CHAPTER IV.
WHITHER BOUND?
"Where from? Whither bound?" It is not often that a man or boy burns toput these questions--which ships signal to each other when they passupon the ocean--to some individual who hurries by him on a crowdedthoroughfare, whose name perhaps he knows, but whose hand he has neverclasped, of whose thoughts, feelings, and capabilities he is ignorant.
But just let him meet that same fellow during a holiday trip to somewild sea-beach or lonely mountain, let an acquaintance spring up, lethim observe the habits of the other traveller, discovering a few of hisweak points and some of his good ones, and then he wishes to ask,"Where do you hail from? Whither are you bound?"
Therefore, having encountered three fairly good-looking, jovial,well-disposed young fellows amid the solitudes of a Maine forest, havingspent some eventful hours in their company, learning how they behaved incertain emergencies, it is but natural that the reader should wish toknow their ordinary occupations, with their reasons for venturing intothese wilds, and the goal they wish to reach, before he journeys withthem farther.
Just at present, being fast asleep, dreaming, and--if I must sayit--snoring like troopers, upon their mattresses of pine boughs, theyare unable to give any information about themselves. But the friend whohas been authorized to record their travels will be happy to satisfy allreasonable curiosity.
To begin, then, with the "boss" of the party, Cyrus Garst, the writerwould say that he is a student of Harvard University, and a brainy,energetic, robust son of America. Among his college classmates he isregarded as a bit of a hero; for, in spite of his comparative youth, heis an enterprising traveller and a veteran camper, whose camp-fire hasblazed in some of the wildest solitudes of his native land. For hishobby is natural history, and his playground the "forest primeval,"where he studies American animals amid the lonely passes which theychoose for their lairs and beats.
Every year when Harvard's learned halls are closed for the long summervacation,--sometimes at other seasons too,--he starts off on a trip to awilderness region, with his knapsack on his back, his rifle on hisshoulder, and often carrying his camera as well.
Once in a while he has been accompanied by a bosom friend or two. Morefrequently he has gone alone, hiring the services of a professionalguide accustomed to the locality he visits. Now, such a guide is theindispensable figure in every woodland trip. He is expected to supplythe main part of his employer's camp "kit"; namely, a tent or someshelter to sleep under, cooking utensils, axes, etc., as well as a boator canoe if such be required. And this son of the forest, whose foot canmake a bee-line to its destination through the densest wooded maze, isnot only leader, but cook and general-utility man in camp as well. Theguide must be equally grand-master of paddle, rifle, and frying-pan.
For these tireless woodland heroes Cyrus Garst has a generaladmiration. He has always agreed with them famously--save on one point;and he has never had to shorten his wanderings for fear of lengtheningtheir fees. For Cyrus has a millionnaire father in the Back Bay ofBoston, who is disposed to indulge his whims.
The one point of variance is this: while all guides admire young Garstas a crack shot with a rifle, he frequently dumfounds them by lettingslip stunning chances at game, big and little. They call him "a queerspecimen sportsman,"--understanding little his love for the wildoffspring of the woods,--because he never uses his gun save when thebareness of his larder or the peril of his own life or his chum'sdemands it.
Nevertheless, feeling the need of fresh meat, the naturalist was for themoment hotly exasperated because his English comrade, Neal Farrar,missed even a poor chance at a buck during the midnight excursion onSquaw Pond.
His friends are proud of stating that up to the present Cyrus hadproceeded well in his friendly acquaintance with wild creatures, hisdesire being to study their habits when alive rather than to pore overtheir anatomy when dead. And he has always reaped a plentiful harvestof fun during his trips, declaring that he has "the pull over fellowswho go into the woods for killing," seeing that he can thoroughly enjoythe escape of a game animal if he can only catch a sight of it, andperceive how its pluck or cunning enables it to baffle pursuing man.There are those who call Cyrus a sportsman of the best type. Perhapsthey are right.
Yet in the year of our story, when he had just attained his majority,this student of forest life is still unsatisfied, because he has notbeen able to obtain a good view of the behemoth of American woods, the_ignis fatuus_ of hunters,--the mighty moose.
Once only, when paddling on a still pond with his experienced guide forcompany, the latter suddenly closed the slide of the jack-lamp, hidingits light. At the same moment a dark, splendid monster, tall as a horseand swinging a pair of antlers five feet broad, suddenly appeared uponthe bank, near to which the canoe lay in black shadow. The hunters darednot breathe. It was at a season of year when the Maine law exacts aheavy fine for the killing of a moose; and even the guide had no desireto send his bullets through the law, though he might have riddled thegame without compunction.
For a minute or two the creature halted at the pond's brink, magnifiedin the mirror of moonlit water into a gigantic, wavering shape. Thenwith slow, solemn tread he walked along the bank ahead, gave a loudsnort something like the snort of a war-horse, made a crunching,chopping noise with his jaws, resembling the sound of a dull axestriking against wood, plunged into the lake, and swam across to theopposite shore.
"If we had fired, he might have come for us full tilt," whispered theguide so softly that his words were like a gliding breath. "And then Itell you we'd have had a narrow squeak. He'd have kicked the canoe intosplinters and us out o' time in short order."
"But a moose won't charge unless he's attacked, will he?" asked Cyrus,later in the night, when a couple of quacking black ducks which hadreceived a dose of lead were lying silent at his feet, and the hunterswere returning to camp with food.
"Not often," was the reply. "Only at this time o' year, if they've got amate to defend, you can't say for sure what they'll do. They won'talways fight either, even if they're wounded, when they can get achance to bolt. But a moose, if he has to die, will be sure to die game,with his face to his enemy; and so will every wild animal that I know.I've even seen a shot partridge flutter up its feathers like a game-cockat the fellow who dropped it."
Well, this memorable glimpse of his mooseship was obtained in the yearbefore our story. And now, in the beginning of October, young Garst wasoff into Maine wilds again, having arranged to "do" the forestthoroughly after his usual fashion, seeing all he could of its countlessphases of life, and finally to meet this same guide--a dare-devil fellowwho was reported to have had adventures in moose-hunting such as otherwoodsmen did not dream of--at a log camp far in the wilderness. Thencethey could proceed to solitudes where the voice of man seldom echoed,where the foot of man rarely trod, and where moose signs were prettysure to be found.
But there was one very unusual feature in his present expedition. Thestudent of nature, who generally started forth alone, was this year,owing to a freak of fate and to his natural good-nature, accompanied bytwo English lads.
Early in the summer of this same year, Francis Farrar, a wealthycotton-merchant of Manchester, England, visited America on abusiness-trip, and became the guest of Cyrus's father. He brought withhim his two sons, Neal, aged sixteen and a half, and Adolphus,familiarly called Dol, who was more than a year younger.
Both boys had been at a large public school, and physically, as well asmentally, were well developed. They were accustomed to spending longvacations with their father at wild spots on the seashore, or amidmountains in England and Scotland. They could tirelessly do a sixty-milespin on their "wheels," were good football players, excellent rowers,formed part of the crew of their father's yacht, could skilfully handlegun and fishing-rod, but they had never camped out.
They knew none of the delights of sleeping in woodland quarters, withonly a canvas or bark roof, or perhaps a few spruce boughs, between themand the sky--
"While a music wild and solemn From the pine-tree's height Rolls its vast and sea-like volume On the wind of night."
Small wonder, then, that when they heard Cyrus Garst tell of hiscamping excursions, of his jolly times, long tramps, and hairbreadthescapes, their hearts swelled with a tremendous longing to accompany himon the trip into northern Maine which he was then projecting for thefollowing October.
Now, Cyrus at the first start-off conceived a liking for these Englishfellows, to whom, for his father's sake, he played the part of genialhost. With a lordly recognition of his superior years he pronounced them"first-rate youngsters, with lots of snap in them." And as theacquaintance progressed, Neal Farrar, with his erect figure, broadchest, musical voice, and wide-apart gray eyes,--so clear and honestthat their glance was a beam,--proved a personage so likable that thestudent adopted him as "chum," forgetting those five years which hadbeen a gulf between them.
Dol, whose eyes were of a more steely hue than his brother's, strikingfire readily and showing all manner of flinty lights, who had adownright talent for mimicry, and a small share of juvenileself-importance, came in for regard of a more indulgent and less equalnature.
Directly he got an inkling of the desire for a forest trip whichstirred in the boys' breasts, making them yearn all day and toss allnight, Cyrus gave them both a cordial invitation to accompany him intoMaine. Mr. Farrar did not purpose returning to Europe till midwinter.His consent was easily obtained. He presented each of his sons with anew Winchester repeating rifle, with which they practised diligently ata target ere the eventful day of the start dawned, though their leaderemphatically insisted that the prime pleasures of the trip were not tobe looked for in the slaughter done by their hands.
Wearing the camper's favorite dress of stout gray tweed, the trio leftBoston on a lovely September evening towards the close of the month,taking a fast night train for Maine, brimful of enthusiasm about thewild woods and free camp-life. The hue of their clothes was chosen witha view to making their figures resemble the forest trunks, so that theywould be less likely to attract the notice of animals, and might get achance to creep upon them undetected.
About their waists were their ammunition belts, with pouches wellstocked. Their large knapsacks contained blankets, moccasins, andvarious other necessaries of a camper's outfit, including heavy knittedjerseys for chill days and nights, and rubber boots reaching high on thelegs for wear in wading and traversing swampy tracts.
About twenty-four hours later they dropped off the rattling, jinglingstage-coach which bore them over the latter part of their journey, atthe flourishing village of Greenville, on the borders of the Mainewilds.
Here they were greeted by a view, the loveliness of which made theEnglish boys, who had never looked on it before, experience strangeheart-leaps.
A magnificent sheet of water nearly forty miles long and fourteen broadlay before them, studded with islands, girt with evergreen forests andwooded peaks. Under the rays of the setting sun its bosom was shot witharrows of pale, quivering gold. Banners of gold and flame-color floatedover the crests of the hills, flinging streamers of light down theiremerald sides.
"Fellows, there is Moosehead Lake; and I guess you'll find few lakes inAmerica or elsewhere that can beat it for beauty," said Cyrus, with apatriotic thrill in his voice, for he had a feeling that he was doingthe honors of his country.
His English comrades were warm with admiration, and here, in view of theforest-land which was their El Dorado, tingled with anticipation of theunknown.
The three rested that night at Greenville, and began their tramping onthe following morning. They trudged a distance of seven miles or so tothe camp of Ebenezer Grout, which, as Garst knew, was situated betweenSquaw Pond and Old Squaw Mountain, the latter being one of the finestpeaks near Moosehead Lake.
"Uncle Eb" was an old acquaintance of Cyrus's, a dusky, lively woodsman,who spent a great part of the year in his lone bark hut, with his dogTiger for company. He subsisted chiefly on what he brought down with hisrifle, and sometimes earned three dollars a day for guiding tourists upOld Squaw or through the adjacent forests.
"THERE IS MOOSEHEAD LAKE."]
He was not an ambitious hunter, and rarely pushed far into the solitudesof the wilderness in search of moose or other big game. A coon hunt wasto him the climax of all fun. It was chiefly with a hope that hiscomrades might enjoy some novel entertainment of this kind that Cyrusmade his first stoppage at Uncle Eb's camp, purposing to sojourn therefor a few days.
He was not disappointed.
The stupidly tired trio had slept for about two hours, while the readerhas been receiving information second-hand about their past and future,when a scratching, scraping, boring noise on the outside of their barkroof temporarily disturbed their slumbers. Dol called out noisily, and,as was the way of that youngster on sundry occasions, talked somegibberish in his sleep. The scraping instantly ceased.
A renewed and blissful season of snoring. Another awakening. More musicon the roof, evidently caused by the claws of some wild animal, whileeach of the campers was startled by a loud "Cluck!"
"Lie still, fellows! Don't budge. Let's see what the thing is," breathedCyrus in a peculiarly still whisper which he had learned from hismoose-hunting guide of whom mention has been made.
Dead silence in the hut. Redoubled scraping and rattling above, with ascattering of bark chips.
Then light appeared through a jagged hole just over a string which wasstretched across one corner of the cabin, and from which dangled sundryarticles of camp bric-a-brac, mostly of a tinny nature, with Uncle Eb'slast morsel of "pork.
"By all that's glorious! it's a coon," breathed Cyrus, but so softlythat his companions did not hear.
As for the two Farrars, they were working up to such a heat ofexcitement that they felt as if life were now only beginning. They hadheard of the thievish raids made by the black bear on unprotected camps,and of his special fondness for pork. Not knowing that there was nochance of an encounter with Bruin so near to civilization as this, theypeered at that hole in the roof, expecting every moment to see a huge,black, snarling snout thrust through it.
It was a pointed gray muzzle which warily appeared instead--appeared anddisappeared on the instant. For at this crisis Tiger's shrill bugle-callresounded without, giving warning of an attack on the camp. The thing,whatever it was, scrambled from the roof, and with a strange, shrill cryof one note made towards the woods. The dog followed it, barking for allhe was worth.
Now, too, Uncle Eb's booming "Whoop-ee!" was heard.
The hardy old woodsman, after his visitors had gone to roost, instead ofstretching himself as usual upon his pine mattress, had started off,accompanied by Tiger, to visit some traps which he had set in theforest, hoping to catch a marten or two. He took the precaution ofclosing the door of the hut when he saw that its inmates were soundlysleeping, thinking meanwhile, that, as day was dawning, there was littlechance of any wild "critter" coming round the camp during his absence.
But a greedy raccoon, which had been prowling near in the woods duringthe night, and had been tantalized to desperation by the smell of thelate meal, especially by the odor of flapjacks frying in pork fat, hadstolen from cover after the departure of his natural enemy, the dog.
Finding the coast clear and the camp unguarded, he made himself quietlyat home, rooted among some potato parings which the guide had thrownaside a day or two before, devoured a cold flapjack, and cleaned thecamp frying-pan as it had never been cleaned before, with his tongue.But his appetite was whetted, not glutted. Scent or instinct told himthat pork, molasses, and other eatables were hidden in the bark hut.Here was a golden opportunity for Mr. Coon. No one molested him.Meditating a feast, he climbed to the roof, and began cautiously toscrape off portions of the bark. The rising sun ought to have warned himback to forest depths; but he persisted in his scratching, repeating nowand again a satisfied cluck.
His hole was made. His keen nose told him that pork was almos
t withinreach, when the bugle-call of his enemy--Tiger's challenging bark--smoteupon his ear. Guide and dog were opportunely returning to camp.
Of course, as soon as the marauder scrambled off the roof, Cyrus and theboys sprang from their couch. Barefooted, and in night costume, theywere already at the door of the hut before Uncle Eb was heard booming,--
"Boys! Boys! Tumble out--tumble out! Dere's a reg'lar razzle-dazzlefight goin' on heah. Tiger's nabbed de coon."
Camp and Trail: A Story of the Maine Woods Page 5