CHAPTER VI.
AFTER BLACK DUCKS.
If Cyrus's dreams were ruffled after the morning's excitement, those ofhis comrades were a perfect chaos.
A slight wind hummed wordless songs through the tasselled tops of thepine-trees about the camp. The music was tender and drowsy as a mother'slullaby. Contrary to their expectations, Neal and Dol were lulled tosleep by it like babies, with a feeling as if some guardian spirit weregliding among the tree-tops.
But when slumber held them, when the murmur increased to a surge ofsound, sank to a ripple and again rolled forth, in their dreams theyimagined it the scurrying of a deer's hoofs along some lonely forestdeer-path, the rustling of a buck through bushes, the splashing of amighty moose among lily-pads and grasses at the margin of a dark pond,the startled cluck of a coon. In fact, that rolling music of the pineswas translated into every forest sound which they had heard, or expectedto hear.
The excitement of wild scenes, new sensations, strange knowledge, stillthrilled them even in sleep. Their visions were accordingly wild,rushing, jumbled, yet all set in a light so bright as to bebewildering--a sign that health and happiness as great as human boys canenjoy were the possession of the dreamers.
By and by their pulses grew steadier. Out of this confused rush ofimaginings grew in the mind of each one steady, absorbing dream. Nealfancied that he was on the top of Old Squaw Mountain, and that beneath,above, around him, sounded the strangely prolonged weird call, which hehad heard at a distance on the previous night while Cyrus was recoveringthe jack-light. Owing to the ever-changing excitements of camp-life, hehad not questioned his comrade again about it.
Dol's visions resolved themselves into a mighty coon hunt. He tossed onhis pine boughs, kicked and jabbered in his sleep, with sundry oddlittle cries and untranslatable mutterings,--
"Go it, Tiger! Go it, old dog! There he is--up the tree! Ah"(disgustedly), "you're no good!"
A lull. Then the dreamer rolled out a string of what may be calledgibberish, seeing that it consisted of fragments of words and wasunintelligible, followed by,--
"The coon's eating the pork--no, he's b-b-b-barking it! Hu-loo-oo!"
"Oh, say, Chick, give us a chance! We can't sleep with you chirping intoour ears."
It was Cyrus who spoke, shaking with drowsy laughter, and Cyrus's bighand gently shook the dreamer's arm.
"What? what? wh-wh-at?" gasped Dol, awaking. "I wasn't talking out loud,was I?"
"Not talking aloud! Well, I should smile!" answered the camp captain."You were making as much noise as a loon, and that's the noisiest thingI know. Go to sleep again, young one, and don't have any more crazyspells before dinner-time."
Cyrus removed his hand, shut his eyes, and in a minute or two wasbreathing heavily. Neal, who had been aroused too, followed hisexample, laughing and mumbling something about "it's being an old trickof Dol's to hunt in his sleep."
But the junior member of the party remained awake. After his dreams hadbeen dissipated he cared no more for slumber. When he could venture itwithout disturbing his companions, he rose to a sitting posture, and,after squatting for a while in meditation, got on his feet, picked uphis coat and moccasins, and, stealthily as an Indian, crept out of thehut.
The rolling music among the pine-tops had died down; only at longintervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearlymidday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling sunlightwhich fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the clearingbeyond the shadow of the pines.
Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tigercould be seen, though Dol's eyes sought for them wistfully. Butsomething caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering throughthe pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashionedmuzzle-loading shot-gun, which leaned against a corner of the hut. Anancient, glistening powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hungabove it.
Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, andexamined it closely. He knew it belonged to the guide, but was rarelyused by him since he had purchased the 44-calibre Winchester rifle, withwhich he could do uncommon feats in shooting.
The shot-gun interested the boy mightily. There was a facsimile of it,swathed in green baize, stowed away somewhere in his father's house inManchester. The first time he had ever used fire-arms was on a memorableday when his fingers pulled its trigger in his father's garden underNeal's direction, and a lean starling fell before his shot. After thathe had often taken out a fowling-piece of a newer style, and had donepretty well with it too.
As he handled the shot-gun, which the guide had bought away back in theyear '55, musing about it under the pines, the thought suddenly tumbledout of a corner of his brain that at present there was a brilliantopportunity for him to use the gun and all the shooting skill hepossessed for the benefit of his comrades and himself.
There was no meat in the camp for dinner or supper save the pork onwhich they had feasted since they arrived there, and that was fastgiving out. Cyrus, in addition to his knapsack, had hauled over fromGreenville, where articles of camp fare could be procured in abundance,a goodly supply of tea, coffee, condensed milk, flour, salt, sugar,etc., in a stout canvas bag, Neal at intervals helping him with theburden. For the rest he had trusted to Nature's larder, and such food ashe might purchase from his guides, desiring to go into the woods as"light" as possible.
Uncle Eb had baked bread for his guests after a fashion of his own onthe camp frying-pan, setting the pan on some glowing coals a foot or sofrom the fire; he had fried unlimited flapjacks, and had cheerfullyplaced what stores he had at their disposal. His three luxuries werenovelties to the English lads, being pork, maple sugar,--drawn from thebeautiful maple-trees near his camp,--and a small wooden keg of sticky,dark molasses. The sugar was the only one which Dol found palatable; andhe knew that the Bostonian, Cyrus, shared his feeling. To tell thetruth, the juvenile Adolphus was not fastidious, but he was suddenlyseized with an ambitious desire to vary the diet of the camp.
"Uncle Eb said that I could use this 'ole fuzzee,' as he called it,whenever I liked," he muttered, looking wistfully at the shot-gun; "andI've a big mind to give those lazy fellows in there a surprise. Theyspent the night out jacking, and didn't get any meat because Cyrus letNeal do the shooting, and he bungled it. It's my turn next to go afterdeer, but I'm not going to wait for that."
Here his steel-gray eyes fell on the moccasins which he had not yet puton, and struck fire instantly. His ambition was doubled. For if there isone thing more than another which in the forest will stir the pluck of anovice, and make him feel like an old woodsman, it is the sight of hisIndian footwear. Dol put his on, admired their light, comfortablefeeling, their soft buckskin, and rashly decided that he could dispensewith the loose inner soles which Cyrus had fitted into them to protecthis feet.
Then, being very much of a stranger to American woods, he communed withhimself after this fashion,--
"Cyrus says that different tribes of Indians wear differently mademoccasins, and one redskin, if he sees the tracks of another in softmud or snow, can tell what tribe he belongs to by his footmarks. That'sfunny! I suppose if any old brave was knocking about and saw my tracksin a boggy spot, he'd think it was a Kickapoo who had passed thatway--not Dol Farrar of Manchester, England. These are of the shape wornby the Kickapoo tribe--so Cy says.
"I'm the kid of the camp, I know," he went on, with another flash in hiseyes, as if there was a bit of flint somewhere in his make-up which hadstruck their steel. "But I'll be bound I can do as well or better thanthe others can. I'm off now to Squaw Pond. I think I can follow thetrail easily enough. Uncle Eb showed me yesterday where he had spottedsome of the trees all the way along to the water. And if I don't shoot acouple of black ducks for dinner or supper, I'm a duffer, and not fitfor camping."
He took down the powder-horn and slung it round him, saw that there wasplenty of meat in the ragged coon-skin ammunition pouch which hungbeside it, fastened that to his belt, slipped o
n his coat, and startedoff, with the "ole fuzzee" on his shoulder.
Never a sound did he make as he crossed the clearing, passing the clumpof bushes behind which Cyrus and Neal had lingered on the previous nightto hear Uncle Eb's song. Owing to his Indian footwear, silently as thegliding redskin himself he entered the woods at a point where he saw atree with a fresh notch carved in it. He knew this marked the beginningof the "blazed trail," and that he must be very wide-awake and showconsiderable "gumption" if he wanted to follow that line to the pond.
Not every tree was spotted. Only at intervals of fifteen or twenty yardshe came upon a trunk with two small pieces chopped out of it on oppositesides. These were Uncle Eb's way-marks. One set of notches would catchhis eye as he went towards the water, the other would lead him back tocamp. Once or twice Dol got away from the trail, but he quickly found itagain; and in due time emerged from the forest twilight into the broadglare of the sun, to see Squaw Pond lying before him like a miniaturemother-of-pearl sea, so protected by its evergreen woods that scarcely aripple stirred it.
He heard the shrill, wild call of a loon, the noisy bird to which Cyrushad likened him, and saw its white breast rising above the water, as itswam about among the reeds near the opposite bank. The cry was oftrepeated, making an unearthly din, now joyous, now dreary, among theechoes around the lake.
Dol paused for a minute to listen; but he was bent on business, and didnot want to be very long away from camp lest his absence should causealarm. He took a careful survey of the scene. Not beholding any fleet ofblack ducks as yet, he loaded his gun, and warily proceeded along thebank towards the head of the pond.
Keeping a sharp lookout, he by and by detected something moving amongthe water grasses a little way ahead, and heard a hoarse, squalling"Quack! quack!"
Immediately afterwards a flock of half a dozen ducks sailed forth fromtheir shelter, nodding and quacking inquisitively.
A wild drumming was at Dol's heart, and a reckless singing in his ears,as he raised his gun to his shoulder, and fired among them.Nevertheless, his aim was sure and deadly. Two quackers were killed withone shot! The others rose from the water, and with much fluttering andhoarse noise winged their way to safety.
"How'll they be for meat, I wonder? Won't I have a crow over thosefellows?" shouted Adolphus aloud, with a yell entirely worthy of aKickapoo Indian, when he had recovered from surprise at the success ofhis own shot.
He laid down the gun, pulled off his moccasins and socks, rolled up histrousers, and waded in for the prize. Truly luck was with him--sofar--in his first venture in this region of the unknown. The water wasso shallow that, having grabbed the ducks, he splashed out of it,kicking shiny drops from his toes, without wetting an inch of hisgarments.
"I'm the kid of the camp, I know; but I'll be the first fellow to bringany decent meat into it. Hooray!" he whooped again. "Shouldn't wonder ifthese moccasins brought me wonderful luck; one can steal about soquietly in them."
He had hit upon the supreme advantage which the Indian footwearpossesses over every other for the woodsman. A little later he was tolearn its disadvantage, having, with foreign inexperience, disdained theextra soles because they were not "Indian" enough for his taste; for thesoft buckskin could not protect from roots and stones a wearer whoseflesh was not hardened to every kind of forest travelling.
But at present Dol bepraised his moccasins; for they had enabled him tosneak upon his birds, the wildest of the duck tribe, who generally, at asingle hoarse "Quack!" from their leader, will cease their antics inlake or stream, and disappear like a skimming breeze before a sportsmancan get a fair shot at them.
For a quarter of an hour Dol Farrar sat by this forest pond engaged inthe cheerful occupation of "booming himself," as his friend Cyrus wouldhave said. He told himself that he had made a pretty smart beginning,not alone in shooting a brace of black ducks, but in successfullyfollowing a difficult trail on his fourth day in the woods. Henceforth,he thought, there would be little reason for him to dread the unknown inthis great wilderness.
He reclothed his legs, gathered the stiffening claws of the defunctquackers in his left hand, picked up his empty "ole fuzzee," which haddone such good service despite its age, and set forth on his return tocamp.
Retracing his steps along the bank, after some searching he found thebeginning of the trail, and started along it with a know-it-all,cheerful confidence in the little bit of wood-lore which he hadacquired. Hence he now found it considerably more difficult to followthe spotted trees. His brain was excited and preoccupied; and when oncein fancied security he suffered his eyes and thoughts to stray for aminute from the trail, every unfamiliar woodland sight and sound temptedthem to wander farther.
First it was an old fox, which poked its sharp, inquisitive nose out ofa patch of undergrowth near at hand. Dol uttered a mad "Whoop-ee!" andheedlessly dashed off a few steps in pursuit. Reynard whisked his brushas much as to say, "You can't get the better of me, stranger!" anddefiantly trotted away.
Recovering his senses, the boy managed to recover the trail too, and waskeeping to it carefully when a second temptation beset him. A chatteringsquirrel, seated on the low bough of a maple-tree, with his fore pawsagainst his white breast, his eyes like twinkling beads, and hisrestless little head playing bo-peep with the intruding boy, began toscold the latter for venturing into his forest playground.
Dol's first thought was full of delighted interest. His second was asanguinary one; namely, that a pair of ducks would only be one meal forfour campers who were "camp-hungry," and that Uncle Eb had spoken ofsquirrels as "fust-rate eatin'." He handled his gun uncertainly,deliberating whether or not he would load it, and try a shot at thebright-eyed chatterbox.
Before he had decided one way or the other, the squirrel, still scoldingand playing bo-peep, scampered off his bough, and up the trunk of themaple. Thence he quickly made good his escape from one tree to another,affording a whisking, momentary view now and again of his white breastor bushy tail. Dol absolutely forgot the blazed trail, forgot thestories which he had heard about forest perils, forgot every earthlything but his admiration for the pretty, tantalizing fellow; though todo the lad justice, he soon came to the conclusion that the camp must bein a worse strait for want of provisions before he could have the heartto shoot him. He gave chase nevertheless, plunging along in a ziz-zagway over a carpet of moss and dry pine-needles, and through some densetangles of undergrowth, uttering a welcoming screech whenever he sawthe bright eyes of the little trickster peering down at him from abough.
He had travelled farther than he knew before his interest in the gamewaned. He began to feel that it was rather beneath the dignity of afellow who wore moccasins, carried coon-skin pouch and powder-horn, andwho was bound for remote solitudes in search of the lordly moose, to beinterested in such an insignificant phase of forest life as the doingsof a red squirrel.
Then he started back to find the trail. He walked a considerabledistance. He searched hither and thither, straining his eyes anxiouslythrough the bewildering gloom of the forest, but never a notched treecould he see. Whereupon Dol Farrar called himself some pretty hardnames. He remarked that he had been a "hair-brained fool" and a"greenhorn" ever to leave the spotted track, but that he wasn't going tobe "downed;" he would search until he found it.
And he certainly was enough of a greenhorn not to know that every stephe now took was carrying him away from the trail, and plunging him intoa hopeless, pathless labyrinth of woods. For Dol had lost all knowledgeof directions, and was completely "turned round;" which means that hewas miserably lost.
The disaster came about in this way. The forest here was very dense, thegiant trees interlocked above his head letting so little light filterthrough their foliage that he could scarcely see twenty yards ahead ofhim, and that in a puzzling, shadowy gloom resembling an Englishtwilight.
When he ceased chasing the squirrel, he imagined that he retraced hissteps directly towards the point where he had quitted the trail. Inreality, seeing nothing
to aim for in this bewildering maze of endlesstrees, turned out of his way continually as he dodged in and out aroundmassive trunks, he gradually worked farther and farther off the courseby which he had come, drifting in random directions like a rudderlessship on mid-ocean. This helpless state is called, in the phraseology ofthe northern woods, being "turned round."
But Dol Farrar was spared for the present a thorough realization of thedreadful mishap which had befallen him. He had a shocked, breathless,flurried feeling, as if scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes, and hesaw the dangers of the unknown as he had not before seen them. But evenin the midst of abusing himself for his rash self-confidence, he uttereda cheerful "Hurrah!"
"Why, good gracious!" he cried. "Here's another trail! Now, where onearth does this lead to? I don't see any spotted trees"--lookingcarefully about--"but it's a well-beaten track, a regular plain path,where people have been walking. It must lead to our camp. I'll follow itup, anyhow. That will be better than dodging around here until I get'wheels in my head,' as Uncle Eb says he did once when he lost his wayin the woods, and kept wandering round and round in a circle."
Puffing with excitement and revived hope, the boy started off on thisnew trail, which he blessed at first--oh, how he blessed it!--as if ithad been a golden clew to lead him out of his difficulty. To be sure, itwas not a blazed trail; there were no notches in the trees, but theground showed distinct signs of being frequently and recently travelledover. Though footprints were not traceable, moss, earth, and in someplaces the forest undergrowth of dwarfed bushes, were thoroughly pressedand trodden.
Dol never doubted but that it was a human trail, a track continuallyused by some woodsman; but he thought that the unknown traveller,whoever he was, must have agile legs and a taste for athletics, for manytimes he had to hoist himself, his gun, and the ducks over some bigwindfall which lay right across the way. The dead quackers he pitchedbefore him, fearing that by the time he got back to camp--if ever hedid?--their flesh would be too bruised to look like respectable meat;for he was obliged to have one hand free to help him in scrambling overeach fallen tree.
Once or twice this strange trail led him through thickets where thebushes grew so high as to lash his face. He came to regard slippery,projecting roots and rough stones, which galled his feet, protected onlyby the thin soles of his moccasins, as matters of course. His winddecreased, and his blessings ceased. Yet he followed on, walking,walking, interminably walking, with now and again an interval ofclimbing or stumbling headlong, accompanied by ejaculations ofthankfulness that his gun was not loaded.
His breath came in hot, strangling gasps, the veins in his head wereswollen and stinging like whipcords, there was a dull, pounding noise inhis ears, and a drumming at his heart. He confessed that he wasthoroughly "winded" when he had been following the trail for nearly twohours, so he seated himself upon a withered stump beside it to rest.
He had relinquished the idea that the track would bring him out nearUncle Eb's camp. Had it led thither, he would have rejoined his comradeslong before this. His only hope now was that by patiently following iton he might reach the camp of some other traveller, or the lonely logcabin of a pioneer farmer. He had heard of such farm-settlements beingscattered here and there on forest clearings.
So presently Dol Farrar got to his feet again, when he had recoveredbreath and strength, and told himself pluckily that "he wasn't going toknock under," that "he had been in bad scrapes before now, and had notshown the white feather." He gritted his teeth, and resolved that hewould not show that craven pinion, even in the desperate solitude ofthese baffling woods where no eye could see his weakness. He did notwant to have a secret, humiliating memory by and by that he had beenfaltering and distracted when his life depended on his wits andendurance.
He squared his shoulders sturdily, as if to make the most of thebudding manhood that was in him, and trudged ahead. And, indeed, he hadneed to take his courage in both hands, and force it to stand by him;for he had not gone far when, though the forest still continued dense,he became aware that he was beginning a steep ascent. Was the trailgoing to lead him up a mountain-side? The way grew yet more rugged.Every step was a misery. Jagged edges of rock and never-ending rootsseemed to brand themselves with burning friction upon his feet, throughtheir soft buckskin covering. He tried to hearten himself into a beliefthat he must soon reach some mountain camp or settlement.
But a bleak horror threw a gray shade upon his face as his staring eyessaw that the trail was growing fainter--fainter--fainter. At the foot ofa steep crag, where a mass of earth, stones, and dead spruce-treesshowed that there had lately been a landslide on the mountain above, helost it altogether. It had led him to a pile of rubbish.
Camp and Trail: A Story of the Maine Woods Page 7