head, listening. He rose and tiptoed to the door, then crooked his finger for Dick and Janet to follow.
“Deer,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. They watched, hardly daring to breathe, as a small herd of deer moved down from the heavy woods above them. They were moving leisurely, gracefully, like so many dancers on tiptoe, from tree to tree, from bush to bush, nibbling on a branch, nosing into the underbrush for deer-tidbits. Six does came first, quite close together, then Andy’s hand tightened, for the proud head of a buck appeared between two trees. He came out into the open space where a tree had been chopped down some time ago. He seemed to be warier, more cautious than the does, paying less attention to the tender tips of branches they seemed to like than watching every moving limb, listening to every creaking branch. The whole herd was moving slowly downhill, toward the edge of the clearing, stopping often to nibble, to gaze around, but moving steadily away from the house.
They were almost out of sight, when the buck snorted and threw up his head. It must have been a warning, for the does froze in their tracks, looking at him for a moment; the next moment he wheeled around and leapt, followed by the does, uphill again to thunder past the hut and out of sight between the trees.
The children were breathing again. “What frightened them?” Janet asked.
Andy shrugged. “Smelled the smoke or us. Wind blows down-mountain. Got right smart sense, they have, don’t like folks traipsin’ around where they feed. Pretty, weren’t they?”
“Beautiful, Andy. Like dancers, tripping and prancing on those little hoofs, oh they were beautiful. I’m so glad we came!” Janet’s eyes were bright with excitement and pleasure. She pressed Andy’s arm. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“You didn’t shoot, Andy,” Dick stated, grinning a little.
Andy blinked at him. “Naw. Ain’t tellin’ Gramp about ‘em either.”
“Okay. I won’t say anything. I’m glad you didn’t shoot. They are too pretty to kill.”
Andy smiled. “Now I guess I got to see you home before dark. Let’s make tracks, harder goin’ downhill in snow.”
They beat out the fire and Andy covered the last glimmering embers with snow. Then they started out for home. Andy, when they were nearing the spot where the deer had turned, left the path and scrambled toward the little ledge where the snow had been kicked and threshed up by many small hoofs. Dick hesitated for a moment, then scrambled after Andy. Janet walked on, her bright red coat flaming in the last rays of the sun that was just about to dip behind the rim of the mountain. Dick called: “Wait for us, Janet,” but she just waved and walked a little slower.
“What are you looking for?” Dick asked Andy when he reached him. Andy didn’t answer, he was looking at something intently, his face tense. His eyes were traveling downhill, over the edge of the slope, narrowed into sharp points.
“What do you see?” Dick asked again. The snow was kicked around and to him tracks didn’t mean a thing. Andy’s voice was thin.
“We better get goin’ and be in a powerful hurry too, that’s what, with her around. Come on, where is Janet?”
“On the path,” Dick pointed. “Gosh, can’t you tell me what you see
“Tell you! Ain’t you got eyes? Look!” He turned and pointed at a row of large, round tracks, a little lower down than the deer tracks had gone. “That’s a cat track, a big one. Fresh, too. Get going now and keep your eyes peeled.” He himself was going as fast as he could to get back on the trail. Dick stared at the tracks for a moment before he followed. He could plainly see now that they were shaped like the roundish, five-toed imprint a house cat would make, only they were at least three inches across and had, obviously, been made by a big, heavy animal. He sprinted after Andy, muttering: “Gosh, oh gosh!” Andy was really going. “Look how far she’s gone,” he panted when Dick caught up with him. “Git goin’ now, after her. And don’t go scarin’ her either! I’ll keep a little ways behind, no tellin’ where the critter was hid. Just keep moving, keep moving, whistle, yell, sing. They’re afraid of folks, lessen they’re hungry or cornered.”
They ran and stumbled, slid and ran again to catch up with Janet. She heard them yelling like wild Indians, and, thinking it was a game, cried out: “Catch me if you can!” With that, she started to race down the path, laughing.
Dick was racing after his sister now, in earnest. “Janet! Wait for me. Janet!”
She laughed, waved, and ran faster.
“Janet! I . . . got . . . something . . . to show you. WAIT!” Dick was yelling loud, a little alarmed now, for Andy wasn’t fooling. Andy was right behind him, a grunt escaping from between clenched teeth:
“Crossed the path here . . . the critter did.”
Janet disappeared around the bend, carried by her own speed, laughing, almost screaming in exhilaration.
“Janet,” Dick yelled again, his feet pounding down hill, reaching the turn, “Janet, Janet, STOP!”
There was no need to tell her to stop. She was standing stock-still, as if she had frozen to the ground. On the path, that about fifty feet ahead of her twisted behind and around a boulder, stood a tawny, short-legged animal. It was backed against the jutting out rock, its tufted tail slowly lashing back and forth, back and forth like that of an angry cat.
“Dicky . . .“ a quavering word was all Janet managed to say, her finger pointing at the beast. Dick almost knocked her off her feet and Andy’s voice snapped:
“Git down flat!”
Dick fell on his knees, pulling Janet down and behind himself. There was a nasty, grumbling little growl from the cat; its tail was going faster. Its eyes gleamed in the murky light for the sun had disappeared behind the mountain. Dick heard the click of Andy’s gun as a shell slid into the chamber and he groped to release the safety catch on his own small gun. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he aimed and, with icy fingers, pulled the trigger. The two guns must have gone off at the same moment. Dick couldn’t hear the report of his own gun at all. The roar of Andy’s big gun brought a frightened little scream from Janet, but after that she was the first to cry out: “You hit him, Andy! You got him, oh Andy!”
The cat leaped, twisted in midair and fell back with a scream; it lay now, growling and threshing under the rock.
Andy didn’t speak. He walked past Dick and Janet, pumping another cartridge into his gun. There was no need of it. The frantic threshing turned into a weak, trembling twitch and the cat lay motionless.
“Okay,” Andy grunted, turning a very pale face toward them, but he was grinning. Dick and Janet scrambled to their feet; pale, a little shivery all over. Dick held Janet’s arm.
“Scared, Sis?”
She smiled at him. Her lips were trembling, but she was smiling. “I . . . was awful scared before you and Andy got here. That . . . cat thing . . . it just jumped across the path when I ran around the turn and it stayed there. Gee! I WAS scared! But I’m all right now.”
Dick patted her arm. “Swell. Gee, Janet, you are a good sport.”
“Pooh,” was her only reply to that, then she called to Andy: “Is it dead?”
Andy had decided that it was. He was poking at the puma’s head with the tip of his gun. When they reached him, he was grinning.
“Right smart, Dick, for a city slicker.”
Dick looked at him, puzzl
ed. The snow was rapidly reddening under the dead animal’s neck; he knew that his small gun could never have caused the torn wound there. Andy’s face was wet with perspiration, but his grin was still broadening. He sat down, letting himself go with a sigh.
“Two shots,” he pointed. “Thirty-four got him in the neck, twenty-two right between the eyes. See? Either would have finished the critter. By gum, I . . . I ain’t been this scared since Gramp shot the bobtail over my head,” he admitted frankly. He frowned at Janet. “ ‘Twas you, scared me. Hightailin’ it like a rabbit the dogs are after and me KNOWIN’ this was around.” He squinted at the puma, then his eyes laughed into Dick’s. “This nice big dog.”
“Yeah,” Dick was grinning too, with relief and pride. “Nice puppy—oh gosh!” He sat down rather suddenly too, relief making him feel shaky all over. “Would he have hurt Janet?”
Andy shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe so, if he was scared enough or hungry enough. Sort of cornered him, she did.”
Janet giggled. “Do you think Dad will like it . . . in the barn? Here, kitty, kitty, nice puss.”
All three of them felt giddy and silly. They didn’t want to get up on their very uncertain legs; they just sat for a while, making foolish jokes. Finally Andy scrambled to his feet. “Want to drag him home to show your Pa?”
“Can we?”
“Sure. Got some markin’ tape left. We’ll fix it so you and I can drag him.”
They searched for stout branches and found two that Andy pronounced satisfactory. He tied the puma by its feet to the branches, then proceeded to fashion two loops out of the left-over binding. “Granma never would’a dreamed that her shift she made this stuff out of was going to drag a catamount home,” he said.
Then he fastened the two loops to the poles, one to the end of each; he and Dick slid the loops over their waist. “Giddyup now . . . heave!”
Slowly, with much grunting and giggling, the odd procession began to move down-hill. It was hard, slow progress even on the crisp snow and they had to stop often to rest. Once in a while the boys grinned at each other, proudly, while Janet kept up a steady, excited chatter. When they were nearing the road and could see the smoke from the Van Keuran chimney, Janet couldn’t hold herself to their slow pace any longer.