Rolf In The Woods

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It was maddening. Skookum's pride was touched.

He was in to win or break. His supreme effort brought him within
five feet of that white-tipped brush. Then, strange to tell, the
big black fox put forth his large reserve of speed, and making
for the woods, left Skookum far behind. Why? The cause was
clear. Quonab, after vainly watching for a chance to shoot, that
would not endanger the dog, had, under cover, crept around the
lake and now was awaiting in a thicket. But the fox's keen nose
had warned him. He knew that the funny part was over, so ran for
the woods and disappeared as a ball tossed up the snow behind
him.

Poor Skookum's tongue was nearly a foot long as he walked meekly
ashore. He looked depressed; his tail was depressed; so were his
ears; but there was nothing to show whether he would have told
that reporter that he "wasn't feeling up to his usual, to-day,"
or "Didn't you see me get the best of him?"

The Rarest of Pelts

They saw that silver fox three or four times during the winter,
and once found that he had had the audacity to jump from a high
snowdrift onto the storehouse and thence to the cabin roof, where
he had feasted on some white rabbits kept there for deadfall
baits. But all attempts to trap or shoot him were vain, and
their acquaintance might have ended as it began, but for an
accident.

It proved a winter of much snow. Heavy snow is the worst
misfortune that can befall the wood folk in fur. It hides their
food beyond reach, and it checks their movements so they can
neither travel far in search of provender nor run fast to escape
their enemies. Deep snow then means fetters, starvation, and
death. There are two ways of meeting the problem: stilts and
snowshoes. The second is far the better. The caribou, and the
moose have stilts; the rabbit, the panther, and the lynx wear
snowshoes. When there are three or four feet of soft snow, the
lynx is king of all small beasts, and little in fear of the large
ones. Man on his snowshoes has most wild four-foots at his
mercy.

Skookum, without either means of meeting the trouble was left
much alone in the shanty. Apparently, it was on one of these
occasions that the silver fox had driven him nearly frantic by
eating rabbits on the roof above him.

The exasperating robbery of their trap line had gone on
irregularly all winter, but the thief was clever enough or lucky
enough to elude them.

They were returning to the cabin after a three days' round, when
they saw, far out on the white expanse of the lake, two animals,
alternately running and fighting. "Skookum and the fox," was the
first thought that came, but on entering the cabin Skookum
greeted them in person.

Quonab gazed intently at the two running specks and said: "One
has no tail. I think it is a peeshoo (lynx) and a fox."

Rolf was making dinner. From time to time he glanced over the
lake and saw the two specks, usually running. After dinner was
over, he said, "Let's sneak 'round and see if we can get a shot."

So, putting on their snowshoes and keeping out of sight, they
skimmed over the deer crossing and through the woods, till at a
point near the fighters, and there they saw something that
recalled at once the day of Skookum's humiliation.

A hundred yards away on the open snow was a huge lynx and their
old friend, the black and shining silver fox, face to face; the
fox desperate, showing his rows of beautiful teeth, but sinking
belly deep in the snow as he strove to escape. Already he was
badly wounded. In any case he was at the mercy of the lynx who,
in spite of his greater weight, had such broad and perfect
snowshoes that he skimmed on the surface, while the fox's small
feet sank deep. The lynx was far from fresh, and still stood in
some awe of those rows of teeth that snapped like traps when he
came too near. He was minded, of course, to kill his black
rival, but not to be hurt in doing so. Again and again there was
in some sort a closing fight, the wearied fox plunging
breathlessly through the treacherous, relentless snow. If he
could only get back to cover, he might find a corner to protect
his rear and have some fighting chance for life. But wherever he
turned that huge cat faced him, doubly armed, and equipped as a
fox can never be for the snow.

No one could watch that plucky fight without feeling his
sympathies go out to the beautiful silver fox. Rolf, at least,
was for helping him to escape, when the final onset came. In
another dash for the woods the fox plunged out of sight in a
drift made soft by sedge sticking through, and before he could
recover, the lynx's jaws closed on the back of his neck and the
relentless claws had pierced his vitals.

The justification of killing is self-preservation, and in this
case the proof would have been the lynx making a meal of the fox.
Did he do so? Not at all. He shook his fur, licked his chest
and paws in a self-congratulatory way, then giving a final tug at
the body, walked calmly over the snow along the shore.

Quonab put the back of his hand to his mouth and made a loud
squeaking, much like a rabbit caught in a snare. The lynx
stopped, wheeled, and came trotting straight toward the promising
music. Unsuspectingly he came within twenty yards of the
trappers. The flint-lock banged and the lynx was kicking in the
snow.

The beautiful silver fox skin was very little injured and proved
of value almost to double their catch so far; while the lynx skin
was as good as another marten.

They now had opportunity of studying the tracks and learned that
the fox had been hunting rabbits in a thicket when he was set on
by the lynx. At first he had run around in the bushes and saved
himself from serious injury, for the snow was partly packed by
the rabbits. After perhaps an hour of this, he had wearied and
sought to save himself by abandoning the lynx's territory, so had
struck across the open lake. But here the snow was too soft to
bear him at all, and the lynx could still skim over. So it
proved a fatal error. He was strong and brave. He fought at
least another hour here before the much stronger, heavier lynx
had done him to death. There was no justification. It was a
clear case of tyrannical murder, but in this case vengeance was
swift and justice came sooner than its wont.

The Enemy's Fort

It pays 'bout once in a hundred times to git mad, but there
ain't any way o' tellin' beforehand which is the time
- Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

It generally took two days to run the west line of traps. At a
convenient point they had built a rough shack for a half-way
house. On entering this one day, they learned that since their
last visit it had been occupied by some one who chewed tobacco.
Neither of them had this habit. Quonab's face grew darker each
time fresh evidence of the enemy was discovered, and the final
wrong was added soon.

Some trappers mark their traps; some do not bother. Rolf had
marked all of theirs with a file, cutting notches on the iron.
Two, one, three, was their mark, and it was a wise plan, as it
turned out.

On going around the west beaver pond they found that all six
traps had disappeared. In some, there was no evidence of the
thief; in some, the tracks showed clearly that they were taken by
the same interloper that had bothered them all along, and on a
jagged branch was a short blue yarn.

"Now will I take up his trail and kill him," said the Indian.

Rolf had opposed extreme measures, and again he remonstrated.
To his surprise, the Indian turned fiercely and said: "You know
it is white man. If he was Indian would you be patient? No!"

"There is plenty of country south of the lake; maybe he was here first."

"You know he was not. You should eat many pekan hearts. I have
sought peace, now I fight."

He shouldered his pack, grasped his gun, and his snowshoes went
"tssape, tssape, tssape," over the snow.

Skookum was sitting by Rolf. He rose to resume the march, and
trotted a few steps on Quonab's trail. Rolf did not move; he was
dazed by the sudden and painful situation. Mutiny is always
worse than war. Skookum looked back, trotted on, still Rolf sat
staring. Quonab's figure was lost in the distance; the dog's was
nearly so. Rolf moved not. All the events of the last year were
rushing through his mind; the refuge he had found with the
Indian; the incident of the buck fight and the tender nurse the
red man proved. He wavered. Then he saw Skookum coming back on
the trail. The dog trotted up to the boy and dropped a glove,
one of Quonab's. Undoubtedly the Indian had lost it; Skookum
had found it on the trail and mechanically brought it to the
nearest of his masters. Without that glove Quonab's hand would
freeze. Rolf rose and sped along the other's trail. Having
taken the step, he found it easy to send a long halloo, then
another and another, till an answer came. In a few minutes Rolf
came up. The Indian was sitting on a log, waiting. The glove was
handed over in silence, and received with a grunt.

After a minute or two, Rolf said "Let's get on," and started on
the dim trail of the robber.

For an hour or two they strode in silence. Then their course
rose as they reached a rocky range. Among its bare, wind-swept
ridges all sign was lost, but the Indian kept on till they were
over and on the other side. A far cast in the thick, windless
woods revealed the trail again, surely the same, for the snowshoe
was two fingers wider on every side, and a hand-breadth longer
than Quonab's; be- sides the right frame had been broken and the
binding of rawhide was faintly seen in the snow mark. It was a
mark they had seen all winter, and now it was headed as before
for the west.

When night came down, they camped in a hollow. They were used to
snow camps. In the morning they went on, but wind and snow had
hidden their tell-tale guide.

What was the next move? Rolf did not ask, but wondered.

Quonab evidently was puzzled.

At length Rolf ventured: "He surely lives by some river -- that
way -- and within a day's journey. This track is gone, but we
may strike a fresh one. We'll know it when we see it."

The friendly look came back to the Indian's face. "You are
Nibowaka."

They had not gone half a mile before they found a fresh track --
their old acquaintance. Even Skookum showed his hostile
recognition. And in a few minutes it led them to a shanty. They
slipped off their snowshoes, and hung them in a tree. Quonab
opened the door without knocking. They entered, and in a moment
were face to face with a lanky, ill-favoured white man that all
three, including Skookum, recognized as Hoag, the man they had
met at the trader's.

That worthy made a quick reach for his rifle, but Quonab covered
him and said in tones that brooked no discussion, "Sit down!"

Hoag did so, sullenly, then growled: "All right; my partners will
be here in ten minutes."

Rolf was startled. Quonab and Skookum were not.

"We settled your partners up in the hills," said the former,
knowing that one bluff was as good as another. Skookum growled
and sniffed at the enemy's legs. The prisoner made a quick move
with his foot.

"You kick that dog again and it's your last kick," said the Indian.

"Who's kicked yer dog, and what do you mean coming here with yer
cutthroat ways? You'll find there's law in this country before
yer through," was the answer.

"That's what we're looking for, you trap robber, you thief.
We're here first to find our traps; second to tell you this: the
next time you come on our line there'll be meat for the ravens.
Do you suppose I don't know them? and the Indian pointed to a
large pair of snowshoes with long heels and a repair lashing on
the right frame. "See that blue yarn," and the Indian matched it
with a blue sash hanging to a peg.

"Yes, them belongs to Bill Hawkins; he'll be 'round in five
minutes now."

The Indian made a gesture of scorn; then turning to Rolf said:
"look 'round for our traps." Rolf made a thorough search in and
about the shanty and the adjoining shed. He found some traps but
none with his mark; none of a familiar make even.

"Better hunt for a squaw and papoose," sneered Hoag, who was
utterly puzzled by the fact that now Rolf was obviously a white
lad.

But all the search was vain. Either Hoag had not stolen the
traps or had hidden them elsewhere. The only large traps they
found were two of the largest size for taking bear.

Hoag's torrent of bad language had been quickly checked by the
threat of turning Skookum loose on his legs, and he looked such a
grovelling beast that presently the visitors decided to leave him
with a warning.

The Indian took the trapper's gun, fired it off out of doors, not
in the least perturbed by the possibility of its being heard by
Hoag's partners. He knew they were imaginary. Then changing
his plan, he said "Ugh! You find your gun in half a mile on our
trail. But don't come farther and don't let me see the snowshoe
trail on the divide again. Them ravens is awful hungry."

Skookum, to his disappointment, was called off and, talking the
trapper's gun for a time, they left it in a bush and made for
their own country.

Skookum's Panther

"Why are there so few deer tracks now?"

"Deer yarded for winter," replied the Indian; no travel in deep snow."

"We'll soon need another," said Rolf, which unfortunately was
true. They could have killed many deer in early winter, when the
venison was in fine condition, but they had no place to store it.
Now they must get it as they could, and of course it was thinner
and poorer every week.

They were on a high hill some days later. There was a clear view
and they noticed several ravens circling and swooping.

"Maybe dead deer; maybe deer yard," said the Indian.

It was over a thick, sheltered, and extensive cedar swamp near
the woods where last year they had seen so many deer, and they
were not surprised to find deer tracks in numbers, as soon as
they got into its dense thicket.

A deer yard is commonly supposed to be a place in which the deer
have a daily "bee" at road work all winter long and deliberately
keep the snow hammered down so they can run on a hard surface
everywhere within its limits. The fact is, the deer gather in a
place where there is plenty of food and good shelter. The snow
does not drift here, so the deer, by continually moving about,
soon make a network of tracks in all directions, extending them
as they must to seek more food. They may, of course, leave the
yard at any time, but at once they encounter the dreaded obstacle
of deep, soft snow in which they are helpless.

Once they reached the well-worn trails, the hunters took off
their snowshoes and went gently on these deer paths. They saw one
or two disappearing forms, which taught them the thick cover was
hiding many more. They made for the sound of the ravens, and
found that the feast of the sable birds was not a deer but the
bodies of three, quite recently killed.

Quonab made a hasty study of the signs and said, "Panther."

Yes, a panther, cougar, or mountain lion also had found the deer
yard; and here he was living, like a rat in a grocer shop with
nothing to do but help himself whenever he felt like feasting.

Pleasant for the panther, but hard on the deer; for the killer is
wasteful and will often kill for the joy of murder.

Not a quarter of the carcasses lying here did he eat; he was
feeding at least a score of ravens, and maybe foxes, martens, and
lynxes as well.

Before killing a deer, Quonab thought it well to take a quiet
prowl around in hopes of seeing the panther. Skookum was turned
loose and encouraged to display his talents.

Proud as a general with an ample and obedient following, he
dashed ahead, carrying fresh dismay among the deer, if one might
judge from the noise. Then he found some new smell of
excitement, and voiced the new thrill in a new sound, one not
unmixed with fear. At length his barking was far away to the
west in a rocky part of the woods. Whatever the prey, it was
treed, for the voice kept one place.

The hunters followed quickly and found the dog yapping furiously
under a thick cedar. The first thought was of porcupine; but a
nearer view showed the game to be a huge panther on the ground,
not greatly excited, disdaining to climb, and taking little
notice of the dog, except to curl his nose and utter a hissing
kind of snarl when the latter came too near.

But the arrival of the hunters gave a new colour to the picture.
The panther raised his head, then sprang up a large tree and
ensconced himself on a fork, while the valorous Skookum reared
against the trunk, threatening loudly to come up and tear him to
pieces.

This was a rare find and a noble chance to conserve their stock
of deer, so the hunters went around the tree seeking for a fair
shot. But every point of view had some serious obstacle. It
seemed as though the branches had been told off to guard the
panther's vitals, for a big one always stood in the bullet's way.

After vainly going around, Quonab said to Rolf: "Hit him with
something, so he'll move."

Rolf always was a good shot with stones, but he found none to
throw. Near where they stood, however, was an unfreezing spring,
and the soggy snow on it was easily packed into a hard, heavy
snowball. Rolf threw it straight, swift, and by good luck it hit
the panther square on the nose and startled him so that he sprang
right out of the tree and flopped into the snow.

Skookum was on him at once, but got a slap on the ear that
changed his music, and the panther bounded away out of sight with
the valiant Skookum ten feet behind, whooping and yelling like
mad.

It was annoyance rather than fear that made that panther take to
a low tree while Skookum boxed the compass, and made a beaten dog
path all around him. The hunters approached very carefully now,
making little sound and keeping out of sight. The panther was
wholly engrossed with observing the astonishing impudence of that
dog, when Quonab came quietly up, leaned his rifle against a tree
and fired. The smoke cleared to show the panther on his back,
his legs convulsively waving in the air, and Skookum tugging
valiantly at his tail.

"My panther," he seemed to say; "whatever would you do without me?"

A panther in a deer yard is much like a wolf shut up in a
sheepfold. He would probably have killed all the deer that
winter, though there were ten times as many as he needed for
food; and getting rid of him was a piece of good luck for hunters
and deer, while his superb hide made a noble trophy that in years
to come had unexpected places of honour.

Sunday in the Woods

Rolf still kept to the tradition of Sunday, and Quonab had in a
manner accepted it. It was a curious fact that the red man had
far more toleration for the white man's religious ideas than the
white man had for the red's.

Quonab's songs to the sun and the spirit, or his burning of a
tobacco pinch, or an animal's whiskers were to Rolf but harmless
nonsense. Had he given them other names, calling them hymns and
incense, he would have been much nearer respecting them. He had
forgotten his mother's teaching: "If any man do anything
sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is
worshipping God." He disliked seeing Quonab use an axe or a gun
on Sunday, and the Indian, realizing that such action made "evil
medicine" for Rolf, practically abstained. But Rolf had not yet
learned to respect the red yarns the Indian hung from a deer's
skull, though he did come to understand that he must let them
alone or produce bad feeling in camp.

Sunday had become a day of rest and Quonab made it also a day of
song and remembrance.

They were sitting one Sunday night by the fire in the cabin,
enjoying the blaze, while a storm rattled on the window and door.
A white-footed mouse, one of a family that lived in the shanty,
was trying how close he could come to Skookum's nose without
being caught, while Rolf looked on. Quonab was lying back on a
pile of deer skins, with his pipe in his mouth, his head on the
bunk, and his hands clasped back of his neck.

There was an atmosphere of content and brotherly feeling; the
evening was young, when Rolf broke silence:

"Were you ever married, Quonab?"

"Ugh," was the Indian's affirmative.

"Where?"

"Myanos."

Rolf did not venture more questions, but left the influence of
the hour to work. It was a moment of delicate poise, and Rolf
knew a touch would open the door or double bar it. He wondered
how he might give that touch as he wished it. Skookum still
slept. Both men watched the mouse, as, with quick movements it
crept about. Presently it approached a long birch stick that
stood up against the wall. High hanging was the song-drum. Rolf
wished Quonab would take it and let it open his heart, but he
dared not offer it; that might have the exact wrong effect. Now
the mouse was behind the birch stick. Then Rolf noticed that the
stick if it were to fall would strike a drying line, one end of
which was on the song-drum peg. So he made a dash at the mouse
and displaced the stick; the jerk it gave the line sent the
song-drum with hollow bumping to the ground. The boy stooped to
replace it; as he did, Quonab grunted and Rolf turned to see his
hand stretched for the drum. Had Rolf officiously offered it, it
would have been refused; now the Indian took it, tapped and
warmed it at the fire, and sang a song of the Wabanaki. It was
softly done, and very low, but Rolf was close, for almost the
first time in any long rendition, and he got an entirely new
notion of the red music. The singer's face brightened as he
tummed and sang with peculiar grace notes and throat warbles of
"Kaluscap's war with the magi," and the spirit of his people,
rising to the sweet magic of melody, came shining in his eyes.
He sang the lovers' song, "The Bark Canoe." (See F. R. Burton's
"American Primitive Music.)

"While the stars shine and falls the dew, I seek my love in bark canoe."

And then the cradle song,

"The Naked Bear Shall Never Catch Thee."

When he stopped, he stared at the fire; and after a long pause
Rolf ventured, "My mother would have loved your songs."

Whether he heard or not, the warm emanation surely reached the
Indian, and he began to answer the question of an hour before:

"Her name was Gamowini, for she sang like the sweet night bird at
Asamuk. I brought her from her father's house at Saugatuck. We
lived at Myanos. She made beautiful baskets and moccasins. I
fished and trapped; we had enough. Then the baby came. He had
big round eyes, so we called him Wee-wees, 'our little owl,' and
we were very happy. When Gamowini sang to her baby, the world
seemed full of sun. One day when Wee-wees could walk she left
him with me and she went to Stamford with some baskets to sell.
A big ship was in the harbour. A man from the ship told her that
his sailors would buy all her baskets. She had no fear. On the
ship they seized her for a runaway slave, and hid her till they
sailed away.

"When she did not come back I took Wee-wees on my shoulder and
went quickly to Stamford. I soon found out a little, but the
people did not know the ship, or whence she came, or where she
went, they said. They did not seem to care. My heart grew
hotter and wilder. I wanted to fight. I would have killed the
men on the dock, but they were many. They bound me and put me in
jail for three months. 'When I came out Wee-wees was dead. They
did not care. I have heard nothing since. Then I went to live
under the rock, so I should not see our first home. I do not
know; she may be alive. But I think it killed her to lose her baby."

The Indian stopped; then rose quickly. His face was hard set.
He stepped out into the snowstorm and the night. Rolf was left
alone with Skookum.

Sad, sad, everything seemed sad in his friend's life, and Rolf,
brooding over it with wisdom beyond his years, could not help
asking: "Had Quonab and Gamowini been white folk, would it have
happened so? Would his agony have been received with scornful
indifference? Alas! he knew it would not. He realized it would
have been a very different tale, and the sequent questions that
would not down, were, "Will this bread cast on the waters return
after many days?" "Is there a God of justice and retribution?"
"On whom will the flail of vengeance fall for all these abominations?"

Two hours later the Indian returned. No word was spoken as he
entered. He was not cold. He must have walked far. Rolf
prepared for bed. The Indian stooped, picked up a needle from
the dusty ground, one that had been lost the day before, silently
handed it to his companion, who gave only a recognizant "Hm,"
and dropped it into the birch-bark box.

The Lost Bundle of Furs

There had been a significant cessation of robbery on their trap
line after the inconclusive visit to the enemy's camp. But a new
and extreme exasperation arose in the month of March, when the
alternation of thaw and frost had covered the snow with a hard
crust that rendered snowshoes unnecessary and made it easy to run
anywhere and leave no track.

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