Rolf In The Woods

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Once the winter had taken a backward step -- spring found it easy
to turn retreat into panic and rout; and the ten days Quonab stayed
away were days of revolutionary change. For in them semi-winter
gave place to smiling spring, with all the snow-drifts gone,
except perhaps in the shadiest hollows of the woods.

It was a bright morning, and a happy one for Rolf, when he heard
the Indian's short "Ho," outside, and a minute later had Skookum
dancing and leaping about him. On Hoag the effect was quite
different. He was well enough to be up, to hobble about painfully
on a stick; to be exceedingly fault-finding, and to eat three
hearty meals a day; but the moment the Indian appeared, he withdrew
into himself, and became silent and uneasy. Before an hour passed,
he again presented the furs, the gun, the canoe, and the traps to Rolf,
on condition that he should get him out to his folks.

All three were glad to set out that very day on the outward trip
to Lyons Falls.

Down Little Moose River to Little Moose Lake and on to South
Branch of Moose, then by the Main Moose, was their way. The
streams were flush; there was plenty of water, and this
fortunately reduced the number of carries; for Hoag could not
walk and would not hobble. They sweat and laboured to carry him
over every portage; but they covered the fifty miles in three
days, and on the evening of the third, arrived at the little
backwoods village of Lyons Falls.

The change that took place fn Hoag now was marked and unpleasant.
He gave a number of orders, where, the day before, he would have
made whining petitions. He told them to "land easy, and don't
bump my canoe." He hailed the loungers about the mill with an
effusiveness that they did not resdond to. Their cool, "Hello,
Jack, are you back?" was little but a passing recognition. One
of them was persuaded to take Rolf's place in carrying Hoag to
his cabin. Yes, his folks were there, but they did not seem
overjoyed at his arrival. He whispered to the boy, who sullenly
went out to the river and returned with the rifle, Rolf's rifle now,
the latter supposed, and would have taken the bundle of furs had
not Skookum sprung on the robber and driven him away from the canoe.

And now Hoag showed his true character. "Them's my furs and my
canoe," he said to one of the mill hands, and turning to the two
who had saved him, he said: "An' you two dirty, cutthroat,
redskin thieves, you can get out of town as fast as ye know how,
or I'll have ye jugged," and all the pent-up hate of his hateful
nature frothed out in words insulting and unprintable.

"Talks like a white man," said Quonab coldly. Rolf was speechless.
To toil so devotedly, and to have such filthy, humiliating words
for thanks! He wondered if even his Uncle Mike would have shown
so vile a spirit.

Hoag gave free rein to his tongue, and found in his pal, Bill Hawkins,
one with ready ears to hear his tale of woe. The wretch began to feel
himself frightfully ill-used. So, fired at last by the evermore lurid
story of his wrongs, the "partner" brought the magistrate, so they
could swear out a warrant, arrest the two "outlaws," and especially
secure the bundle of "Hoag's furs" in the canoe.

Old Silas Sylvanne, the mill-owner and pioneer of the place, was
also its magistrate. He was tall, thin, blacklooking, a sort of
Abe Lincoln in type, physically, and in some sort, mentally. He
heard the harrowing tale of terrible crime, robbery, and torture,
inflicted on poor harmless Hoag by these two ghouls in human shape;
he listened, at first shocked, but little by little amused.

"You don't get no warrant till I hear from the other side,"
he said. Roff and Quonab came at call. The old pioneer sized
up the two, as they stood, then, addressing Rolf, said:

"Air you an Injun?" "No, sir." "Air you half-breed?" "No, sir."
"Well, let's hear about this business," and he turned his
piercing eyes full on the lad's face.

Rolf told the simple, straight story of their acquaintance with Hoag,
from the first day at Warren's to their arrival at the Falls.
There is never any doubt about the truth of a true story,
if it be long enough, and this true story, presented in its
nakedness to the shrewd and kindly old hunter, trader, mill-owner
and magistrate, could have only one effect.

"Sonny," he said, slowly and kindly, "I know that ye have told me
the truth. I believe every word of it. We all know that Hoag is
the meanest cuss and biggest liar on the river. He's a nuisance,
and always was. He only promised to give ye the canoe and the
rifle, and since he don't want to, we can't help it. About the
trouble in the woods, you got two witnesses to his one, and ye
got the furs and the traps; it's just as well ye left the other
furs behind, or ye might have had to divide 'em; so keep them and
call the hull thing square. We'll find ye a canoe to get out of
this gay metropolis, and as to Hoag, ye needn't a-worry; his
travelling days is done."

A man with a bundle of high-class furs is a man of means in any
frontier town. The magistrate was trader, too, so they set about
disposing of their furs and buying the supplies they needed.

The day was nearly done before their new canoe was gummed and
ready with the new supplies. When dealing, old Sylvanne had a
mild, quiet manner, and a peculiar way of making funny remarks
that led some to imagine he was "easy" in business; but it was
usual to find at the end that he had lost nothing by his manners,
and rival traders shunned an encounter with Long Sylvanne of the
unruffled brow.

When business was done -- keen and complete -- he said: "Now,
I'm a goin' to give each of ye a present," and handed out two
double-bladed jackknives, new things in those days, wonderful
things, precious treasures in their eyes, sources of endless joy;
and even had they known that one marten skin would buy a quart of
them, their pleasant surprise and childish joy would not have
been in any way tempered or alloyed.

"Ye better eat with me, boys, an' start in the morning." So they
joined the miller's long, continuous family, and shared his
evening meal. Afterward as they sat for three hours and smoked
on the broad porch that looked out on the river, old Sylvanne,
who had evidently taken a fancy to Rolf, regaled them with a
long, rambling talk on "fellers and things," that was one of the
most interesting Rolf had ever listened to. At the time it was
simply amusing; it was not till years after that the lad realized
by its effect on himself, its insight, and its hold on his
memory, that Si Sylvanne's talk was real wisdom. Parts of it
would not look well in print; but the rugged words, the uncouth
Saxonism, the obscene phrase, were the mere oaken bucket in which
the pure and precious waters were hauled to the surface.

"Looked like he had ye pinched when that shyster got ye in to
Lyons Falls. Wall, there's two bad places for Jack Hoag; one is
where they don't know him at all, an' take him on his looks; an'
t'other is where they know him through and through for twenty
years, like we hev. A smart rogue kin put up a false front fer a
year or maybe two, but given twenty year to try him, for and bye,
summer an' winter, an' I reckon a man's make is pretty well
showed up, without no dark corners left unexplored.

"Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don't know what kind
o' maggots is eatin' his innards to make him so ornery. I'm
bound to suppose he has 'em, or he wouldn't act so dum like it.
So I says, go slow and gentle before puttin' a black brand on any
feller; as my mother used to say, never say a bad thing till ye
ask, 'Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?' An' I tell you,
the older I git, the slower I jedge; when I wuz your age, I wuz a
steel trap on a hair trigger, an' cocksure. I tell you, there
ain't anythin' wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, 'cept maybe a
fifteen-year-old girl.

"Ye'll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black
as they kin look, that's the sign of luck a-comin' your way,
pervidin' ye hold steady, keep cool and kind; something happens
every time to make it all easy. There's always a way, an' the
stout heart will find it.

"Ye may be very sure o' this, boy, yer never licked till ye think
ye air an' if ye won't think it, ye can't be licked.

It's just the same as being sick. I seen a lot o' doctorin' in
my day, and I'm forced to believe there ain't any sick folks
'cept them that thinks they air sick.

"The older I git, the more I'm bound to consider that most things
is inside, anyhow, and what's outside don't count for much.

"So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what's inside,
ye win over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to
Hoag, ye mightn't a meant it, but ye was bracin' up the goodness
in yerself, or bankin' it up somewher' on the trail ahead, where
it was needed. And he was simply chawin' his own leg off, when
he done ye dirt. I ain't much o' a prattlin' Christian, but I
reckon as a cold-blooded, business proposition it pays to lend
the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on gratitude. It's
scarcer'n snowballs in hell -- which ain't the point; but I take
notice there ain't any man'll hate ye more'n the feller that
knows he's acted mean to ye. An' there ain't any feller more
ready to fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum
accident has hed the luck to help ye, even if he only done it to
spite some one else -- which 'minds me o' McCarthy's bull pup
that saved the drowning kittens by mistake, and ever after was a
fightin' cat protector, whereby he lost the chief joy o' his
life, which had been cat-killin'. An' the way they cured the cat
o' eatin' squirrels was givin' her a litter o' squirrels to raise.

"I tell ye there's a lot o' common-sense an' kindness in the
country, only it's so dum slow to git around; while the
cussedness and meanness always acts like they felt the hell fire
sizzlin' their hind-end whiskers, an' knowed they had jest so
many minutes to live an' make a record. There's where a man's
smart that fixes things so he kin hold out a long time, fer the
good stuff in men's minds is what lasts; and the feller what can
stay with it hez proved hisself by stayin'. How'd ye happen to
tie up with the Injun, Rolf?"

"Do ye want me to tell it long or short?" was the reply. "Wall,
short, fer a start," and Silas Sylvanne chuckled.

So Rolf gave a very brief account of his early life.

"Pretty good," said the miller; "now let's hear it long."

And when he had finished, the miller said: "I've seen yer tried
fer most everything that goes to make a man, Rolf, an' I hev my
own notion of the results. You ain't goin' to live ferever in
them hills. When ye've hed yer fling an' want a change, let me know."

Early next day the two hunters paddled up the Moose River with a
good canoe, an outfit of groceries, and a small supply of ready cash.

"Good-bye, lad, good-bye! Come back again and ye'll find we
improve on acquaintance; an' don't forget I'm buying fur," was Si
Sylvanne's last word. And as they rounded the point, on the home
way, Rolf turned in the canoe, faced Quonab, and said: "Ye see
there are some good white men left;" but the Indian neither
blinked, nor moved, nor made a sound.

Rolf's Lesson in Trailing

The return journey was hard paddling against strong waters, but
otherwise uneventful. Once over any trail is enough to fix it in
the memory of a woodman. They made no mistakes and their loads
were light, so the portages were scarcely any loss of time, and
in two days they were back at Hoag's cabin.

Of this they took possession. First, they gathered all things of
value, and that was little since the furs and bedding were gone,
but there were a few traps and some dishes. The stuff was made
in two packs; now it was an overland journey, so the canoe was
hidden in a cedar thicket, a quarter of a mile inland. The two
were about to shoulder the packs, Quonab was lighting his pipe
for a start, when Rolf said:

"Say, Quonab! that fellow we saw at the Falls claimed to be
Hoag's partner. He may come on here and make trouble if we don't
head him off. Let's burn her," and he nodded toward the shanty.

"Ugh!" was the reply.

They gathered some dry brush and a lot of birch bark, piled them
up against the wall inside, and threw plenty of firewood on this.
With flint and steel Quonab made the vital spark, the birch bark
sputtered, the dry, resinous logs were easily set ablaze, and
soon great volumes of smoke rolled from the door, the window, and
the chimney; and Skookum, standing afar, barked pleasantly aloud.

The hunters shouldered their packs and began the long, upward
slope. In an hour they had reached a high, rocky ridge. Here
they stopped to rest, and, far below them, marked with grim joy a
twisted, leaning column of thick black smoke.

That night they camped in the woods and next day rejoiced to be
back again at their own cabin, their own lake, their home.

Several times during the march they had seen fresh deer tracks,
and now that the need of meat was felt, Rolf proposed a deer
hunt.

Many deer die every winter; some are winter-killed; many are
devoured by beasts of prey, or killed by hunters; their numbers
are at low ebb in April, so that now one could not count on
finding a deer by roaming at random. It was a case for trailing.

Any one can track a deer in the snow. It is not very hard to
follow a deer in soft ground, when there are no other deer about.
But it is very hard to take one deer trail and follow it over
rocky ground and dead leaves, never losing it or changing off,
when there are hundreds of deer tracks running in all directions.

Rolf's eyes were better than Quonab's, but experience counts for
as much as eyes, and Quonab was leading. They picked out a big
buck track that was fresh -- no good hunter kills a doe at this
season. They knew it for a buck, because of its size and the
roundness of the toes.

Before long, Rolf said: "See, Quonab, I want to learn this
business; let me do the trailing, and you set me right if I get
off the line."

Within a hundred yards, Quonab gave a grunt and shook his head.
Rolf looked surprised, for he was on a good, fresh track.

Quonab said but one word, "Doe."

Yes, a closer view showed the tracks to be a little narrower, a
little closer together, and a little sharper than those he began
with.

Back went Rolf to the last marks that he was sure of, and plainly
read where the buck had turned aside. For a time, things went
along smoothly, Quonab and Skookum following Rolf. The last was
getting very familiar with that stub hoof on the left foot. At
length they came to the "fumet" or "sign"; it was all in one
pile. That meant the deer had stood, so was unalarmed; and warm;
that meant but a few minutes ahead. Now, they must use every
precaution for this was the crux of the hunt. Of this much only
they were sure -- the deer was within range now, and to get him
they must see him before he saw them.

Skookum was leashed. Rolf was allowed to get well ahead, and
crawling cautiously, a step at a time, he went, setting down his
moccasined foot only after he had tried and selected a place.
Once or twice he threw into the air a tuft of dry grass to make
sure that the wind was right, and by slow degrees he reached the
edge of a little opening.

Across this he peered long, without entering it. Then he made a
sweep with his hand and pointed, to let Quonab know the buck had
gone across and he himself must go around. But he lingered still
and with his eyes swept the near woods. Then, dim gray among the
gray twigs, he saw a slight movement, so slight it might have
been made by the tail of a tomtit. But it fixed his attention,
and out of this gray haze he slowly made out the outline of a
deer's head, antlers, and neck. A hundred yards away, but "take
a chance when it comes" is hunter wisdom. Rolf glanced at the
sight, took steady aim, fired, and down went the buck behind a
log. Skookum whined and leaped high in his eagerness to see.
Rolf restrained his impatience to rush forward, at once reloaded,
then all three went quickly to the place. Before they were
within fifty yards, the deer leaped up and bounded off. At
seventy-five yards, it stood for a moment to gaze. Rolf fired
again; again the buck fell down, but jumped to its feet and
bounded away.

They went to the two places, but found no blood. Utterly puzzled,
they gave it up for the day, as already the shades of night were
on the woods, and in spite of Skookum's voluble offer to solve
and settle everything, they returned to the cabin.

"What do you make of it, Quonab?'

The Indian shook his head, then: "Maybe touched his head and
stunned him, first shot; second, wah! I not know."

"I know this," said Rolf. "I touched him and I mean to get him
in the morning."

True to this resolve, he was there again at dawn, but examined
the place in vain for a sign of blood. The red rarely shows up
much on leaves, grass, or dust; but there are two kinds of places
that the hunter can rely on as telltales -- stones and logs.
Rolf followed the deer track, now very dim, till at a bare place
he found a speck of blood on a pebble. Here the trail joined
onto a deer path, with so many tracks that it was hard to say
which was the right one. But Rolf passed quickly along to a log
that crossed the runway, and on that log he found a drop of
dried-up blood that told him what he wished to know.

Now he had a straight run of a quarter of a mile, and from time
to time he saw a peculiar scratching mark that puzzled him. Once
he found a speck of blood at one of these scratches but no other
evidence that the buck was touched.

A wounded deer is pretty sure to work down hill, and Quonab,
leaving Skookum with Rolf, climbed a lookout that might show
whither the deer was heading.

After another half mile, the deer path forked; there were buck
trails on both, and Rolf could not pick out the one he wanted.
He went a few yards along each, studying the many marks, but was
unable to tell which was that of the wounded buck.

Now Skookum took a share in it. He had always been forbidden to
run deer and knew it was a contraband amusement, but he put his
nose to that branch of the trail that ran down hill, followed it
for a few yards, then looked at Rolf, as much as to say: "You
poor nose-blind creature; don't you know a fresh deer track when
you smell it? Here it is; this is where he went."

Rolf stared, then said, "I believe he means it"; and followed the
lower trail. Very soon he came to another scrape, and, just
beyond it, found the new, velvet-covered antler of a buck, raw
and bloody, and splintered at the base.

From this on, the task was easier, as there were no other tracks,
and this was pointing steadily down hill.

Soon Quonab came striding along. He had not seen the buck, but a
couple of jays and a raven were gathered in a thicket far down by
the stream. The hunters quit the trail and made for that place.
As they drew near, they found the track again, and again saw
those curious scrapes.

Every hunter knows that the bluejay dashing about a thicket means
that hidden there is game of some kind, probably deer. Very,
very slowly and silently they entered that copse. But nothing
appeared until there was a rush in the thickest part and up
leaped the buck. This was too much for Skookum. He shot forward
like a wolf, fastened on one hind leg, and the buck went crashing
head over heels. Before it could rise, another shot ended its
troubles. And now a careful study shed the light desired. Rolf's
first shot had hit the antler near the base, breaking it, except
for the skin on one side, and had stunned the buck. The second
shot had broken a hind leg. The scratching places he had made
were efforts to regain the use of this limb, and at one of them
the deer had fallen and parted the rag of skin by which the
antler hung.

It was Rolf's first important trailing on the ground; it showed
how possible it was, and how quickly he was learning the hardest
of all the feats of woodcraft.

Rolf Gets Lost

Every one who lives in the big woods gets lost at some time. Yes,
even Daniel Boone did sometimes go astray. And whether it is to
end as a joke or a horrible tragedy depends entirely on the way
in which the person takes it. This is, indeed, the grand test of
a hunter and scout, the trial of his knowledge, his muscle, and,
above everything, his courage; and, like all supreme trials, it
comes without warning.

The wonderful flocks of wild pigeons had arrived. For a few days
in May they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in
long-reaching hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the
rearmost flying on ahead, ever to the front. The food they sought
so eagerly now was chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny
nuts showered down on wings like broad-brimmed hats. And when the
flock arose at some alarm, the sound was like that of the sea
beach in a storm.

There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of
the lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms. So
Rolf took his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and
confidently set about gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.

It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of
your weapon and keep the exact safe distance. It is marvellous
how many times you may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and
never kill one. Rolf went on and on, always in sight of the long,
straggling flocks on the ground or in the air, but rarely within
range of them. Again and again he fired a random shot into the
distant mass, without success for two hours. Finally a pigeon was
touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward, and flew ten
yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it fluttered
out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's
breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim,
and killed it with an arrow.

Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead
attracted him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he
found out, as he should have known, that it was caused by a
mischievous bluejay.

At length he came to a spring in a low hollow, and leaving his
bow and arrows on a dry log, he went down to get a drink

As he arose, he found himself face to face with a doe and a fat,
little yearling buck, only twenty yards away. They stared at him,
quite unalarmed, and, determining to add the yearling to his bag,
Rolf went back quietly to his bow and arrows.

~The deer were just out of range now, but inclined to take a
curious interest in the hunter. Once when he stood still for a
long time, they walked forward two or three steps; but whenever
he advanced, they trotted farther away.

To kill a deer with an arrow is quite a feat of woodcraft, and
Rolf was keen to show his prowess; so he kept on with varying
devices, and was continually within sight of the success that did
not actually arrive.

Then the deer grew wilder and loped away, as he entered another
valley that was alive with pigeons.

He was feeling hungry now, so he plucked the pigeon he had
secured, made a fire with the flint and steel he always carried,
then roasted the bird carefully on a stick. and having eaten it,
felt ready for more travel.

The day was cloudy, so he could not see the sun; but he knew it
was late, and he made for camp.

The country he found himself in was entirely strange to him, and
the sun's whereabouts doubtful; but he knew the general line of
travel and strode along rapidly toward the place where he had
left the canoe.

After two hours' tramping, he was surprised at not seeing the
lake through the trees, and he added to his pace.

Three hours passed and still no sign of the water.

He began to think he had struck too far to the north; so
corrected his course and strode along with occasional spells of
trotting. But another hour wore away arid no lake appeared.

Then Rolf knew he was off his bearings. He climbed a tree and got
a partial view of the country. To the right was a small hill. He
made for that. The course led him through a hollow. In this he
recognized two huge basswood trees, that gave him a reassuring
sense. A little farther he came on a spring, strangely like the
one he had left some hours ago. As he stooped to drink, he saw
deer tracks, then a human track. He studied it. Assuredly it was
his own track, though now it seemed on the south side instead of
the north. He stared at the dead gray sky, hoping for sign of
sun, but it gave no hint. He tramped off hastily toward the hill
that promised a lookout. He went faster and faster. In half an
hour the woods opened a little, then dipped. He hastened down,
and at the bottom found himself standing by the same old spring,
though again it had changed its north bearing.

He was stunned by this succession of blows. He knew now he was
lost in the woods; had been tramping in a circle.

The spring whirled around him; it seemed now north and now south.
His first impulse was to rush madly northwesterly, as he
understood it. He looked at all the trees for guidance. Most moss
should be on the north side. It would be so, if all trees were
perfectly straight and evenly exposed, but alas! none are so. All
lean one way or another, and by the moss he could prove any given
side to be north. He looked for the hemlock top twigs. Tradition
says they always point easterly; but now they differed among
themselves as to which was east.

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