"That I can’t do,” he said, "because I don’t know the beaver story that well. They must be old on this earth, older than man. And what books I’ve read say that once the country was full of ’em, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to Mexico, and that for a while they were wiped out almost as completely as the buffalo, because back in the early times everybody just pure had to have a tall beaver hat. Only the change of style, to silk hats, saved a few. Why,” and one of Jebs’ hands gestured toward the horizon, hidden by trees, "out yonder in Richmond County there’s a Beaver Dam Township, that was named that when the earliest settlers showed up hereabouts. There were beavers in Carolina then, and they got brought back in the Thirties. I was a little bit of a boy then, just as my daddy told you.
But I got the beaver bug strong, and I’ve still got it. They’re my hobby.”
He stared at the water and the hive-shaped lodges, with unwearied relish.
“Ten years doesn’t seem long enough to give them a real foothold,” ventured Randy.
“What do you mean? Shoo, that’s about ten beaver generations, as long a time for them as, well, as human time since John Smith and Pocahontas. Mr. Meadows, that’s the game warden, says there’s more than a hundred beavers he’s checked off on a kind of beaver census he’s kept in this region. I’ll bet that doesn’t include what we’ve got here in Beaver Lake. Three big houses may mean anywhere from twenty to forty beavers.”
Jebs looked at Randy. “That’s about all I know, hammered down into a few words,” he said. “Suppose you talk. About Scouting.”
“Well, where shall I begin?”
“Give me all the dope,” said Jebs. “I start my knowledge I at nothing. I’ve just heard stuff, what anybody might hear trickle back into a place like this. Scouts have to be prepared and do a good turn daily, and that’s about the ticket on what I’ve gathered in.”
“Let’s see.” Randy paused to think. “Scouts organize in - troops. Aren’t there any other fellows our age in this part I of the world?”
“Not for a right far piece,” Jebs told him.
“Then we could be Lone Scouts,” said Randy.
“Lone Scouts,” Jebs repeated. “Sounds kind of bleak, huh? Like somebody in enemy country. Or like Indians miles from nowhere. Go on.”
“No, that’s where I stop, too,” confessed Randy. “I don’t exactly know how a Lone Scout — that’s a Scout in a place where there aren’t enough for a whole troop — keeps up his work and activities. I was planning to write to national headquarters in New York and ask for information. Up in Jersey there were about thirty of us in the troop. I was a First Class Scout, a patrol leader, and ready to join an Explorer unit, Senior Scouting, when I moved down here. I rated a lot of merit badges, almost enough for Life Scout rank, too.”
"Such as what badges?”
"Camping,” said Randy. "Cooking, astronomy, civics, first aid, swimming, woodcraft, and some others.”
"I wish I knew stuff like that,” muttered Jebs enviously. "It’s never too late to begin, Jebs. Probably you know plenty of it right now. You’d get promotion fast. I’ll help get you on the rolls as a Lone Scout. Who’s the Scout executive for this district?”
"I just don’t know, Randy. See what I mean? I never even heard about these solo Scouts you’re talking about, or I might have given it a flutter before this.”
"They’re Lone Scouts,” corrected Randy. "I said we could write to national headquarters. They’re at Number 2 Park Avenue, New York. Now, back to the beaver.”
He, too, studied the dam. It was a solid structure. Even Randy could understand that knowledge and discipline had been invoked to build it. At the water’s edge a turtle was sunning itself. Randy tossed a scrap of dead wood, and the turtle slid into the water with a swift smoothness nobody would be apt to expect in a turtle.
"Suppose,” went on Randy, "our beavers move out on us.” "Not much chance of that. They settle in a good place and stay there. Louis Agassiz, the scientist, judged one old beaver dam had been used, repaired and worked on for a thousand years.”
"It ought to take at least that long to build a real dam," said Randy. "How could they make this one here, without bulldozers and scoop shovels and a chief engineer?"
"No bulldozers," said Jebs, "and no scoop shovels, though sometimes they use their tails to slap or press. But a chief engineer—" he grinned in his own pleasure— "I reckon , they’ve got that. Nobody can be dead sure, but lots of beaver scientists are convinced that in every colony there’s one wise old beaver that sort of bosses the job. Tells or shows the others what to do."
"Go on!" cried Randy.
"No, I mean it. You ought to read a book called The Human Side of Animals, by Royal Allen. He says that evidence points to bosses or foremen among the beavers. Wise old chiefs, with years of experience."
"How many years?"
"Beavers live about as long as dogs do, say fourteen or fifteen years," said Jebs. "And they’re grown up at the end of their first year. Think of a dozen years of experience at making dams like that one," and Jebs nodded toward the structure.
Randy, too, was studying the dam closely. At first glance it had looked like a simple, solid bank of earth, thatched with grass and scrubby brush. Now he could see that it was much more than that. It lay squarely across the direction of the current. At one end, where it joined the natural shore of the lake it helped to form, a narrow but swift rush of water spilled over. The earth there looked especially hard and firm, packed down by the running water, or perhaps by the furry engineers Jebs insisted on. Randy got up, walked to the dam and stepped upon it. It was as solid as a floor.
"They built wood under that dirt," Jebs called to him. "They jam the butt-ends of sticks and branches into the bed of the stream, and let the water carry in earth and mud and silt. Then they keep working, strengthening, improving. Look on the inside of the dam. See those sticks pushed in. They know the dam has a slight weakness at that point, and they know what to do about it, too.”
“Let’s sit still here and watch,” Randy suggested. “Maybe after a while they’ll come out and do a little hydraulic engineering.”
But Jebs shook his head. “Not them. They operate on a night shift. Moonlight’s best.”
“There’ll be a nearly full moon tonight,” said Randy.
The two boys looked at each other, smiling.
“Moonlight!” said Jebs again. “Say, Randy, will your grandfather mind if you come out?”
“I doubt it. I’ve just moved in to Laurels, but he seems reasonable and glad to let me do what I like. Let’s go and make sure.”
“It’s a deal!” cried Jebs, and impulsively they grasped hands to bind the bargain. “Come on, we’ll head back to your place and make sure.”
Returning to Laurels, they were greeted by Major Hunter, who listened with grave interest to their account of the expedition to Beaver Lake.
“So you want to watch them by moonlight, do you?” he said when they had finished. “Well, why not? Jebs, stay here to supper with us.”
“Let me telephone my dad at the store,” said Jebs. He went to the telephone, turned a wheezy crank, called a number and talked with his father, then nodded happily to Randy and the Major. “It’s all right with dad, and thank you, sir.”
The two boys went out into the yard. Uncle Henry was mending the wire fence around the extensive garden patch, and Jebs strolled into the stable, glanced here and there, then stopped in front of the rack of tools. After a moment he reached out and took one.
"That looks like a kind of pickax," said Randy. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"
"This thing’s a grubbing hoe," corrected Jebs, "but I reckon I’m thinking just exactly what you’re thinking."
"We’ll need a shovel." Randy laid his hand on it.
Again the boys traded a glance of mutual inspiration.
"Kind of a mean trick on our beavers," said Jebs slowly.
"But it’ll give us a chance to see them real
ly at work,” insisted Randy. "When we go out there tonight, we’ll take the shovel and the what-you-call-it, the grubbing hoe."
Supper that night was chicken and rice, and when the boys had finished they waited with almost jumpy eagerness for the sun to sink. The moon rose before twilight had faded. When they left the house, the great round disk gave them a truly brilliant light. Departing by way of the stable to pick up their tools, they sought the way through the trees to the swamp trail.
To Randy, at least, it was a creepily different journey from the woodland walk in full daylight. Gladly he let Jebs lead the way, for the Carolina youth seemed to move almost as confidently as ever in the dimness. A flutter of wings in a thicket made Randy jump, and he had a sense — imagination, he hopefully told himself — of being watched from a dozen hidden points. As they reached the lake, the gray of twilight was entirely gone, and the soft pallor of the climbing moon came through the opening among the trees.
"Get to work, quick," muttered Jebs. "Don’t talk, and don’t waste any time or motions."
Suiting action to word, Jebs drove the shovel deep into the earth of the dam. Randy lifted the grubbing hoe and brought it down hard with all the strength of both his arms
It struck deep into something tough and hard, and he pried. The stout blade was driven into a matted mass of sticks, and Randy had to apply all his young weight to gouge them out.
Working swiftly and silently, the two boys deepened their cut, about a foot and a half across the full width of the dam. The water rushed in and impeded their labors, but they persevered, notching well down below the surface. Then, at a gesture from Jebs, they left the dam and dropped full length in some weeds, at a point on the shore where the slight breeze was toward them.
Silence, broken only by the burble of the water flowing into the new spillway. To Randy it seemed that an hour passed, though he knew that he must be overestimating. The running water enlarged the break they had made, washing away the earth. There was a thud and a splash as a piece of wood loosened from the fabric of the dam and sailed away below. Then another. Then —
Jeb nudged Randy. Something was moving on the moonlit sheet of water.
Like a tiny low-lying motor boat it sped, so swiftly that a little ripple preceded it like a cowcatcher and a wake streamed out behind. Nearer it came, nearer, to within feet of where the boys held their silent point of observation. Randy made out an intent rounded head, like a big squirrel’s, and a back with plastered wet fur, plain to see in the moonlight. As though drawn by a magnet, the swimmer drove straight along to the cut in the dam, seemed to hover at the water’s edge as a bird hovers in the air. Its nose darted investigatingly. The water churned around it.
Whack! Like the report of a pistol rang the signal slap of the broad flat tail.
Across the lake from a dozen directions came comrades of the first investigating beaver, converging at the same place.
THE FACE IN THE DARKNESS
The first beaver had scrambled up on the dam beside the notch. He looked as big and sturdy as a young pig, thought Randy, perhaps three feet and a half from his blunt, wide nose to the end of his flat, broad tail, and he might weigh thirty pounds. The fur of his body had been soaked into shaggy spikes, and looked dark. For a few seconds he seemed to watch as his mates came hurrying to him, shouldering each other out of the way as they eagerly poked and scrambled around the damaged spot in their water wall. Then the first beaver slid smoothly back into the water among them, and again his tail sounded an abrupt slap on the surface. He drove to the far shore, crashed among some bushes, and in a trice was returning to the brink, dragging something across his shoulder. It was a fallen branch, longer than himself and a clumsy burden with its trailing twigs, but he churned his way back to the hole, and bobbed out of sight.
At once the others were heading shoreward in imitation. They slammed and rattled in the brush. Their motions were as bewilderingly swift as though they were actors in an accelerated motion picture. Back again they came, dragging pieces of wood, small and large, and towed them sturdily to the dam. There they went into new activity, roiling the water and beating it into foam. The boys could see a matted mass of twigs and sticks in the notch, a mass that was wedged
there securely and would not wash away. The beavers were sagely and skilfully driving the butts of their sticks into the earth. And the first comer of them all, probably the chief engineer Jebs had mentioned, was everywhere at once — nudging, pushing, snatching bits of wood from others and jamming them into place.
This chief engineer seemed to spend much of his time under water. Now his head popped into view, then his shoulders appeared, to surge strongly against the preliminary fabric of branches that partially clogged the break in the dam. Water soaked through that fabric now, it did not gush as before. And the moonlight showed shiny, sloppy layers of mud upon and around the sticks, brought up from the lake’s bed and thrust into place by a dozen wise paws and shoulders. Beyond all the turmoil of labor, Randy studied the surface of the water. It grew quiet, there was not the crease of running current toward the breach he and Jebs had made. The beavers were beginning to win their struggle.
Then, as instantaneously as it had all begun, it stopped. Stopped with a great signal whack of a tail, undoubtedly the tail of the chief himself. Every beaver bobbed into the deep water and sank like a stone. Only ripples showed where they had been.
Jebs rose to one knee. He looked reproachfully at Randy.
“You made some kind of noise and scared ’em off before they’d finished,’’ he said. “I didn’t move.’’
“I didn’t, either,’’ protested Randy. “I scarcely breathed.’’
“Then who did make a noise? Or what made a noise?’’ Jebs demanded petulantly. He was on his feet, walking toward the dam. “They didn’t quite finish the job. But wasn’t it something to see?’’
“Something to see, maybe,’’ said a stern voice behind them, “but hardly something to do.’’
A flashlight drowned their eyes with glare, and a figure moved toward them.
“I’m inclined to be ashamed of you both,” went on Major Hunter.
"Grandfather!” cried Randy. "What do you mean, ashamed of us? We wanted to see them at work, that’s all. We didn’t do any harm.”
"Suppose somebody wanted to see you work,” elaborated the Major, "and tore down your fences and your house and all your property. Your bustling around to repair them might be entertaining to whoever was lolling around and looking along, but you wouldn’t agree that no harm had been done. Well, Jebs, do you agree with me?”
Jebs was quiet for a moment.
"Yes, sir,” he then admitted frankly, "I guess I do. I didn’t think of it that way.” He peered at the partially mended dam. "They must have heard your footsteps, and rushed away.”
"No, I’ve been here almost as long as you have,” Major Hunter said. "It wasn’t I who moved, and it wasn’t you two, either. But never mind that. Don’t you owe these beavers a little something? They were frightened off before they finished their patching up of your vandalism. The inference,” he added drily, "is obvious.”
"What does that mean?” Jebs half whispered to Randy. "Big words kind of throw me.”
"I guess he thinks we ought to finish filling up that hole,” replied Randy.
"Correct, Randy. That’s just what I do think,” said the Major bleakly. Leaning on his stick, he turned the flash beam on the hole. "Get that shovel and grubbing hoe working.”
Jebs had already begun to scoop earth back into place.
Randy found and brought into use several big stones. Both of them worked hard, and within minutes they had strengthened and thickened the preliminary work of the beavers so that no water trickled through.
"That’s probably stouter than it was before,” commented Jebs. "But I’m still wondering what scared those beavers down to the bottom of the lake.”
"Do you think they know themselves?” asked Randy. "They may not,” agreed Major Hun
ter, returning to his usual good humor. "It’s the unknown that terrifies, with beasts or men.” He did not make the words grim, but they were impressive. Randy wondered if his grandfather were remembering some experience in one or other of the two wars he had seen. "But whatever it is,” continued the Major, "it must have come from across the lake yonder. There isn’t much breeze, but it blows this way, enough of it to bring the slightest sound or scent to the beavers.”
"Let’s go see,” said Randy. "May I have that flash, sir?” His grandfather passed it to him, and he moved across the dam, Jebs close behind him. They paused on the far side, and Randy raked the surface of the water with his light. All was quiet and seemingly asleep — the lake, the fringes of reeds, the dead drowned trees, the domes of the beaver lodges.
Randy moved a few steps along the shore, gazing here and there at the spaces his light illuminated among the pine trunks and bushes. Quiet reigned there, too, and sleepy darkness. But Randy felt, or perhaps imagined, the hint of an alien presence. He was glad for Jebs’ presence so close to him. Stepping in among the lakeside bushes, he swung the light from right to left, then focussed it on something a few feet directly in front of him.
For one instant he gazed at a pale, luminous face, broad and heavy, with bright eyes glaring full at him, furious as the eyes of a cornered animal.
Randy froze, as though every drop of blood had been turned to ice in his veins. Then the instant was gone, and with it the face. He heard a crash of twigs and branches, a heavy thud as though a large body had stumbled and regained its balance. Then silence.
Randy found his voice. "J-Jebs!" he quavered. "Did you — or did I just think I saw —”
"No, Randy." Jebs came up beside him. The Carolina boy still carried the shovel, and he held it half raised, as though to repel a danger. "You really saw it, and so did I. What was the thing? I saw just a face."
"So did I," said Randy, "and that was all. A face, without a body, hanging there in the night."
"Sorry to spoil your ghost story," came Major Hunter’s voice from behind them. Artificial leg and all, the old soldier had moved quickly across the dam to follow the boys. "Your light picked up and showed, very plainly, a human face. There was a body attached."
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953 Page 3