The deep murmur of a distant torrent came to them. The hoarse croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets were mingled with the hooting of owls and the nearer hum of mosquitoes. Bats and moths were flitting on silent wings among the trees, and there was a rustle of dry leaves, as unseen animals of the night moved in the undergrowth.
Rube was up and moving about the camp at sunrise, and he had stirred up the smouldering fire and put a kettle and a dipper of water to boil before Kiddie crawled out of his sleeping bag. Kiddie's first occupation was to launch the canoe.
"Fetch the towels and come along," he said. "We'll get t' the deep water for our swim. You won't be anyways afraid, will you?"
"Not when you're near ter keep an eye on me," returned Rube, with confidence. "Course you'll help me t' git back inter the canoe. 'Tain't the same's mountin' a pony."
"Well, no," smiled Kiddie. "You'll mount over her head or her tail. She'll roll over, sure, if you try ter get astride her by the middle."
Rube paddled out into the lake until he was told to stop. He shipped his paddle, and looked round in time to see Kiddie's beautiful muscular figure poised ready to dive from the high peak.
With an adroit movement, Kiddie leapt into the air and, turning, cut the water as cleanly as an arrow, making very little splash. Rube waited so long for him to reappear that it seemed almost that some accident had happened to him. But at length he came up in a quite unexpected place, swimming back to the canoe at a pace that was astonishing. Thereafter he devoted himself to giving lessons to Rube in swimming and diving and re-entering the frail canoe.
"Quite enough for one morning," he said, before Rube had been in the water nearly as long as he wished. "We'll get back to camp now and have a cracker and a drink of hot tea. Then we'll visit the traps, and you c'n get breakfast ready while I shave. I guess we may's well have eggs and bacon, eh?"
"Might have some o' that thar honey as well," suggested Rube.
"All right," Kiddie agreed. "But you'll be havin' the bees foolin' around while we're at breakfast, if you're not careful. What you goin' ter smoke 'em out with?"
"Sulphur," Rube answered promptly. "I got a chunk in me pocket; been usin' it t' put in my bear cub's drinkin' water."
Rube was in more haste than he need have been to disturb the bees. Kiddie, while waiting for his shaving water to heat, was making a toasting fork of a stick with a forked end for cooking the bacon. He had seen Rube carry away a flat slab of stone with crushed sulphur on it, and had watched Rube lighting the sulphur and shoving the slab within the hollow of the tree, as he might shove a dish into an oven.
Suddenly there was a cry of alarm.
"Kiddie! Kiddie! Quick! Come here!"
Kiddie ran to the tree, still with his knife and the forked stick in his hands.
"Keep back!" Rube cautioned him. "It's a rattler—a huge one—far in among the roots. Listen!"
Kiddie heard the unmistakable crackling sound. He went nearer, holding his pronged stick in front of him. He peeped into the hollow of the tree, and through the blue fumes of the burning sulphur he saw the snake's thick black body with its brown geometrical markings gliding and twisting round the exposed roots.
While he watched, the repulsive head, with its sinister, beady eyes and busily darting tongue, came out, rising slowly as it came. The wide mouth opened, and Kiddie could see the two protruding poison fangs outside the ordinary teeth. He stepped backward as the snake's neck and body began to curve in readiness to strike.
"Seems he don't intend us ter get that honeycomb, Rube," he said calmly.
"Do keep back, Kiddie!" pleaded Rube. "Them fangs 'ld go clean through your moccasins or your buckskins. What you gonner do—shoot him?"
"Ain't got my gun," Kiddie answered. "It's in my belt alongside my tunic. Fetch it, if you like; may as well."
Rube ran back to where Kiddie had slept, and returned with the loaded revolver. He was astonished and alarmed at what he now saw. The rattlesnake had come wholly out from the tree, and Kiddie stood directly over it with his right foot planted across the thicker part of its writhing body, and the toasting fork, held firmly in his left hand, gripping the reptile by the neck. The snake's mouth was wide open—it seemed almost to be snarling angrily; the long body was wriggling, and all the time came the ominous rattling sound from the ringed tail.
"Get round by the back of me, and give me the gun in my right hand," ordered Kiddie. "Don't be scared. I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."
"I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."
Rube passed the revolver and watched. He expected Kiddie to discharge the weapon close to the rattlesnake's head. To his surprise, Kiddie removed his right foot, drew away the forked stick, and stepped back a couple of paces. The snake, now at unhindered liberty, raised its head several inches from the ground and coiled round, with jaws wide open, ready to strike. Kiddie then pressed his trigger, and the bullet, entering between the two poison fangs, came out at the back of the serpent's skull.
"Say, what in thunder did you let it go loose for?" questioned Rube. "It might have escaped! It might have bitten you!"
"Which means that you figure I might have missed my aim?" said Kiddie. "Not very complimentary to my shootin'. Why did I let it go loose? Well, I jest notioned it would be some cowardly ter shoot while I held the brute that way. Beside, I didn't want ter shatter the skull too much. Biggest rattler I've seen—seven feet long if it's an inch, and worth preservin'. Say, those bees look like givin' us trouble. Best hustle through with breakfast, and then get along to the traps. The honey c'n wait. That sulphur of yours is goin' ter do the trick."
They went together to make the round of the traps, first going some way up the creek to the willows where Rube had set his beaver traps in the midst of a colony of these busy animals. Rube was in hope that every trap would be filled; but there were only two beavers—one of them quite young and small, the other, a large male in prime condition.
"Best let it go, as it ain't hurt any," Kiddie advised, liberating the smaller one. "You c'n take the bigger chap and we'll cook the tail. Where did you set your snares?"
"In amongst the scrub, thar," Rube pointed.
There was a fine jack-rabbit in the first snare they came to. Rube gave the animal a sharp knock on the back of the head, killing it instantly.
"Guess we'll have this yer feller for dinner," he said; "stewed with plenty of onions an' some taters."
"You see," observed Kiddie, "we're already beginnin' ter be self-supportin'. Fish, meat, honey—there wasn't any occasion t' bring a butcher's shop along with us. We c'd even make our own bread at a pinch. I'm plannin' ter make a fruit pudding. Thar's a bush 'most breakin' down with its weight of ripe and juicy thimbleberries, back of the old cedar tree. Bees have been at 'em."
The next snare they visited was empty. In another a woodgrouse was caught, and in yet another a fox cub. Kiddie's steel traps were set farther away. He went first to the one about which he had been so particular.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "It's sprung! Bait's taken. Remains of that rabbit have been eaten, too!"
"Lynx is a cunnin' critter," said Rube. "You gotter wear two pairs o' moccasins t' git level with a lynx."
"I ain't just sure that it was a lynx," mused Kiddie, searching the ground for signs. "You never happened on a jet-black lynx around here, did you, Rube?"
"Nope," Rube answered. "They's allus the same tawny colour. Why d'you ask?"
Kiddie looked down at the tight shut jaws of the gin.
"Thar's a tuft of black fur in the teeth of the trap," he pointed out. "An' look at them claw marks! Guess that critter's some bigger'n a lynx. May's well stay another night in this camp an' try ter git the critter, eh?"
"Dunno 'bout that," Rube demurred. "Might be a whole fam'ly o' rattlers lyin' around. 'Tain't just healthy."
"Guess that rattlesnake we killed had done with family life a long while ago," said Kiddie. "Anyhow, I'm curious to know what critter
it was that sprang this trap."
"Mebbe he shoved his nose inter one of the others," suggested Rube.
Kiddie led the way unerringly among the forest trees. His traps had all been visited by wild animals. Two of them had been sprung ineffectually; in others he found a raccoon, a cross-fox, a musk-rat and an otter. One had been dragged away, and was found some hours afterwards with part of a fox's tail between the teeth.
Rube Carter rather prided himself on his skill in cooking, and he was particularly anxious to make a good rabbit stew. Kiddie helped him only so far as to skin and dismember the rabbit and peel the onions. He was himself a capable camp cook, but he did not wish to interfere with Rube's personal satisfaction in doing the work.
"Say, Kiddie," said Rube, when he had fixed the saucepan firmly in the fire; "if we ain't goin' ter quit this yer pitch 'fore ter-morrow, you'd best sleep to-night along o' me in the wigwam. That rattlesnake wasn't many yards away from you, an' if you'd bin bit I dunno what I should ha' done. Thar ain't no good in hangin' around after that lynx, whatever its colour. Why shouldn't we quit?"
"Where would you go, Rube?" Kiddie inquired.
Rube looked out across the lake.
"I got a idea of paddlin' across an' makin' camp in one of them cañons," he said.
"Tut!" objected Kiddie. "You want to do some exploring, eh? Want ter get into some lonesome place where nobody has ever been before? What's the matter with this forest? I reckon we're the first civilized humans that have ever spent a night in it. Prowl around in it; search in whatever direction you like, you'll find no sign of any sort that a human being has been here in front of us to leave his mark on a tree, to drop a button or a chip of crockery, or to lift a stone from the bed of the creek. It's all as Nature meant it to be, centuries and centuries ago. Growth and the weather alone have changed things."
"All right," nodded Rube; "so long's you're satisfied, so am I. Suppose we get at that honey 'fore the bees come back."
The sulphur fumes still lingered in the hollow tree, and scores of bees had fallen stupefied among the roots. Rube, being the smaller, entered the hollow and looked up.
"Thar's pounds an' pounds of honeycomb here, Kiddie," he called out; "but I can't reach it without somethin' ter stand on, an' we shall need that biscuit tin ter hold it."
Kiddie fetched the biscuit tin, and a spar of firewood, and stood by while Rube handed out to him the dripping combs of honey.
"Thar's heaps more, higher up," said Rube, standing on tip-toes and reaching upward.
Then somehow his foot slipped, the decayed substance of the tree crumbled under his weight. He screamed in terror as he fell in a heap at Kiddie's feet, followed by a shower of dust and strange, dry rottenness that was mingled with the syrup from the honeycombs.
"What is it?" cried Kiddie. "What made you scream? Another rattler?"
"No." Rube shivered. "That!" And he turned over and pointed with an agitated finger at a human skull and a heap of crumbled bones. "It's a man's skeleton. And you notioned as nobody 'd ever set foot in this forest before!"
CHAPTER XI
LESSONS IN TRACKING
"Queer!" ejaculated Rube, standing up and contemplating the gruesome remnants of the skeleton. "Mortal queer it is. Can't make it out. How'd he come ter be fixed up thataway in the middle of the tree, dyin' thar all lonesome, like a poor critter caught in a trap? How'd it happen, Kiddie?"
He appeared to expect Kiddie to tell him off-hand exactly how the thing had occurred.
"Dunno," returned Kiddie, with a grave headshake. "It's a mystery. I'm trying t' think it out. What way was he fixed?"
"Can't just say," Rube answered slowly. "Inside the tree's like a chimney. You c'n see daylight if yer looks up, as I did. I couldn't see that it was a man—a skeleton. Thar was a mass of honeycomb an' wax below what was left of his feet. I reached up an' seized hold o' somethin'. Guess it was one of the poor chap's legs. I was pullin' at it, an' pullin', when my foot slipped, an' the whole concern came down on top o' me, crumblin' into dust. How d'you reckon he got thar? Kin y'u explain?"
"Seems to me," said Kiddie, after a long pause, "that there are three possible explanations. First, that he was killed by some enemy and shoved in there out of sight: which ain't at all likely, since it would have been much easier to fling the body into the lake, and quite as safe from discovery to leave it lying here in the forest glade. Second, that he was escaping from some other Redskins, or even from some dangerous wild animal, and went into the hollow tree for safety."
"Climbin' too high, an' gettin' fixed so as he couldn't wriggle out again either up or down?" suggested Rube.
"Exactly," nodded Kiddie. "But, if that was the way of it, why didn't his pursuers get on his tracks and find him? I'm not of opinion that he had any pursuers, either animal or Indian. I believe he was just a lone scout—a trapper, maybe, but a lonesome wanderer, anyway—and that he was taking shelter from a storm. Perhaps he knew of that hollow tree: perhaps he came upon it by chance. It was a convenient shelter in either case. That's my third point."
"An' a reasonable one," commented Rube. "But it don't account fer how he came t' be fixed in so high above the ground. If he was only shelterin', why didn't he walk out again when the storm was through?"
"I'm supposin' it was a snowstorm, or else a fierce blizzard," Kiddie went on. "As the snow got deeper an' deeper, it would block up the hole that he entered by, and he'd work his way higher an' higher to get at the purer air. Maybe he'd wait till the storm was over, and then the snow might have been so deep that he'd think it easier to climb higher still and escape that way rather than attempt to go back feet foremost and burrow a passage through the drift. And then he got so wedged in that there was no movin' and no means of escape either way, and he just had to stay there and die a lingerin' death."
"Yes," said Rube. "I guess that's th' explanation of the whole thing. Wonder where he come from. Pity thar's none of his clothes left: no gun, or knife, or watch, or pocket-book ter tell us who he was, an' all that."
"He wouldn't be carryin' a gun or a watch," observed Kiddie, "and Injuns ain't in the habit of keepin' pocket diaries."
"Injuns?" repeated Rube questioningly. "D'you reckon this yer chap was a Injun, then?"
"Certainly," Kiddie answered, "an Injun, young an' tall."
"H'm!" murmured Rube, not satisfied. "You just guessin' all that, Kiddie, or have you figured it out?"
"I've figured it out," returned Kiddie. "Look at his thigh bone—the only bone that's left intact. It's longer'n mine, an' I ain't a pigmy. Must have been taller'n I am. Look at the teeth: they're not an old man's teeth. There ain't a speck of decay on 'em, they're not worn down any, an' they're well separate one from another, not crushed together like an old man's. Must sure have been young."
"Yes," said Rube, "but all that don't prove he was Injun. White men c'n be tall; white men c'n have good teeth. How d'you make out he was Injun?"
"By the shape of his skull for one thing," explained Kiddie—"the square jaw, the high cheek bones, the slopin' forehead. But more'n all I argue he was Injun because I calculate he was fixed tight in the tree, and was well on the way to bein' a naked skeleton long before any white man opened his eyes on the Rocky Mountains—yes, even perhaps before the Pilgrim Fathers landed in New England. That's why he didn't carry a gun. He didn't know there was such a thing as a gun, or a watch either."
"Git!" exclaimed Rube incredulously. "D'you expect me ter swaller a tall yarn like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin' all them years ago!"
"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it, anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."
Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference with outstretched arms.
"I reckon it's just ove
r twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for the part that's missin' from th' open gap."
"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years. So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when William the Conqueror was King of England."
"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer trapper's bin dead."
"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay, you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."
"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then," observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you gonner eat any o' that stuff—after where it come from?"
"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin' around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've never seen. You've never seen a locomotive engine, or a steamship, or a Gothic cathedral, or a Japanese cherry orchard in blossom; don't know what it means ter walk along an English lane, past cottages covered with roses. Thar's London an' Paris, thar's th' Atlantic Ocean an' the lone coral islands of the Pacific. Thar's pictures an' books an' theatres. Oh, thar's a whole world of interestin' things you've never seen!"
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