Rolf In The Woods

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He made a fire of cedar and smoked his traps, chains, and all.
Then taking a piece of raw venison he rubbed it on his leather
gloves and on the soles of his boots, wondering how he had
expected to succeed the night before with all these man-scent
killers left out. He put fine, soft moss under the pan of each
trap, then removed the cedar brush, and gently sprinkled all with
fine, dry earth. The set was perfect; no human eye could have
told that there was any trap in the place. It seemed a foregone
success.

"Fox don't go by eye, " was all the Indian said, for he reckoned
it best to let the learner work it out.

In the morning Rolf was up eager to see the results. There was
nothing at all. A fox had indeed, come within ten feet at one
place, but behaved then as though positively amused at the
childishness of the whole smelly affair. Had a man been there on
guard with a club, he could not have kept the spot more wholly
clear of foxes. Rolf turned away baffled and utterly puzzled. He
had not gone far before he heard a most terrific yelping from
Skookum, and turned to see that trouble-seeking pup caught by the
leg in the first trap. It was more the horrible surprise than
the pain, but he did howl.

The hunters came quickly to the rescue and at once he was freed,
none the worse, for the traps have no teeth; they merely hold.
It is the long struggle and the starvation chiefly that are
cruel, and these every trapper should cut short by going often
around his line.

Now Quonab took part. "That is a good setting for some things.
It would catch a coon, a mink, or a marten, -- or a dog -- but
not a fox or a wolf. They are very clever. You shall see."

The Indian got out a pair of thick leather gloves, smoked them in
cedar, also the traps. Next he rubbed his moccasin soles with
raw meat and selecting a little bay in the shore he threw a long
pole on the sand, from the line of high, dry shingle across to
the water's edge. In his hand he carried a rough stake. Walking
carefully on the pole and standing on it, he drove the stake in
at about four feet from the shore; then split it, and stuffed
some soft moss into the split. On this he poured three or four
drops of the "smell-charm." Now he put a lump of spruce gum on
the pan of the trap, holding a torch under it till the gum was
fused, and into this he pressed a small, flat stone. The chain of
the trap he fastened to a ten-pound stone of convenient shape,
and sank the stone in the water half-way between the stake and
the shore. Last he placed the trap on this stone, so that when
open everything would be under water except the flat stone on the
pan. Now he returned along the pole and dragged it away with
him.

Thus there was now no track or scent of human near the place.

The setting was a perfect one, but even then the foxes did not go
near it the following night; they must become used to it. In
their code, " A strange thing is always dangerous." In the
morning Rolf was inclined to scoff. But Quonab said: "Wah! No
trap goes first night."

They did not need to wait for the second morning. In the middle
of the night Skookum rushed forth barking, and they followed to
see a wild struggle, the fox leaping to escape and fast to his
foot was the trap with its anchor stone a-dragging.

Then was repeated the scene that ended the struggle of mink and
marten. The creature's hind feet were tied together and his body
hung from a peg in the shanty. In the morning they gloated over
his splendid fur and added his coat to their store of trophies.
Following the Trap Line

THAT night the moon changed. Next day came on with a strong
north wind. By noon the wild ducks had left the lake. Many long
strings of geese passed southeastward, honking as they flew.
Colder and colder blew the strong wind, and soon the frost was
showing on the smaller ponds. It snowed a little, but this
ceased. With the clearing sky the wind fell and the frost grew
keener.

At daybreak, when the hunters rose, it was very cold. Everything
but the open lake was frozen over, and they knew that winter was
come; the time of trapping was at hand. Quonab went at once to
the pinnacle on the hill, made a little fire, then chanting the
"Hunter's Prayer," he cast into the fire the whiskers of the fox
and the marten, some of the beaver castor, and some tobacco.
Then descended to prepare for the trail -- blankets, beaver
traps, weapons, and food for two days, besides the smell-charm
and some fish for bait.

Quickly the deadfalls were baited and set; last the Indian threw
into the trap chamber a piece of moss on which was a drop of the
"smell," and wiped another drop on each of his moccasins.
"Phew," said Rolf.

"That make a trail the marten follow for a month," was the
explanation. Skookum seemed to think so too, and if he did not
say "phew," it was because he did not know how.

Very soon the little dog treed a flock of partridge and Rolf with
blunt arrows secured three. The breasts were saved for the
hunters' table, but the rest with the offal and feathers made the
best of marten baits and served for all the traps, till at noon
they reached the beaver pond. It was covered with ice too thin
to bear, but the freshly used landing places were easily
selected. At each they set a strong, steel beaver-trap,
concealing it amid some dry grass, and placing in a split stick a
foot away a piece of moss in which were a few drops of the magic
lure. The ring on the trap chain was slipped over a long, thin,
smooth pole which was driven deep in the mud, the top pointing
away from the deep water. The plan was old and proven. The
beaver, eager to investigate that semifriendly smell, sets foot
in the trap; instinctively when in danger he dives for the deep
water; the ring slips along the pole till at the bottom and there
it jams so that the beaver cannot rise again and is drowned."

In an hour the six traps were set for the beavers; presently the
hunters, skirmishing for more partridges, had much trouble to
save Skookum from another porcupine disaster.

They got some more grouse, baited the traps for a couple of
miles, then camped for the night.

Before morning it came on to snow and it was three inches deep
when they arose. There is no place on earth where the first snow
is more beautiful than in the Adirondacks. In early autumn
nature seems to prepare for it. Green leaves are cleared away to
expose the berry bunches in red; rushbeds mass their groups, turn
golden brown and bow their heads to meet the silver load; the low
hills and the lines of various Christmas trees are arrayed for
the finest effect: the setting is perfect and the scene, but it
lacks the lime light yet. It needs must have the lavish blaze of
white. And when it comes like the veil on a bride, the silver
mountings on a charger's trappings, or the golden fire in a
sunset, the shining crystal robe is the finishing, the crowning
glory, without which all the rest must fail, could have no bright
completeness. Its beauty stirred the hunters though it found no
better expression than Rolf's simple words, "Ain't it fine,"
while the Indian gazed in silence.

There is no other place in the eastern woods where the snow has
such manifold tales to tell, and the hunters that day tramping
found themselves dowered over night with the wonderful power of
the hound to whom each trail is a plain record of every living
creature that has passed within many hours. And though the first
day after a storm has less to tell than the second, just as the
second has less than the third, there was no lack of story in the
snow. Here sped some antlered buck, trotting along while yet the
white was flying. There went a fox, sneaking across the line of
march, and eying distrustfully that deadfall. This broad trail
with many large tracks not far apart was made by one of Skookum's
friends, a knight of many spears. That bounding along was a
marten. See how he quartered that thicket like a hound, here he
struck our odour trail. Mark, how he paused and whiffed it; now
away he goes; yes, straight to our trap.

"It's down; hurrah!" Rolf shouted, for there, dead under the log,
was an exquisite marten, dark, almost black, with a great, broad,
shining breast of gold.

They were going back now toward the beaver lake. The next trap
was sprung and empty; the next held the body of a red squirrel, a
nuisance always and good only to rebait the trap he springs. But
the next held a marten, and the next a white weasel. Others were
unsprung, but they had two good pelts when they reached the
beaver lake. They were in high spirits with their good luck, but
not prepared for the marvellous haul that now was theirs. Each
of the six traps held a big beaver, dead, drowned, and safe.
Each skin was worth five dollars, and the hunters felt rich. The
incident had, moreover, this pleasing significance: It showed
that these beavers were unsophisticated, so had not been hunted.
Fifty pelts might easily be taken from these ponds.

The trappers reset the traps; then dividing the load, sought a
remote place to camp, for it does not do to light a fire near
your beaver pond. One hundred and fifty pounds of beaver, in
addition, to their packs, was not a load to be taken miles away;
within half a mile on a lower level they selected a warm place,
made a fire, and skinned their catch. The bodies they opened and
hung in a tree with a view to future use, but the pelts and tails
they carried on.

They made a long, hard tramp that day, baiting all the traps and
reached home late in the night.
The Antler-bound Bucks

IN THE man-world, November is the month of gloom, despair, and
many suicides. In the wild world, November is the Mad Moon. Many
and diverse the madnesses of the time, but none more insane than
the rut of the white-tailed deer. Like some disease it appears,
first in the swollen necks of the antler-bearers, and then in the
feverish habits of all. Long and obstinate combats between the
bucks now, characterize the time; neglecting even to eat, they
spend their days and nights in rushing about and seeking to kill.

Their horns, growing steadily since spring, are now of full size,
sharp, heavy, and cleaned of the velvet; in perfection. For
what? Has Nature made them to pierce, wound, and destroy?
Strange as it may seem, these weapons of offence are used for
little but defence; less as spears than as bucklers they serve
the deer in battles with its kind. And the long, hard combats
are little more than wrestling and pushing bouts; almost never do
they end fatally. When a mortal thrust is given, it is rarely a
gaping wound, but a sudden springing and locking of the antlers,
whereby the two deer are bound together, inextricably,
hopelessly, and so suffer death by starvation. The records of
deer killed by their rivals and left on the duel-ground are few;
very few and far between. The records of those killed by
interlocking are numbered by the scores.

There were hundreds of deer in this country that Rolf and Quonab
claimed. Half of them were bucks, and at least half of these
engaged in combat some times or many times a day, all through
November; that is to say, probably a thousand duels were fought
that month within ten miles of the cabin. It was not surprising
that Rolf should witness some of them, and hear many more in the
distance.

They were living in the cabin now, and during the still, frosty
nights, when he took a last look at the stars, before turning in,
Rolf formed the habit of listening intently for the voices of
the gloom. Sometimes it was the "hoo-hoo" of the horned-owl,
once or twice it was the long, smooth howl of the wolf; but many
times it was the rattle of antlers that told of two bucks far up
in the hardwoods, trying out the all-important question, "Which
is the better buck?"

One morning he heard still an occasional rattle at the same place
as the night before. He set out alone, after breakfast, and
coming cautiously near, peered into a little, open space to see
two bucks with heads joined, slowly, feebly pushing this way and
that. Their tongues were out; they seemed almost exhausted, and
the trampled snow for an acre about plainly showed that they had
been fighting for hours; that indeed these were the ones he had
heard in the night. Still they were evenly matched, and the
green light in their eyes told of the ferocious spirit in each of
these gentle-looking deer.

Rolf had no difficulty in walking quite near. If they saw him,
they gave slight heed to the testimony of their eyes, for the
unenergetic struggle went on until, again pausing for breath,
they separated, raised their heads a little, sniffed, then
trotted away from the dreaded enemy so near. Fifty yards off,
they turned, shook their horns, seemed in doubt whether to run
away, join battle again, or attack the man. Fortunately the
first was their choice, and Rolf returned to the cabin.

Quonab listened to his account, then said: "You might have been
killed. Every buck is crazy now. Often they attack man. My
father's brother was killed by a Mad Moon buck. They found only
his body, torn to rags. He had got a little way up a tree, but
the buck had pinned him. There were the marks, and in the snow
they could see how he held on to the deer's horns and was dragged
about till his strength gave out. He had no gun. The buck went
off. That was all they knew. I would rather trust a bear than a
deer."

The Indian's words were few, but they drew a picture all too
realistic. The next time Rolf heard the far sound of a deer
fight, it brought back the horror of that hopeless fight in the
snow, and gave him a new and different feel- ing for the
antler-bearer of the changing mood.

It was two weeks after this, when he was coming in from a trip
alone on part of the line, when his ear caught some strange
sounds in the woods ahead; deep, sonorous, semi-human they were.
Strange and weird wood-notes in winter are nearly sure to be
those of a raven or a jay; if deep, they are likely to come from
a raven.

"Quok, quok, ha, ha, ha-hreww, hrrr, hooop, hooop," the diabolic
noises came, and Rolf, coming gently forward, caught a glimpse of
sable pinions swooping through the lower pines.

"Ho, ho, ho yah - hew - w - w - w" came the demon laughter of the
death birds, and Rolf soon glimpsed a dozen of them in the
branches, hopping or sometimes flying to the ground. One
alighted on a brown bump. Then the bump began to move a little.
The raven was pecking away, but again the brown bump heaved and
the raven leaped to a near perch. "Wah -- wah -- wah - wo - hoo
-- yow - wow -- rrrrrr-rrrr-rrrr" -- and the other ravens joined
in.

Rolf had no weapons but his bow, his pocket knife, and a hatchet.
He took the latter in his hand and walked gently forward; the
hollow-voiced ravens "haw - hawed," then flew to safe perches
where they chuckled like ghouls over some extra-ghoulish joke.

The lad, coming closer, witnessed a scene that stirred him with
mingled horror and pity. A great, strong buck -- once strong, at
least -- was standing, staggering, kneeling there; sometimes on
his hind legs, spasmodically heaving and tugging at a long gray
form on the ground, the body of another buck, his rival, dead
now, with a broken neck, as it proved, but bearing big, strong
antlers with which the antlers of the living buck were
interlocked as though riveted with iron, bolted with clamps of
steel. With all his strength, the living buck could barely move
his head, dragging his adversary's body with him. The snow marks
showed that at first he had been able to haul the carcass many
yards; had nibbled a little at shoots and twigs; but that was
when he was stronger, was long before. How long? For days, at
least, perhaps a week, that wretched buck was dying hopelessly a
death that would not come. His gaunt sides, his parched and
lolling tongue, less than a foot from the snow and yet beyond
reach, the filmy eye, whose opaque veil of death was illumined
again with a faint fire of fighting green as the new foe came.
The ravens had picked the eyes out of the dead buck and eaten a
hole in its back. They had even begun on the living buck, but he
had been able to use one front foot to defend his eyes; still his
plight could scarce have been more dreadful. It made the most
pitiful spectacle Rolf had ever seen in wild life; yes, in all
his life. He was full of compassion for the poor brute. He
forgot it as a thing to be hunted for food; thought of it only as
a harmless, beautiful creature in dire and horrible straits; a
fellow-being in distress; and he at once set about being its
helper. With hatchet in hand he came gently in front, and
selecting an exposed part at the base of the dead buck's antler
he gave a sharp blow with the hatchet. The effect on the living
buck was surprising. He was roused to vigorous action that
showed him far from death as yet. He plunged, then pulled
backward, carrying with him the carcass and the would-be rescuer.
Then Rolf remembered the Indian's words: "You can make strong
medicine with your mouth." He spoke to the deer, gently, softly.
Then came nearer, and tapped o'n the horn he wished to cut;
softly speaking and tapping he increased his force, until at last
he was permitted to chop seriously at that prison bar. It took
many blows, for the antler stuff is very thick and strong at this
time, but the horn was loose at last. Rolf gave it a twist and
the strong buck was free. Free for what?

Oh, tell it not among the folk who have been the wild deer's
friend! Hide it from all who blindly believe that gratitude must
always follow good-will! With unexpected energy, with pent-up
fury, with hellish purpose, the ingrate sprang on his deliverer,
aiming a blow as deadly as was in his power.

Wholly taken by surprise, Rolf barely had time to seize the
murderer's horns and ward them off his vitals. The buck made a
furious lunge. Oh! what foul fiend was it gave him then such
force? -- and Rolf went down. Clinging for dear life to those
wicked, shameful horns, he yelled as he never yelled before:
"Quonab, Quonabi help me, oh, help me!" But he was pinned at
once, the fierce brute above him pressing on his chest, striving
to bring its horns to bear; his only salvation had been that
their wide spread gave his body room between. But the weight on
his chest was crushing out his force, his life; he had no breath
to call again. How the ravens chuckled, and "haw-hawed" in the
tree!

The buck's eyes gleamed again with the emerald light of murderous
hate, and he jerked his strong neck this way and that with the
power of madness. It could not last for long. The boy's
strength was going fast; the beast was crushing in his chest.

"Oh, God, help me!" he gasped, as the antlered fiend began again
struggling for the freedom of those murderous horns. The brute
was almost free, when the ravens rose with loud croaks, and out
of the woods dashed another to join the fight. A smaller deer?
No; what? Rolf knew not, nor how, but in a moment there was a
savage growl and Skookum had the murderer by the hind leg.
Worrying and tearing he had not the strength to throw the deer,
but his teeth were sharp, his heart was in his work, and when he
transferred his fierce attack to parts more tender still, the
buck, already spent, reared, wheeled, and fell. Before he could
recover Skookum pounced upon him by the nose and hung on like a
vice. The buck could swing his great neck a little, and drag the
dog, but he could not shake him off. Rolf saw the chance, rose
to his tottering legs, seized his hatchet, stunned the fierce
brute with a blow. Then finding on the snow his missing knife he
gave the hunter stroke that spilled the red life-blood and sank
on the ground to know no more till Quonab stood beside him.
A Song of Praise

ROLF was lying by a fire when he came to, Quonab bending over him
with a look of grave concern. When he opened his eyes, the Indian
smiled; such a soft, sweet smile, with long, ivory rows in its
background.

Then he brought hot tea, and Rolf revived so he could sit up and
tell the story of the morning.

"He is an evil Manito," and he looked toward the dead buck; "we
must not eat him. You surely made medicine to bring Skookum."

"Yes, I made medicine with my mouth," was the answer, "I called,
I yelled, when he came at me."

"It is a long way from here to the cabin," was Quonab's reply.
"I could not hear you; Skookum could not hear you; but Cos Cob,
my father, told me that when you send out a cry for help, you
send medicine, too, that goes farther than the cry. May be so; I
do not know: my father was very wise."

"Did you see Skookum come, Quonab? "

"No; he was with me hours after you left, but he was restless and
whimpered. Then he left me and it was a long time before I heard
him bark. It was the 'something- wrong' bark. I went. He
brought me here."

"He must have followed my track all 'round the line."

After an hour they set out for the cabin. The ravens "Ha-ha-ed"
and "Ho-ho-ed" as they went. Quonab took the fateful horn that
Rolf had chopped off, and hung it on a sapling with a piece of
tobacco and a red yam streamer ', to appease the evil spirit
that surely was near. There it hung for years after, until the
sapling grew to a tree that swallowed the horn, all but the tip,
which rotted away.

Skookum took a final sniff at his fallen enemy, gave the body the
customary expression of a dog's contempt, then led the procession
homeward.

Not that day, not the next, but on the first day of calm, red,
sunset sky, went Quonab to his hill of worship; and when the
little fire that he lit sent up its thread of smoke, like a
plumb-line from the red cloud over bim, he burnt a pinch of
tobacco, and, with face and arms upraised in the red light, he
sang a new song:

"The evil one set a trap for my son, But the Manito saved him; In
the form of a Skookum he saved him."

The Birch-bark Vessels

Rolf was sore and stiff for a week afterward; so was Skookum.
There were times when Quonab was cold, moody, and silent for
days. Then some milder wind would blow in the region of his
heart and the bleak ice surface melted into running rills of
memory or kindly emanation.

Just before the buck adventure, there had been an unpleasant
time of chill and aloofness. It arose over little. Since the
frost had come, sealing the waters outside, Quonab would wash his
hands in the vessel that was also the bread pan. Rolf had New
England ideas of propriety in cooking matters, and finally he
forgot the respect due to age and experience. That was one
reason why he went out alone that day. Now, with time to think
things over, the obvious safeguard would be to have a wash bowl;
but where to get it? In those days, tins were scarce and ex-
pensive. It was the custom to look in the woods for nearly all
the necessaries of life; and, guided by ancient custom and
experience, they seldom looked in vain. Rolf had seen, and
indeed made, watering troughs, pig troughs, sap troughs, hen
troughs, etc., all his life, and he now set to work with the axe
and a block of basswood to hew out a trough for a wash bowl.
With adequate tools he might have made a good one; but, working
with an axe and a stiff arm, the result was a very heavy, crude
affair. It would indeed hold water, but it was almost impossible
to dip it into the water hole, so that a dipper was needed.

When Quonab saw the plan and the result, he said: "In my father's
lodge we had only birch bark. See; I shall make a bowl." He took
from the storehouse a big roll of birch bark, gathered in warm
weather (it can scarcely be done in cold), for use in repairing
the canoe. Selecting a good part he cut out a square, two feet
each way, and put it in the big pot which was full of boiling
water. At the same time he soaked with it a bundle of wattap, or
long fibrous roots of the white spruce, also gathered before the
frost came, with a view to canoe repairs in the spring.

While these were softening in the hot water, he cut a couple of
long splints of birch, as nearly as possible half an inch wide
and an eighth of an inch thick, and put them to steep with the
bark. Next he made two or three straddle pins or clamps, like
clothes pegs, by splitting the ends of some sticks which had a
knot at one end.

Now he took out the spruce roots, soft and pliant, and selecting
a lot that were about an eighth of an inch in diameter, scraped
off the bark and roughness, until he had a bundle of perhaps ten
feet of soft, even, white cords.

The bark was laid flat and cut as below.

The rounding of A and B is necessary, for the holes of the sewing
would tear the piece off if all were on the same line of grain.
Each corner was now folded and doubled on itself (C), then held
so with a straddle pin (D). The rim was trimmed so as to be flat
where it crossed the fibre of the bark, and arched where it ran
along. The pliant rods of birch were bent around this, and using
the large awl to make holes, Quonab sewed the rim rods to the
bark with an over-lapping stitch that made a smooth finish to the
edge, and the birch-bark wash pan was complete. (E.) Much heavier
bark can be used if the plan F G be followed, but it is hard to
make it water-tight.

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