The Forest Pilot: A Story for Boy Scouts
Date: 2022-07-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Shipwrecks -- Juvenile fiction; Outdoor life -- Juvenile fiction; Labrador (N.L.) -- Juvenile fiction; Survival -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Forest Pilot: A Story for Boy Scouts

Author: Edward Huntington

Release date: July 11, 2022 [eBook #68506]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Hearst's International Library Co, 1915

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68506

Credits: Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOREST PILOT: A STORY FOR BOY SCOUTS ***

THE FOREST PILOT

“Shoot! Shoot! For God’s sake shoot, Larry!”

THE FOREST PILOT
A STORY FOR BOY SCOUTS
BY EDWARD HUNTINGTON
NEW YORK
HEARST’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO.
1915

Copyright, 1915,

By HEARST’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO., Inc.

All rights reserved, including the translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

I | The Storm
II | The Home on the Rocks
III | The First Supper
IV | Lessons in Piloting
V | The Story of Weewah the Hunter
VI | Final Preparations
VII | The Journey Through the Forest
VIII | The Blizzard
IX | The Timber Wolves
X | The Wounded Moose
XI | The Return to the Wreck
XII | The Early Morning Visitor

CHAPTER I
THE STORM

The November sun that had been red and threatening all day, slowly disappeared behind a cloud bank. The wind that had held steadily to the south for a week, now shifted suddenly to the northeast, coming as a furious blast. In a moment, it seemed, the mild Indian Summer breeze was changed to a fierce winter gale.

The little schooner yacht that had been riding in the bay not more than a half mile from the jagged, rocky shore line, began dancing about like a cork. For a swell had come driving in from the ocean just as the wind changed, and now the two tall masts waved back and forth, bending in wide sweeps before the gale. Unfortunately for the little craft the change of the direction of the wind exposed it to the storm’s full fury.

The captain, a weatherbeaten old Yankee who had sailed vessels of his own as well as those belonging to other people for forty years, was plainly worried. With a glass in his hand he scanned the shore line of the bay in every direction, occasionally giving a sharp order to the four sailors who hurried about the deck to carry out his commands.

The only other persons on the yacht were a man and a boy who had been sitting together beside the forward mast when the wind changed. The man was a tall, straight figure, with the erect carriage that sinewy, muscular men who are accustomed to hard work retain well into old age. His face, with its leathery skin, which contrasted sharply with his iron gray beard, was softened by a pair of deep blue eyes—the kind of blue eyes that can snap with determination on occasion, in contrast to their usually kindly expression.

Obviously this man was past his prime, or, better perhaps, was past that period of life reckoned in years that civilized man has become accustomed to speaking of as “prime.” Yet he was old only in years and experience. For his step was quick and elastic, and every movement showed the alertness of youth. Were it not for the gray hairs peeping out from under his hat and his grizzled beard, he might have passed for a man of forty. Martin MacLean was his name, and almost any one in the New Brunswick forest region could tell you all about him. For Martin was a famous hunter and guide, even in a land where almost every male inhabitant depends upon those two things for his livelihood.

Needless to say, then, this man was something quite out of the ordinary among woodsmen. When the woods people gossiped among themselves about their hunting and trapping experiences, old Martin was often the theme of many a story. And the story was always one of courage or skill.

But you must remember that in this land, deeds of courage and skill were every-day occurrences. So that the man who could earn the admiration of his fellow woodsmen must possess unusual qualities. Martin had repeatedly demonstrated these qualities. Not by any single act at any one time, but by the accumulated acts of many years had he earned his title of leader in his craft.

The older woodsmen would tell you of the terrible winter when Martin had made a journey of fifty miles through the forests to get medicines from the only doctor within a hundred miles for a boy injured by a falling tree. They would tell you of the time that a hunting party from the States were lost in the woods in a great November blizzard, and how Martin, frost-bitten and famished, had finally found them and brought them back to the settlement. They could tell of his fight with a wounded moose that had gored another hunter, and would have killed him but for the quick work of Martin’s hunting knife. Indeed, once the old hunter became the theme of their talk, there was no end to the tales the woodsmen would tell of his adventures.

The boy who was with him on the yacht was obviously from an entirely different walk of life. Any woodsman could have told you that he had been reared far from the country of lakes and forests. He was, indeed, a city boy, who except for one winter spent in the Adirondacks, had scarcely been beyond the suburbs of his native city. In the north country he would have passed for a boy of twelve years; but in reality he was just rounding his fifteenth birthday.

He was a medium sized boy for his age, with bright red hair, and a rosy complexion. He had the appearance of a boy just outgrowing a “delicate constitution” as one of the neighbor women had put it, although he had every appearance of robustness. Nevertheless it was on account of his health that he was now on the little schooner yacht rolling in the gale of a bleak Labrador inlet. His neighbor in the city, Mr. Ware, the owner of the yacht, thinking that a few weeks in the woods and on the water would be helpful to him, had made him a member of his hunting party into the northern wilderness.

The old guide was obviously apprehensive at the fury of the gale that had struck them, while the boy, Larry, seemed to regard it as a lark designed for their special amusement. Noticing the serious expression of Martin’s face, and mistaking its meaning, he could not help jibing the old fellow, boy fashion, at his solicitude.

“You look as if you thought we were going to the bottom sure enough, Martin,” Larry laughed. “Why, there isn’t any more danger on this boat than there is on an ocean liner. You’re no seaman, I can see that.” And he threw back his bushy head and laughed heartily at his companion’s serious face.

“Besides,” he added, “there’s the land only half a mile away even if we did spring a leak or something. It’s only a step over there, so we surely could get ashore.”

“That’s just the trouble,” said a deep voice beside him. “That’s just the trouble. And if you knew the first thing about a ship or the ocean you would know it.” And the captain strode aft, giving orders to his seamen as he went.

“What does he mean?” Larry asked of Martin, clinging to a brass stanchion to keep from being thrown into the scuppers as the little boat rolled heavily until the rail dipped the water.

“Why, just this,” Martin told him. “The real danger to us now is that we are so near the shore. Out in the open sea we could roll and tumble about and drift as far as we liked until the storm blew over. But here if we drift very far we will go smash against those rocks—and that would be the end of every one of us.”

“Well, if we went ashore why couldn’t we just jump and swim right to land a few feet away?” Larry asked, looking serious himself now, his blue eyes opening wide.

Martin’s little laugh was lost in the roar of the wind.

“That shows how much of a landlubber you are, Larry,” he said. “If you had been brought up near the ocean you would know that if this boat struck on this shore where all the coast is a lot of jagged rocks, it would be smashed into kindling wood. And no man can swim in the waves at the shore. They pick a man up like a cork; but they smash him down on those rocks like the hammer of the old Norse Sea god. That is why the sailor prays for the open sea.”

All this time Martin had been clinging to the rail with one hand, and trying to scan the shore line with his hunting glasses. But the blinding spray and the ceaseless rolling and pitching made it impossible for him to use them.

“But I’m not worrying about what may happen to this boat,” he shouted presently, putting the glasses in his pocket. “Either we will come out all right or else we won’t. And in any case we will have to grin and take what comes. What I’m worried about is Mr. Ware and the fellows in the boat with him. If they have started out from shore to come aboard before this gale hit us they are lost, sure. And I am certain they had started, for I caught a glimpse of the boat coming out of a cove fifteen minutes before the storm broke.”

For a minute Larry stared at the old man, comprehending the seriousness of the situation at last. “You mean then—” he asked, clutching the brass rail as the boat lurched forward,—“You mean that you think they will be drowned—really drowned, Martin?”

“That’s it, Larry,” Martin replied, seriously. “They haven’t one chance in a thousand, as I see it. Even if they could reach us we couldn’t get them aboard; and if they are blown ashore it will end everything. They haven’t a chance.”

As if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation the yacht just then dug her nose deep into the trough of a great wave, then rose, lifting her bowsprit high in the air like a rearing horse tugging at a restraining leash. It was a strain that tested every link of the anchor chain to its utmost. But for the moment it held.

“A few more like that, Larry,” Martin shouted above the gale, “and that chain will snap. The anchor is caught fast in the rocks at the bottom.”

Meanwhile the sailors and the captain were working desperately to cut loose the other anchor and get it over the side as their only chance of keeping the boat off the rocks. The gale, the rolling of the vessel, and the waves buffeted them about, however, so that before they could release the heavy mass of iron, the yacht again plunged her nose into the waves, then rose on her stern, trembling and jerking at the single anchor chain. For a moment it held. Then there was a sharp report, as a short length of chain flew back, knocking two of the sailors overboard, and gouging a great chunk of wood from the fore mast. At the same time the boat settled back, careening far to port with the rail clear under.

The violence of the shock had thrown Larry off his feet, but for a moment he clung to the railing with one hand. Then as the boat righted herself, quivering and creaking, the flood of water coming over the bow tore loose his hands, and hurled him blinded and stupified along the deck. The next thing he knew he found himself lying in a heap at the foot of the narrow companionway stairs down which he had been thrown by the waves.

He was dazed and bruised by the fall, yet above the roar of the storm, he heard faintly the howling of the huskie dogs, confined in a pen on the forward deck. Then there was the awful roar of the waves again, the crash of breaking timbers, and again a deluge of water poured down the companionway. At the same time Larry was struck with some soft, heavy object, that came hurtling down with the torrent of water. Gasping for breath and half choked with the water, he managed to cling to the steps until the water had rushed out through the scuppers as the boat heeled over the other way. Then crawling on hands and knees he succeeded in reaching the cabin door, the latch of which was not over six feet away.

With a desperate plunge he threw it open and fell sprawling into the room. At the same time two great malamoot dogs, who had been washed down the companionway with the preceding wave, sprang in after him, whining and cowering against him. Even in his fright he could not help contrasting the present actions of these dogs with their usual behavior. Ordinarily they were quiet, reserved fellows, given to minding their own business and imparting the general impression that it would be well for others to do the same. Now all their sturdy independence was gone, and cowering and trembling they pressed close to the boy for protection, apparently realizing that they were battling with an enemy against whom they had no defence.

But the storm gave Larry little time to think of anything but his own safety. Even as he struggled to rise and push the cabin door shut, the boat heeled over and performed that office for him with a crash. The next moment a torrent of water rushed down the companionway, but only a few drops were forced through the cracks of the door casing, fitted for just such an occasion, so that the cabin remained practically dry. Over and over again at short intervals this crash of descending waters shook the cabin and strained at the door casing. And all the time the movements of the boat kept Larry lying close to the floor, clinging to the edge of the lower bunk to keep from being thrown violently across the cabin.

The dogs, unable to find a foothold when the cabin floor rose beneath them, were often thrown violently about the room, their claws scratching futilely along the hard boards as they strove to stop the impetus of the fall. But the moment the boat righted itself, they crawled whimpering back and crouched close to the frightened boy.

Little enough, indeed, was the protection or comfort Larry could give the shivering brutes. He himself was sobbing with terror, and at each plunge and crash of the boat he expected to find himself engulfed by the black waters. Now and again, above the sound of the storm, he heard the crash of splintering timbers, with furious blows upon the decks and against the sides of the hull. He guessed from this that the masts had been broken off and were pounding for a moment against the hull, held temporarily by the steel shrouds until finally torn away by the waves.

Vaguely he wondered what had become of Martin, and the Captain, and the two remaining members of the crew. Perhaps they had been washed down the after companionway as he had gone down the forward one. But far more likely they were now in their long resting place at the bottom of the bay. There seemed little probability that they had been as lucky as he, and he expected to follow them at any moment. Yet he shut his teeth and clung fast to the side of the bunk.

It was terribly exhausting work, this clinging with one’s hands, and at each successive plunge he felt his grip weakening. In a very few minutes, he knew he should find himself hurled about the cabin like a loose piece of furniture, and then it would only be a matter of minutes until he was flung against some object and crushed. He would not be able to endure the kind of pounding that the dogs were getting. The protection of their thick fur, and the ability to relax and fall limply, saved them from serious injury.

Little by little he felt his fingers slipping from the edge of the bunk. He shut his teeth hard, and tried to get a firmer grip. At that moment the boat seemed to be lifted high into the air, and poised there for a breathless second. Then with a shock that bumped Larry’s head against the floor, it descended and and stopped as if wedged on the rocks at the bottom, with a sound like a violent explosion right underneath the cabin.

Larry, stupified by the crash, realized vaguely that the boat had struck something and was held fast. In his confusion he thought she had gone to the bottom, but he was satisfied that he was no longer being pounded about the cabin. And presently as his mind cleared a little, and he could hear the roar of the waves with an occasional trickle of water down the companionway, he reached the conclusion that they were not at the bottom of the sea. Nor did he care very much one way or the other at that time. It was pitch dark in the cabin, and as he was utterly worn out, he closed his eyes and lay still, a big trembling dog nestling against him on either side. And presently he and his two companions were sleeping the dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

CHAPTER II
THE HOME ON THE ROCKS

It seemed only a moment later that Larry was roused by a thumping on the planks over his head. Half awake, and shivering with cold, he rubbed his eyes and tried to think where he was. Everything about the cabin could be seen now, a ray of light streaming in through the round port. For a little time he could not recall how he happened to be lying on the cold floor and not in his bunk; but the presence of the two dogs, still lying beside him, helped to freshen his memory.

The thumping on the deck seemed to have a familiar sound; there was somebody walking about up there. Some one else must have been as lucky as he in escaping the storm. And presently he heard some one come clumping down the companionway stairs. The dogs, who had been listening intently with cocked ears to the approaching footsteps, sprang across the cabin wagging their tails and whining, and a moment later old Martin stood in the doorway. He greeted the dogs with a shout of surprise and welcome, followed by another even louder shout when his eyes found Larry. For once the reserved old hunter relaxed and showed the depths of his nature. He literally picked the astonished boy up in his arms and danced about the little room with delight.

“Oh, but I am sure glad to see you, boy,” he said, when he finally let Larry down on his feet. “I didn’t suppose for a minute that I should ever see you or any one else here again—not even the dogs. I thought that you and everybody else went over the side when the first big wave struck us.”

“Why, where are all the rest of them, and why is the boat so still?” Larry asked, eagerly.

The old man’s face grew grave at once at the questions.

“Come out on deck and you can see for yourself,” he said quietly, and led the way up the companionway.

With his head still ringing, and with aching limbs and sore spots all over his body from the effects of bumping about the night before, Larry crawled up the companionway. He could hear the waves roaring all about them, and yet the boat was as stationary as a house. What could it mean?

When he reached the deck the explanation was quickly apparent. The boat was wedged hard and fast in a crevice of rock, her deck several feet above the water, and just below the level of the rocky cliff of the shore. She had been picked up bodily by the tremendous comber and flung against the cliff, and luckily for them, had been jammed into a crevice that prevented her slipping back into the ocean and sinking. For her bottom and her port side were stove in, and she was completely wrecked.

For a few minutes the boy stood gazing in mute astonishment. Old Martin also stood silently looking about him. Then he offered an explanation.

“’Tisn’t anything short of a miracle, I should say,” he explained to Larry. “I have heard of some such things happening, but I never believed that they did really. You see the waves just washed everything overboard—captain, crew, masts, everything—except you and me, and the two dogs. It washed me just as it did you, but I went down the after hatchway by luck, and I hung on down there in the companionway until the thing struck. But all the time that the waves were washing over us we were being driven along toward this ledge of rock full tilt. And when we were flung against this rock we should by good rights, have been battered to kindling wood at one blow, and then have slipped back into the water and sunk.

“But right here is the curious part of it all. Just as she got to the foot of this cliff, an unusually big comber must have caught her, raised her up in its arms fifteen or twenty feet higher than the usual wave would have done, and just chucked her up on the side of this bluff out o’ harm’s way—at least for the time being. The sharp edge of the ledge happened to be such a shape that it held her in place like the barb of a fish-hook. And all that the smaller waves could do was to pound away at the lower side of her, without hurting her enough to make her fall to pieces.

“But of course they’ll get her after a while—almost any hour for that matter; for this storm is a long way from being blown out yet, I’m afraid. And so it’s up to us to just get as much food and other things unloaded and up away from this shore line as fast as we can. Most of the stores are forward, and that is where she is stove in the least.

“I suppose we’ve got to take off five minutes and cram a little cold food into ourselves, so that we can work faster and longer. For we surely have got to work for our lives to-day. If this boat should suddenly take it into her head to slide off into the ocean again, as she may do at any minute, we’re goners, even if we are left on shore, unless we get a winter’s supply unloaded and stored on the rocks. For we are a long way from civilization, I can tell you.”

With that Martin rushed Larry to the galley, dug out some bread, cold meat, and a can of condensed milk. And, grudging every minute’s delay, they stood among the wreckage of the once beautiful cabin, cramming down their cold breakfast as hastily as possible. In the excitement Larry forgot his bruises and sore spots.

As soon as they had finished Martin hurried the boy to the forward store-room door, bursting it open with a heavy piece of iron.

“Now pick up anything that you can handle,” he instructed, “run with it up on deck, and throw it on to the bank. I’ll take the heavier things. But work as hard and as fast as you can, for our lives depend upon it.”

For the next two hours they worked with furious energy rushing back and forth from the store-rooms, staggering up the tilted steps to the deck, and hurling the boxes across the few feet that separated the boat from the ledge. Every few minutes Martin would leap across the gap, and hastily toss the boxes that had been landed further up on the shore, to get them out of the way for others that were to follow.

The enormous strength and endurance of the old hunter were shown by the amount he accomplished in those two hours. Boxes and kegs, so heavy that Larry could hardly budge them, he seized and tossed ashore in tireless succession, only pausing once long enough to throw off his jacket and outer shirt. For the perspiration was running off his face in streams, despite the fact that the air was freezing cold.

Fortunately most of the parcels were relatively small, as they had been prepared for the prospective inland hunting excursion which was to have been made on sledges. Many of the important articles were in small cans, and Larry rushed these ashore by the armful. He was staggering, and gasping for breath at times, and once he stumbled and fell half way down a stairway from sheer exhaustion. But he had caught Martin’s spirit of eager haste, and although the fall had shaken him up considerably, he picked himself up and went on as fast as his weary limbs would carry him.

At last Martin paused, wiping his face with his coat sleeve. “Sit down and rest,” he said to the boy. “We’ve got a whole winter’s supply on shore there now, if food alone was all we needed. So we can take a little more time about the rest of the things; and while you rest I’ll rig up some tackle for getting what we can of the heavier things ashore. You’ve done pretty well, for a city boy,” he added.

Then he went below, and Larry heard the sounds of blows and cracking timber. Presently Martin appeared, dragging some heavy planks after him. With these he quickly laid a bridge from the deck to the shore. Then he hunted out some long ropes and pulleys, and, carrying them to a tree far up on the bank, he rigged a block and tackle between this anchorage and the yacht.

“Now we’re ready for the heavy things,” he said.

With this new contrivance nothing seemed too big to handle. Martin and Larry would roll and push the heavy cases into a companionway, or near a hatch, and then both would seize the rope, and hand over hand would work the heavy object up to the deck across the bridge, and finally far out on shore. In this way the greater part of everything movable had been transferred from the boat by the middle of the afternoon; but not until the last of the more precious articles had been disposed of did Martin think of food, although they had breakfasted at daylight.

In the excitement Larry, too, had forgotten his hunger; but now a gnawing sensation reminded him that he was famished. Martin was “as hungry as a wolf in winter” he admitted. But he did not stop to eat. Calling the dogs and filling his pockets with biscuit to munch as he walked, he started out along the rocky shore of the inlet, to see if by any chance some survivor had washed ashore. Meanwhile Larry built a big fire at the edge of the woods to act as a signal, and to keep himself warm.

In two hours the old man returned from his fruitless search. He had found some wreckage strewn among the rocks, but no sign of a living thing. “And now we must get these things under cover,” he said, indicating the pile of stores.

For this purpose he selected a knoll some little distance from the shore above where any waves could possibly reach. Over this he laid a floor of planks, and spread a huge canvas over the boards. Then they began the task of piling all the landed goods on top of this, laying them up neatly so as to occupy as little space as possible, and over this great mound of food-boxes, gun-cases, canned goods, and miscellaneous objects, they pulled a huge canvas deck covering.

By the time they had finished the daylight was beginning to wane. Taking the hint from the approaching darkness, Martin dug into the mass of packages and produced a small silk tent, which he set up under one of the scrub trees which was sheltered by a big rock well back from the shore.

“Take that axe,” he told Larry, pointing to a carefully forged hunting axe that had been landed with the other things, “and collect all the wood you can before dark.”

Larry, scarcely able to stand, looked wistfully at the yacht. “The cabin is dry in there,” he suggested, “why don’t we sleep in there to-night?”

Old Martin shook his head. “I don’t dare risk it,” he said. “I am tired, and I’d sleep too soundly. I don’t think I’d wake up, no matter what happened. And something may happen to-night. The storm is still brewing, and the waves are still so high that they pound the old hull all the time. A little more hammering and she may go to pieces. We couldn’t tell from the noise whether the storm was coming up or not, because there is so much pounding all the time anyway. And wouldn’t it be a fine thing for us to find ourselves dropped into the ocean after we have just finished getting ourselves and our things safely ashore? No, you get the wood and I’ll give you a sample of the out-door suppers that we are likely to have together every night for the next few months.”

Larry picked up the axe and dragged his weary feet off to the thicker line of trees a short distance away. There was really little use for the axe, as the woods were filled with fallen trunks and branches that could be gathered for the picking up. So he spared himself the exertion of chopping and began dragging branches and small logs to the tent.

He found that the old hunter, while he was collecting the wood, had unearthed a cooking outfit, and had pots, pans, and kettles strewn about ready for use. Best of all he had hunted out two fur sleeping bags, and had placed a pile of blankets in the little tent, which looked very inviting to the weary boy.

Martin saw his wistful look and chuckled. “Too tired to eat I suppose?” he inquired.

“Well, pretty near it,” Larry confessed. “I was never half so tired in my whole life.”

“All right,” said Martin; “you’ve worked like a real man to-day. So you just crawl into those blankets and have a little snooze while I and the doggies get the supper. I’ll call you when the things are ready.”

“Don’t you ever get tired, ever, Martin?” Larry asked as he flung himself down. But if Martin answered his question he did not hear it. He was asleep the moment he touched the blankets.

CHAPTER III
THE FIRST SUPPER

The next thing Larry knew he was being roused by old Martin’s vigorous shakes. Something cold was pressing against his cheek,—the black muzzle of one of the malamoots. Martin and the big dog were standing over him, the man laughing and the dog wagging his bushy tail. It seemed to the boy that he had scarcely closed his eyes, but when he had rubbed them open he knew that he must have been asleep some little time, for many things seemed changed.

It was night now, and the stars were out. But inside the tent it was warm and cozy, for before the open flap a cheerful fire was burning. The odor of coffee reached his nostrils and he could hear the bacon frying over the fire, and these things reminded him that he was hungry again.

“Sit right up to the table and begin,” Martin said to him, pointing to a row of cooking utensils and two tin plates on the ground in front of the tent. “Every one for himself, and Old Nick take the hindmost.”

No second invitation was necessary. In a moment he was bending over a plate heaped with bacon and potatoes, while the big malamoots sat watching him wistfully keeping an expectant eye on Martin as he poured the coffee. Such potatoes, such bacon, and such coffee the boy had never tasted. Even the soggy bread which Martin had improved by frying in some bacon fat, seemed delicious. This being shipwrecked was not so bad after all.

Old Martin, seated beside him and busy with his heaping plate seemed to read his thoughts.

“Not such a bad place, is it?” he volunteered presently.

“Bad?” the boy echoed. “It’s about the best place I ever saw. Only perhaps it will get lonesome if we have to wait long,” he added thoughtfully.

“Wait?” repeated Martin, poising his fork in the air. “Wait for who and for what, do you suppose, boy?”

“Well, aren’t we going to wait for some one to come for us?” the boy inquired.

Old Martin emptied his plate, drank his third cup of coffee, and threw a couple of sticks on the fire before answering.

“If we waited for some one to come for us,” he said presently and in a very serious tone, “we’d be waiting here until all these provisions that we landed to-day are gone. And there’s a good full year’s supply for us two up there under the canvas. Did you suppose we are going to wait here?”

The boy looked thoughtful.

“But we can’t get the yacht off the rocks, and she’d sink if we did. And anyhow you couldn’t sail her home. You told me only yesterday that you didn’t know a yacht from a battleship, Martin.”

“I told you the truth, at that,” Martin chuckled. “But I’m something of a navigator all the same. I can navigate a craft as well as poor old Captain Roberts himself, only I use a different craft, and I navigate her on land. And, what’s more to the point, I’ve got the land to do it on, the craft, and the crew.” And Martin pointed successively at the pile of supplies in the distance, the two dogs, and Larry.

“I don’t understand at all what you mean,” the boy declared; “tell me what you intend to do, Martin, won’t you?”

“Why, boy, if I started in to tell you now you’d be asleep before I could get well into the story,” said the old hunter.

“No, I wouldn’t,” the boy protested. “I never was more wide awake in my life. I feel as if I could do another day’s work right now.”

“That’s the meat and potatoes and coffee,” old Martin commented. “It’s marvellous what fuel will do for a tired engine. Well, if you can keep awake long enough I’ll tell you just what we are going to do in the next few weeks—or months, maybe.

“Here we are stranded away up on the Labrador coast, at least two or three hundred miles from the nearest settlement, perhaps even farther than that. And the worst of it is that I haven’t the least idea where that nearest settlement is. It may be on the coast, somewhat nearer than I think; and then again it may be ’cross country inland still farther away than I judge. What we’ve got to do is to make up our minds where we think that settlement is, and find it. And we’ve got to go to it by land and on foot.”

“On foot!” Larry cried in amazement. “Three or four hundred miles on foot in the winter time in a strange country where nobody lives!”

“That’s the correct answer,” the hunter replied: “and we’re two of the luckiest dogs in the world to have the chance to do it in the style we can. If we hadn’t been given the chance to save all that plunder from the ship to-day we would be far better off to be in the bottom of the ocean with Mr. Ware and the other poor fellows. But we had the luck, and now we have a good even fighting chance to get back home. But it means work—work and hardships, such as you never dreamed of, boy. And yet we’ll do it, or I’ll hand in my commission as a land pilot.

“Did you notice those cans of stuff that you were throwing ashore to-day—did you notice anything peculiar about those cans?” Martin asked, a moment later.

“E—er, no I didn’t,” Larry hesitated. “Unless it was that some of the bigger ones seemed lighter than tin cans of stuff usually do.”

“That’s the correct answer again,” the old man nodded; “that’s the whole thing. They were lighter, for the very good reason that they are not made of tin. They are aluminum cans. They cost like the very sin, those cans do, many times more than tin, you know. But Mr. Ware didn’t have to think about such a small thing as cost, and when he planned this hunting trip, where every ounce that we would have to haul by hand or with the dogs had to be considered, he made everything just the lightest and best that money could get it made. If there was a way of getting anything better, or more condensed, whether it was food or outfit, he did it. And you and I will probably owe our lives to this hobby of his, poor man.

“Among that stuff that we unloaded to-day there are special condensed foods, guns, tents, and outfits, just made to take such a forced tramping trip through the wilderness as we are to take. You see Mr. Ware planned to go on a long hunt back into the interior of this land, a thing that has never been done at this time of year to my knowledge. And as no one knows just what the conditions are there, he had his outfit made so that he could travel for weeks, and carry everything that he needed along with him.

“So it’s up to us to take the things that Mr. Ware had made, and which we are lucky enough to have saved, and get back to the land where people live. In my day I have undertaken just as dangerous, and probably difficult things in the heart of winter; only on those trips I didn’t have any such complete equipment as we have here.

“Why, look at that sleeping bag, for example,” the old man exclaimed, pointing to one of the bags lying in the tent. “My sleeping outfit, when I hiked from upper Quebec clear to the shore of old Hudson’s Bay in the winter, consisted of a blanket. Whenever my fire got low at night I nearly froze. But mind you, I could lie out of doors in one of these fur bags without a fire on the coldest night, and be warm as a gopher. They are made of reindeer skin, fur inside, and are lined with the skin of reindeer fawn. So there are two layers of the warmest skin and fur known, between the man inside and the cold outside. Those bags will be a blessing to us every minute. For when we strike out across this country we don’t know what kind of a land we may get into. We may find timber region all the way, and if we do there will be no danger of our freezing. But it’s more than likely that we shall strike barren country part of the time where there will be no fire-wood; and then we will appreciate these fur bags. For I don’t care how cold it gets or how hard it blows, we can burrow down into the snow and crawl into the bags, and always be sure of a warm place to sleep.

“Then again, the very luckiest thing for us was the saving of those two dogs,” Martin continued. “If they had gone overboard with the other twelve I should be feeling a good deal sadder to-night than I am. For there is nothing to equal a malamoot dog for hauling loads through this country in winter. Look at this fellow,” he said indicating one of the big shaggy dogs curled up a few feet from the tent, caring nothing for the biting cold. “There doesn’t seem to be anything very remarkable about him, does there? And yet that fellow can haul a heavier load on a sled, and haul it farther every day, than I can. And his weight is less than half what mine is.

“The dogs that Mr. Ware had selected were all veteran sledge dogs, and picked because they had proved their metal. So we’ll give this fellow a load of two hundred and fifty pounds to haul. And he could do better than that I know if he had to.”

The wind, which had died down a little at dusk, had gradually risen and was now blowing hard again, and fine flakes of snow and sleet hissed into the camp-fire. The rock which sheltered the tent protected it from the main force of the blast, but Larry could hear it lashing its way through the spruce trees with an ominous roar. Martin rose and examined the fastenings of the tent, tightened a rope here and there, and then returned to his seat on the blankets.

“We can’t start to-morrow if it storms like this,” Larry suggested presently.

“Well, we can’t start to-morrow anyhow,” the old trapper answered. “And we surely can’t start until there is more snow. How are we going to haul a pair of toboggans over the snow if there is no snow to be hauled over, I’d like to know? But there is no danger about the lack of snow. There’ll be plenty of it by the time we are ready to start.”

“And when will that be?” the boy asked.

“In about ten days, I think,” Martin answered, “——that is, if you have learned to shoot a rifle, harness the dogs, pitch a camp, set snares, walk on snow-shoes, and carry a pretty good-sized pack on your back,” he added, looking at Larry out of the corner of his eyes. “Did you ever shoot a rifle?”

“Sure I have,” the boy answered proudly; “and I hit the mark, too—sometimes.”

“I suppose you shot a Flobert twenty-two, at a mark ten feet away,” Martin commented with a little smile. “Well, all that helps. But on this trip you are not going to hit the mark sometimes: it must be every time. And the ‘mark’ will be something for the camp kettle to keep the breath of life in us. I’ve been turning over in my mind to-day the question of what kind of a gun you are going to tote on this trip. We’ve got all kinds to select from up there under the canvas, from elephant killers to squirrel poppers, for Mr. Ware did love every kind of shooting iron. I’ve picked out yours, and to-morrow you will begin learning to use it—learning to shoot quick and straight—straight, every time. For we won’t have one bullet to waste after we leave here.”

Larry fairly hugged himself. Think of having a rifle of his very own, a real rifle that would kill things, with the probability of having plenty of chances for using it! One of his fondest dreams was coming true. The old hunter read his happiness in his face, and without a word rose and left the tent. When he returned he carried in his hand a little weapon which, in its leather case, seemed like a toy about two feet long. Handing this to Larry he said, simply: “Here’s your gun.”

The boy’s countenance fell. To be raised to the height of bliss and expectation, and then be handed a pop-gun, was a cruel joke. Without removing the gun from its case he tossed it contemptuously into the blankets behind him.

“Mr. Ware killed a moose with it last winter,” the old hunter commented, suspecting the cause of the boy’s disappointment. “And it shoots as big a ball, and shoots just as hard as the gun I am going to carry,” he added. “You’d better get acquainted with it.”

There was no doubting the old man’s sincerity now, and Larry picked up the gun and examined it.

It was a curious little weapon, having two barrels placed one above the other, and with a stock like a pistol. Attached to the pistol-like handle was a skeleton stock made of aluminum rods, and so arranged that it folded against the under side of the barrels when not in use. The whole thing could be slipped into a leather case not unlike the ordinary revolver holster, and carried with a strap over the shoulder. When folded in this way it was only two feet long, and had the appearance of the toy gun for which Larry had mistaken it.

Yet it was anything but a toy. The two barrels were of different calibre, the upper one being the ordinary .22, while the lower one, as Martin had stated, was of large calibre and chambered for a powerful cartridge.

The old hunter watched the boy eagerly examining the little gun, opening it and squinting through the barrels, aiming it at imaginary objects, and strutting about with it slung from his shoulder in the pure joy that a red-blooded boy finds in the possession of a fire arm. Then, when Larry’s excitement cooled a little, he took the gun, and explained its fine points to his eager pupil.

“From this time on,” he began, “I want you to remember everything I am going to tell you just as nearly as you can, not only about this gun, but everything else. For you’ve got to cram a heap of knowledge into your head in the next few days, and I haven’t time to say things twice.

“This gun was made specially for Mr. Ware after his own design and to fit his own idea. He wanted a gun that was as light as possible and could be carried easily, and at the same time be adapted to all kinds of game, big and little. This upper barrel, the smaller one you see, shoots a cartridge that will kill anything up to the size of a jack rabbit, and is as accurate a shooter as any gun can be made. Yet the cartridges are so small that a pocket full will last a man a whole season.

“Now the best rule in all hunting is to use the smallest bullet that will surely kill the game you are aiming at, and in every country there are always ten chances to kill small things to one chance at the bigger game. Up in this region, for example, there will be flocks of ptarmigan, the little northern grouse, and countless rabbits that we shall need for food, but which we couldn’t afford to waste heavy ammunition on. And this smaller barrel is the one to use in getting them.

“If you used the big cartridge when you found a flock of these ptarmigans sitting on a tree, the noise of the first shot would probably frighten them all away, to say nothing of the fact that the big ball would tear the little bird all to pieces, and make it worthless for food. With the .22 you can pop them over one at a time without scaring them, and without spoiling the meat.

“But suppose, when you were out hunting for ptarmigan or rabbits you came upon a deer, or even a moose. All right, you’ve got something for him, too, and right in the same gun. All you have to do is to shift the little catch on the hammer here which connects with the firing-pin in the lower barrel, draw a bead, and you knock him down dead with the big bullet—as Mr. Ware did last fall up in New Brunswick. There will be a louder report, and a harder kick, but you won’t notice either when you see the big fellow roll over and kick his legs in the air.”

The very suggestion of such a possibility was too much for the boy’s imagination. “Do you really think that I may kill a deer, or a moose, Martin?” he asked eagerly. “Do you, Martin?”

“Perhaps,” the old man assented, “if you will remember all I tell you. But first of all let’s learn all we can about the thing you are going to kill it with.

“Mr. Ware and I had many long talks, and tried many experiments before he could decide upon the very best size of cartridge for this larger barrel. You see there scores of different kinds and sizes to choose from. There are cartridges almost as long and about the same shape as a lead pencil, with steel jacketed bullets that will travel two or three miles, and go through six feet thickness of wood at short range. It is the fad among hunters these days to use that kind. But if a man is a real hunter he doesn’t need them.

“Mr. Ware was a real hunter. When he pulled the trigger he knew just where the bullet was going to land. And when a man is that kind of a shot he doesn’t have to use a bullet that will shoot through six feet of pine wood. So he picked out one of the older style of cartridges, one that we call the .38-40, which is only half as long as the lead-pencil kind. By using a steel jacketed bullet and smokeless powder this cartridge is powerful enough to kill any kind of game in this region, if you strike the right spot.

“So don’t get the idea, just because this gun won’t shoot a bullet through an old fashioned battleship, that it’s a plaything. It will penetrate eighteen inches of pine wood, and the force of its blow is very nearly that of a good big load of hay falling off a sled. This little three-pound gun—just a boy’s sparrow gun to look at—shoots farther and hits harder than the best rifle old Daniel Boone ever owned. And yet Boone and his friends cleaned out all the Indians and most of the big game in several States. So you see you’ve got the better of Boone and all the great hunters and Indian killers of his day—that is, as far as the gun is concerned. To-morrow I will begin teaching you how to use it as a hunter should; but now we had better turn in, for there are hard days ahead of us.”

And so Larry crawled into his snug fur-lined bag, too excited to wish to sleep, but so exhausted by the hard day’s work that his eyes would not stay open.

CHAPTER IV
LESSONS IN PILOTING

At daylight the next morning old Martin roused the boy, reminding him that he “was to begin learning his trade” that day. “And there are many things to learn about this land-piloting, too,” he told him. Meanwhile the old hunter took the axe and went into the woods for fuel while Larry was putting on his shoes and his coat—the only garments he had removed on going to bed the night before.

The air was very cold and everything frozen hard, and Larry’s teeth were chattering before Martin returned and started the fire. “Now notice how I lay these sticks and make this fire,” Martin instructed. “I am making it to cook our breakfast over, so I’ll build it in a very different way from what I should if I only wanted it for heating our tent. Learning how to build at least three different kinds of fires is a very important part of your education.”

The old man selected two small logs about four feet long and seven inches in diameter. He laid these side by side on the ground, separating them at one end a distance of about six inches and at the other end something over a foot. In the space between the logs he laid small branches and twigs, and lighted them, and in a jiffy had a hot fire going.

Larry noticed that Martin had placed the logs so that they lay at right angles to the direction from which the wind was blowing; and now as the heat thawed out the ground, the hunter took a sharp pointed stick and dug away the earth from under the log almost its whole length on the windward side. The wind, sucking in under this, created a draught from beneath, which made the fire burn fiercely.

Then Martin placed two frying pans filled with slices of ham and soggy, grease-covered bread over the fire, the tops of the two logs holding the pans rigidly in place. Next he took the wide-bottomed coffee pot, filled it with water, threw in a handful of coffee, and placed the pot at the end where the logs were near enough together to hold it firmly.

“Pretty good stove, isn’t it,” he commented, when he had finished.

“You see that kind of a fire does several things that you want it to, and doesn’t do several others that you don’t want. It makes all the heat go right up against the bottom of the pans where you need it most, and it only takes a little wood to get a lot of heat. What is more, the sides of the logs keep the heat from burning your face and your hands when you have to stir things, as a big camp-fire would. You can always tell a woodsman by the kind of fire he builds.”

Presently the coffee boiled over and Martin set it off, and by that time the ham and the bread were ready. And while they were eating their breakfast he set a pail of water on the fire to heat. “That’s to wash the dishes in,” he said. “A real woodsman washes his dishes as soon as he finishes each meal—does it a good deal more religiously than he washes his face or his hands, I fear.”

When breakfast was finished, and the last dish cleaned, Martin said: “Now you’ll have an hour’s practice at target-shooting. Take your gun and come along.”

He led the way to the pile of boxes, and hunted out three or four solid looking cases. These were filled with paper boxes containing cartridges—enough to supply an army, Larry thought. Tearing some of these open, Martin instructed the boy to fill the right hand pocket of his jacket with the little twenty-twos. “And always remember that they are in that pocket and nowhere else,” he instructed.

Next he opened a bundle and took out a belt on which there were a row of little leather pockets with snap fasteners. He filled these pockets with the larger calibre cartridges, six to each pocket, and instructed Larry to buckle it on over his coat. Then he led the way to a level piece of ground just above the camp, and having paced off fifty yards he fastened the round top of a large tin can against a tree and stepped back to the firing line.

“I’ll try one shot first to see if the sights are true,” he said, as he slipped a cartridge into each barrel. Then raising the gun to his shoulder he glanced through the sights and fired. “Go and see where that hit,” he told the boy.

Larry, running to the target, found the little hole of the .22 bullet almost in the center of the tin, and shouted his discovery exultantly. Martin had fired so quickly after bringing the gun to his shoulder that the boy could scarcely believe his eyes, although the result of the shot did not seem to surprise the old hunter.

“Don’t try the .38 yet,” he instructed, handing Larry the gun. “Fire twenty shots with the .22, and go and see where each shot strikes as soon as you fire and have loaded. And don’t forget to bring the gun to half-cock, and to load before you leave your tracks. That is one of the main things to remember. After a little practice you will do it instinctively, so that you will always have a loaded gun in your hands. It may save your life sometime when you run up to a buck that you have knocked over and only stunned.”

The boy took the gun and began his lesson, the hunter leaving him without waiting to see how he went about it. A few minutes later, when Larry had finished the twenty rounds, he found the old man going through the dismantled yacht.

“Just making a final inspection to see if there is anything left that we may need,” the old hunter said. “There’s a king’s ransom in here yet, but we can’t use it on our trip, and in another twenty-four hours it may be on the bottom of the ocean.”

Larry, trying to conceal the pride he felt, handed Martin the tin target he had brought with him. The old hunter examined it gravely, counting the number of bullet holes carefully. There were ten of them, including the one Martin had made.

“Eleven misses in twenty shots,” he commented, simply.

The boy, who was swelling with pride, looked crestfallen.

“But the last five all hit it,” he explained. “At first I hit all around it, and then I hit it almost every other time, and at last I hit it five times straight.”

“Put up a new target and try ten more,” was Martin’s only comment. But when Larry had gone he chuckled to himself with satisfaction. “Some shooting for a city boy!” he said to himself; “but I won’t spoil him by telling him so.”

When Larry returned with the second target there were seven bullet holes in it; but still the old hunter made no comment on the score. “Now go back and try ten of the big ones, and remember that you are shooting at big game this time,” he admonished.

Larry returned slowly to his shooting range. Martin was a very hard and unreasonable task-master, he decided. But, remembering that he had hit the mark so frequently before, he resolved to better his score this time. This was just the resolution Martin had hoped he would make.

So the boy fastened the target in place, adjusted the hammer for firing the larger cartridge. Then he shut his teeth together hard, took a careful but quick aim, for Martin had explained that slow shooting was not the best for hunting, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the loud report startled him, and his shoulder was jerked back by the recoil. It didn’t hurt, exactly, for the aluminum butt plate was covered with a springy rubber pad; but it showed him very forcibly what a world of power there must be in those stubby little cylinders of brass and lead.

He forgot his astonishment, however, when on going to the target, he found that the big bullet had pierced the tin almost in the center; and as he stood gazing at the hole he heard a low chuckle that cleared away all his dark clouds. Old Martin had slipped up behind him quietly; and there was no mistaking the old hunter’s wrinkled smile of satisfaction.

“Now you see what you can do with her,” the old man said, his eyes twinkling. “If that tin had been a moose’s forehead he’d be a dead moose, sure enough. Did the noise and the kick surprise you?”

“Yes, it did,” Larry admitted honestly; “but it won’t next time—it never will again. And I am going to kill just nine more moose with these cartridges.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said Martin, with frank admiration; “after a few more shots you’ll get used to the recoil, and pretty soon you won’t even feel it. But you musn’t expect to make nine more bull’s-eyes just yet.”

The old hunter went back to his work at the pile of plunder under the big canvas, and Larry fired his nine remaining rounds. Then he sought the old man again, but as Martin asked no question about the result of the shots, Larry did not volunteer any information. Presently Martin looked up from his work.

“I suppose you’ve cleaned the rifle now that you have finished practice for the morning?” he inquired.

Larry shook his head.

“Well that’s the very first thing to do, now, and always,” said the hunter.

It took quite a time for the boy to clean and oil the gun so that he felt it would pass inspection, and when he returned to Martin the old man was busy with an assortment of interesting looking parcels, placing them in separate piles. He was making notes on a piece of paper, while both the dogs were sniffing about the packages, greatly interested.

The old hunter sent Larry to bring two of the toboggans that he had saved from the yacht. They looked like ordinary toboggans to the boy, but Martin called his attention to some of their good points which he explained while he was packing them with what he called an “experimental load,” made up from the pile of parcels he had been sorting.

Each of the toboggans had fastened to its top a stout canvas bag, the bottom of which was just the size of the top of the sled. The sides of the bag were about four feet high, each bag forming, in effect, a canvas box fastened securely to the toboggan. Martin pointed out the advantages of such an arrangement in one terse sentence. “When that bag is tied up you can’t lose anything off your sled without losing the sled itself,” he said. “And if you had ever done much sledging,” he added, “you’d know what that means.”

“The usual way of doing it,” Martin explained, “is to pack your sled as firmly as you can, and then draw a canvas over it and lash it down. And that is a very good way, too. But this bag arrangement beats it in every way, particularly in taking care of the little things that are likely to spill out and be lost. With this bag there is no losing anything, big or little. You simply pack the big things on the bottom, and then instead of having to fool around half an hour fastening the little things on and freezing your fingers while you do it, you throw them all in on top, close up the end of the bag, and strap it down tight. You see it will ride then wherever the sled goes, for it is a part of the sled itself.”

Larry noticed that most of the larger parcels on the sled were done up in long, slender bags, and labeled. Martin explained that the bags were all made of waterproof material, and carefully sealed, and that narrow bags could be packed more firmly and rode in place better than short, stubby ones. A large proportion of these bags were labeled “Pemmican” and the name excited the boy’s curiosity.

“It’s something good to eat, I know,” he said; “but what is it made of, Martin?”

“It’s an Indian dish that made it possible for Peary to reach the Pole,” Martin assured him. “It is soup, and fish, and meat and vegetables, and dessert, all in one—only it hasn’t hardly any of those things in it. If you eat a chunk of it as big as your fist every day and give the same sized chunk to your dog, you won’t need any other kind of food, and your dog won’t. It has more heat and nourishment in it, ounce for ounce, than any other kind of food ever invented. That’s why I am going to haul so much of it on our sleds.”

While he was talking he had slit open one of the bags and showed Larry the contents, which resembled rather dirty, tightly pressed brown sugar.

“Gee, it looks good!” the boy exclaimed. “Let’s have some of it for supper.”

“You needn’t wait for supper,” Martin told him. “Eat all you want of it, we’ve got at least a ton more than we can carry away with us.” And he cut off a big lump with his hunting knife and handed it to the boy.

Larry’s mouth watered as he took it. He had visions of maple-sugar feasts on this extra ton of Indian delicacy close at hand, as he took a regular boy’s mouthful, for a starter. But the next minute his expression changed to one of utmost disgust, and he ran to the water pail to rinse his mouth. He paused long enough, however, to hurl the remaining piece at the laughing hunter. But Martin ducked the throw, while Kim and Jack, the dogs, raced after the lump, Kim reaching it first and swallowing it at a gulp.

“What made you change your mind so suddenly?” the old hunter asked when he could get his breath. “You seemed right hungry a minute ago, and I expected to see you eat at least a pound or two.”

“Eat that stuff!” Larry answered, between gulps from the water bucket. “I’d starve to death before I’d touch another grain of it.”

“That’s what you think now,” the old man answered, becoming serious again;—“that’s what I thought, too, the first time I tasted it. It tasted to me then like a mixture of burnt moccasin leather and boot grease. But wait until you have hit the trail for ten hours in the cold, when you’re too tired to lift your feet from the ground, and you’ll think differently. You’ll agree with me then that a chunk of this pemmican as big as your two fists is only just one third big enough, and tastes like the best maple sugar you ever ate.”

But the boy still made wry faces, and shook his head. “What do they put into it to make it taste so?” he asked. “Or why don’t they flavor it with something?”

“Oh, they flavor it,” Martin explained, laughing. “They flavor it with grease poured all over it after they have dried the meat that it is made of, and pounded it up into fine grains. But take my word for it that when you try it next time, somewhere out there in the wilderness two or three weeks from now, you’ll say that they flavor it just right.”

“But we needn’t worry about that now,” he added. “What we need more than anything else for to-night is a big lot of fire-wood, green and dry both. Take the axe and get in all you can between now and night. I want plenty of wood to use in teaching you how to make two other kinds of fires. Do you suppose you could cut down a tree about a foot in diameter?”

Larry thought he could. Some lumbermen in the Adirondacks had shown him how a tree could be felled in any direction by chopping a deep notch low down, and another higher up on the opposite side. He knew also about stepping to one side and away from the butt to avoid the possible kick-back of the trunk when the tree fell.

So he selected a tree of the right size as near the tent as he could find one, felled it after much futile chopping and many rests for breath, and cut it into logs about six feet long. When he had finished he called the two dogs, put a harness on each, hitched them up tandem, and fastened the hauling rope to the end of one of the logs. Martin had suggested that he do this, so as to get accustomed to driving the dogs, and get the big fellows accustomed to being driven by him.

The dogs, full of energy were eager for the work, and at the word sprang forward, yelping and straining at the straps, exerting every ounce of strength in their powerful bodies. The log was a heavy one, and at first they could barely move it; but after creeping along for a few inches it gradually gained speed on the thin snow, and was brought into camp on the run. Even in the excitement of shouting to the struggling dogs and helping with an occasional push, Larry noticed the intelligence shown by the animals in swinging from one side to the other, feeling for the best position to get leverage, and taking advantage of the likely places.

They seemed to enter into the spirit of the work, too, rushing madly back to the woods after each log or limb had been deposited at the tent, and waiting impatiently for Larry to make up the bundles of wood and fasten the draw rope. Working at this high pressure the boy and dogs soon had a huge pile of fire-wood at Martin’s disposal, and by the time the old hunter had finished his task, had laid in a three days’ supply.

“Now you build a ‘cooking fire,’ such as I made this morning, and get supper going,” said Martin, coming over to the tent; “and while you are doing that I’ll be fixing up another kind of a fire—one called a ‘trapper’s fire,’ which is built for throwing heat into a tent.”

The old hunter then drove two stakes into the ground directly in front of the opening of the tent and six feet from it, the stakes being about five feet apart and set at right angles to the open flaps. Against these stakes he piled three of the green logs Larry had cut, one on top of the other like the beginning of a log house, and held them in place by two stakes driven in front, opposite the two first stakes. Next he selected two green sticks about four inches in diameter and three feet long, and placed them like the andirons in a fireplace, the wall of logs serving as a reflecting surface like the back wall of a chimney. Across these logs he now laid a fire, just as one would in a fireplace.

Larry all this time had been busy getting the supper, Martin offering a suggestion now and then. When he saw that the meal was almost ready the old man spread a piece of canvas on the ground just inside the opening of the tent and before the log fire he had laid, and set out the plates and cups, and when Larry announced that the feast was ready Martin lighted the fire in front of the logs.

He had a double motive in this—to show the boy how to make a heating fire and to furnish heat for the evening. For the weather was growing very cold, and he had some work that he wished to do which would require light to guide his fingers and heat for keeping them warm.

With the protection of the tent back of them and the roaring fire in front they toasted their shins and ate leisurely. To Larry it all seemed like one grand lark, and he said so.

“I’m afraid you will change your mind about it being such a lark before we are through with it,” the old man said presently. “It won’t be a lark for either of us. But I’m beginning to feel more hopeful about it, now that I see that you can learn things, and are willing to try.”

He lighted his pipe and smoked thoughtfully for a few minutes. Larry too, was thoughtful, turning over in his mind the old hunter’s last remark.

“And so you have been thinking all this time that I might be in the way—that perhaps you would be better off if you were alone, and didn’t have a boy like me on your hands?” the boy asked presently.

For a little time the old man did not answer, puffing his pipe and gazing silently at the fire. At last he said:

“I couldn’t help feeling a little that way at first, Larry. The job on our hands is one for a strong man, not for a city boy. But I’m feeling different now that I see how you take hold and are willing to work, and try to learn all the things I tell you. And wouldn’t it be funny,” he added, with a twinkle in his kindly eye, “if, sometime, I should get into trouble and you have to help me out of it instead of my helping you all the time? A fellow can never tell what strange things may happen on the trail; and that is one reason why no man should start on a journey through the woods in the winter time alone.”

Presently the old man knocked the ashes from his pipe and set about cleaning the dishes, Larry helping him; but neither of them were in talking mood, each busy with his own thoughts. When they had finished the hunter said:

“Now I’ll show you how to make an Indian fire, the kind the Indian still likes best of all, and the best kind to use when wood is scarce or when you want to boil a pot of tea or get a quick meal.”

The old hunter then gathered an armful of small limbs, and laid them on the ground in a circle like the spokes of a wheel, the butts over-lapping at the center where the hub of the wheel would be. With a few small twigs he lighted a fire where the butts joined, the flames catching quickly and burning in a fierce vertical flame.

“This fire will make the most heat for the least amount of wood and throw the heat in all directions,” Martin explained. “And that is why it is the best kind of a fire for heating a round tent, such as an Indian tepee.”

“But why did the Indian have to care about the amount of wood he burned?” Larry asked. “He had all the wood he wanted, just for the chopping of it, didn’t he?”

The old man smiled indulgently. “Yes, he surely had all the wood he wanted just for the chopping—millions of cords of it. But how was he going to chop it without anything to chop it with, do you think? You forget that the old Indians didn’t have so much as a knife, let alone an axe. And that explains the whole thing: that’s why the Indian made small fires and built skin tepees instead of log houses.

“If you left your axe and your knife here at the tent and went into the woods to gather wood, Larry, how long do you suppose it would take you to collect a day’s supply for our big fire? You wouldn’t have much trouble in getting a few armfuls of fallen and broken branches but very soon you’d find the supply running short. The logs would be too large to handle, and most of the limbs too big to break. And so you would soon be cold and hungry, with a month’s supply of dry timber right at your front dooryard.

“But it’s all so different when you can give a tap here and there with your axe, or a few strokes with your hunting knife. And this was just what the poor Indian couldn’t do; for he had no cutting tool of any kind worth the name until the white man came. So he learned to use little sticks for his fire, and built his house of skins stretched over small poles.

“It is hard for us to realize that cutting down a tree was about the hardest task an Indian could ever attempt. Why the strongest Indian in the tribe, working as hard as he could with the best tool he could find, couldn’t cut down a tree as quickly as you could with your hunting knife. He could break rocks to pieces by striking them with other rocks, and he could dig caves in the earth; but when it came to cutting down a tree he was stumped. The big trees simply stood up and laughed at him. No wonder he worshipped the forests and the tree gods!

“Of course when the white man came and supplied axes, hatchets, and knives, he solved the problem of fire-wood for the Indian. But he never changed the Indian’s idea about small fires. Too many thousand generations of Indian ancestors had been making that kind of a fire all their lives; and the Indian is a great fellow to stick to fixed habits. He adopted the steel hatchet and the knife, but he stuck to his round fire and his round tepee.

“And yet, although he had never seen a steel hatchet until the white man gave him one, he improved the design of the white man’s axe right away. The white man’s hatchet was a broad-bladed, clumsy thing, heavy to carry and hard to handle. The Indian designed a thin, narrow-bladed, light hatchet—the tomahawk—that would bite deeper into the wood and so cut faster than the white man’s thick hatchet. And every woodsman now knows that for fast chopping, with little work, a hatchet made on the lines of the tomahawk beats out the other kind.”

The old man took his own hunting axe from the sheath at his belt and held it up for inspection.

“You see it’s just a modified tomahawk,” he said, “with long blade and thin head, and only a little toy axe, to look at. But it has cut down many good-sized trees when I needed them, all the same. And the axe you were using this afternoon, as you probably noticed, is simply a bigger brother of this little fellow, exactly the same shape. It’s the kind the trappers use in the far North, because it will do all the work of a four-pound axe, and is only half as heavy. We’ve got some of those big axes over there under the tarpaulin, but we’ll leave them behind when we hit the trail, and take that small one with us.”

While they were talking Martin had been getting out a parcel containing clothing and odds and ends, and now he sat down before the fire to “do some work” as he expressed it.

“If you’re not too sleepy to listen,” he said, “I’ll tell you a story that I know about a little Algonquin Indian boy.”

Larry was never too tired to listen to Martin’s stories; and so he curled up on a blanket before the fire, while the old man worked and talked.

CHAPTER V
THE STORY OF WEEWAH THE HUNTER

It had been a hard day’s work for both of them, and strange as everything was to Larry, and awful as the black woods seemed as he peeped out beyond the light of the fire, he had a strange feeling of security and contentment. It might be that there were terribly hard days of toil and danger and privations ahead, but he was too cozily situated now to let that worry him.

Besides he was feeling the satisfaction that every boy feels in the knowledge that he has done something well. And even the exacting old Martin, always slow to praise or even commend, had told him over his cup of tea and his soup at supper, that he “would make a hunter of him some day.” And what higher praise could a boy hope for?

“Nobody knows just how old Weewah was when he became a mighty hunter,” Martin began presently, without looking up from his sewing, “because Indians don’t keep track of those things as we white folks do. But he couldn’t have been any older than you are, perhaps not quite so old.

“He was old enough to know how to handle his bow and arrows, though, to draw a strong enough bow to shoot an arrow clean through a woodchuck or a muskrat, or even a beaver, although he had never found the chance to try at the beaver. He carried his own tomahawk, too—a new one that the factor at Hudson Bay Post had given him,—and was eager to show his prowess with it on larger game.

“But the hunting was done by the grown up men of the village, who thought Weewah too small to hunt anything larger than rabbits. Yet there were other boys of his own age who found more favor in the hunters’ eyes because they were larger than he. ‘Some day you will be a hunter,’ they told him, ‘but now you are too small.’

“Weewah’s heart was big, even if his body was small. And so one day he took all his long arrows, his strongest bow, and his tomahawk and resolved to go into the big woods at some distance from the village, and do something worthy of a hunter.

“It was winter time, and the snow on the ground was knee-deep with just a little crust on it. On his snow-shoes Weewah glided through the forest, noticing everything he passed and fixing it in his memory instinctively so that he could be sure of finding the back trail. For this day he meant to go deep, deep into the spruce swamp in his hunting. There he would find game worthy of the bow of the mighty hunter he intended to prove himself.

“The tracks of many animals crossed his path, little wood dwellers such as rabbits and an occasional mink. But these did not interest him to-day. He had brought his snares, of course, for he always carried them; but to-day his heart was too full of a mighty ambition to allow such little things as rabbit snares to interrupt his plans.

“Once he did stop when he saw, just ahead of him on the snow, a little brown bunch of fur with two big brown eyes looking at him wonderingly. In an instant he had drawn the poised arrow to his cheek and released it with a twang. And a moment later the little brown bunch of fur was in Weewah’s pouch, ready for making into rabbit stew in the evening.

“Weewah took it as a good omen that he had killed the rabbit on the very edge of the spruce swamp that he had selected for his hunting ground. Soon he would find game more worthy of his arrows or his axe. And so he was not surprised, even if his heart did give an extra bound, when presently he came upon the track of a lynx. It was a fresh track, too, and the footprints were those of a very big lynx.

“Weewah knew all this the moment he looked at the tracks, just as he knew a thousand other things that he had learned in the school of observation. He knew also that in all probability the animal was not half a mile away, possibly waiting in some tree, or crouching in some bushes looking for ptarmigan or rabbit. He was sure, also, that he could run faster on his snow-shoes than the lynx could in that deep soft snow.

“So for several minutes he stood and thought as fast as he could. What a grand day for him it would be if he could come back to the village dragging a great lynx after him! No one would ever tell him again that he was too small to be a hunter.

“But while he was sorely tempted to rush after the animal with the possibility of getting a shot, or a chance for a blow of his axe, he knew that this was not the surest way to get his prey. He had discovered the hunting ground of the big cat, and he knew that there was no danger of its leaving the neighborhood so long as the supply of rabbits held out. By taking a little more time, then, Weewah knew he could surely bring the fellow into camp. And so he curbed his eagerness.

“Instead of rushing off along the trail, bow bent and arrow on the string, he opened his pouch and took out a stout buckskin string—a string strong enough to resist the pull of the largest lynx. In one end of this he made a noose with a running knot. Next he cut a stout stick three inches thick and as tall as himself. Then he walked along the trail of the lynx for a little distance, looking sharply on either side, until he found a low-hanging, thick bunch of spruce boughs near which the animal had passed. Here the boy stopped and cut two more strong sticks, driving them into the ground about two feet apart, so that they stood three feet above the snow and right in front of a low-hanging bunch of spruce boughs.

“At the top of each he had left a crotch, across which he now laid his stick with the looped string dangling from the center. The contrivance when completed looked like a great figure H, from the cross-bar of which hung the loop just touching the top of the snow.

“Now Weewah carefully opened the loop of the noose until it was large enough for the head of any lynx to pass through, and fastened it deftly with twigs and blades of dead grass, so as to hold it in place firmly. From its front the thing looked like a miniature gallows—which, indeed, it was.

“Next Weewah took the rabbit from his pouch, and creeping under the thicket carefully so as not to disturb his looped string, he placed the still warm body an arm’s length behind the loop, propping the head of the little animal up with twigs, to look as lifelike as possible. In an hour, at most, the rabbit would freeze and stiffen, and would then look exactly like a live rabbit crouching in the bushes.

“Then the little Indian broke off branches, thrusting them into the snow about the rabbit, until he had formed a little bower facing the snare. Any animal attempting to seize it would thrust its own head right through the fatal hangman’s loop.

“When Weewah had finished this task he gathered up his tomahawk and bow and arrows, and started back along his own trail. He made no attempt to cover up the traces of his work, as he would if trapping a fox; for the lynx is a stupid creature, like all of his cousins of the cat family, and will blunder into a trap of almost any kind.

“The little Indian hurried along until he reached the point from which he had first crossed the lynx tracks. Here he turned sharply, starting a great circle, which would be about a mile in diameter. He did this to make sure that the lynx had not gone on farther than he thought. If he found no sign of fresh tracks he could feel certain that the animal was still close at hand.

“This took him several hours, and it was almost dark when he pulled back the flap and entered his home lodge in the village. He was tired, too, but his eyes shone with suppressed emotion.

“As soon as he entered his mother set before him a smoking bowl of broth without a word of comment or a question as to what his luck might have been in his rabbit hunting. His father was there, gorging himself on fat beaver meat that he had just brought in; but neither he, nor Weewah’s brothers and sisters, offered any comment at the little boy’s entrance.

“It is not correct etiquette, in Algonquin families, to ask the hunter what luck he has had until he has eaten. Even then a verbal question is not asked. But when the repast is finished the Indian woman takes a pouch of the hunter and turns its contents out upon the floor.

“The emptiness of Weewah’s pouch spoke for itself, for he had flung it upon the floor on entering, where it lay flat. His father scowled a little when he noticed it; for he wanted his son to be a credit to him as a hunter. But his scowl turned into a merry twinkle when he saw how radiant his son’s face was despite his ill luck, and what a small, delicately formed little fellow he was. Besides the old warrior was in an unusually good humor. Had he not killed a fat beaver that day? And was not beaver tail the choicest of all foods?

“In a few hours Weewah’s brothers and sisters, rolled in their warm Hudson Bay blankets, were breathing heavily, and his father and mother were far away in dreamland. Weewah was in dreamland, too; but not the land that comes with sleep. He was in the happy state of eager expectation that comes when to-morrow is to be a great day in one’s life. And so he lay, snugly wrapped in his blanket, his black eyes shining as he watched the embers of the fire in the center of the tepee slowly grow dim and smoulder away. Meanwhile the very thing he was dreaming about was happening out in the dark spruce swamp.

“The great lynx, whose tracks Weewah had seen, started out just at dusk on his nightly rabbit and grouse hunt. He had spent the day curled up under the protecting boughs of a drooping spruce almost within sound of Weewah’s hatchet where the snare was being set. Now he took his way leisurely along his former trail, sniffing the air, and examining every likely looking nook that might hide the material for his supper. His great, fur-padded feet gave out no sound as he glided along over the now frozen crust, and he was the embodiment of stealth as he glided forward with ears erect, and stubby tail straight out.

“Suddenly he stopped, raised his head and distended his nostrils, drinking in the familiar odor wafted to him from some point near at hand. Then he dropped low, his long fur dragging noiselessly on the snow crust, as he wormed snake-like along toward a clump of low-hanging spruces. His keen, yellow eyes had caught sight of the crouching rabbit held in place at first by the twigs that Weewah had placed there, but now stiff and rigid as iron.

“Closer and closer crept the lynx, until he was within six feet of his victim. And still the rabbit did not move. The great body, quivering with suppressed energy, now slowly lowered itself and the hind legs were carefully drawn under for the spring. Then like a flash the gray body shot forward and with a snarl the dagger-like teeth closed upon the bunch of fur.

“At the same time the lynx felt a violent tug at his throat, and a heavy club dealt him a sharp blow across the back as it fell from overhead. In amazement the great brute dropped the rabbit, springing violently backward as he did so. But the leather thong about his neck and the club attached to it followed him in the spring, the noose tightening about his neck.

“With a scream of rage he pulled violently to free himself, bracing with his great fore feet against the club as he did so. But instead of freeing himself he felt a quick tightening of the noose at his throat. Frantic with rage and fright he continued to jerk and pull, sometimes changing his attack to viciously biting the stick. But the only effect produced was to gradually tighten the noose, which was now tangled with the thick throat hair, and did not relax.

“Time and again he returned furiously to the attack, bracing his feet against the stick, and pulling with all his strength. Inevitably he would have choked himself to death, as Weewah had planned he should, but for the fact that the little Indian had made the loop a little too long, so that the pulling produced a violent but not fatal choking. Many a lynx commits suicide in this way just as the trapper plans it.

“For hours the lynx wrestled vainly to free itself, varying the attacks on the club by trying to run away from it. But running away from it was quite as much out of the question as tearing it loose. For when the animal attempted to run the club was jerked about its limbs, tripping it, and frequently becoming entangled in brush and bushes. At last, exhausted, and thoroughly sulky, the great cat laboriously climbed a tree, and extended itself along one of the lower limbs, the club still dangling at one side from its neck. In all its struggles it had not gone more than two hundred yards from where the trap had been set.

“An hour before daylight the next morning, Weewah, who had been waiting for the first indications of morning, stole silently out of the tepee without awakening even the light-sleeping members of his family. He carried with him his own tomahawk, and his bow and arrow; but also he carried the heavy axe that his mother used for cutting the wood for the fire. She would miss it, he knew, and also he knew that he would be in for a solid whack from the first stick that lay handy when he returned; but he was willing to brave all this. The axe must be had at any cost.

“The sun was just pushing its blood red rim above the low hills in the east when he reached the edge of the spruce swamp. And it was still only an oval, fire red ball when the little Indian approached the place where he had set the snare the day before. He had swung along lightly and swiftly over the beginning of the trail, but now as he approached the goal his heart beat hard against his chest, just as any white boy’s would have done under the circumstances. But long before he actually reached the spot where the trap had been left he knew that he had been successful. Successful, at least, in having lured the prey into his snare.

“He could tell this by the condition of the snow, which had been dug up and thrown about by the wild struggle of the lynx. He loosened his tomahawk, therefore, held his arrow in readiness on the string, and approached the scene of turmoil.

“One glance at the trampled snow, the dead rabbit still lying where the lynx had dropped it, and the broad twisting trail leading further into the swamp, told him the story of what had taken place more completely than any white man could write it. And almost without pausing he began following this trail cautiously forward, his arrow still poised; for one never knows what a captive animal may do when driven to desperation.

“Suddenly the little Indian stopped, his eyes snapping as he drew the arrow to the head with every ounce of strength in his arms and back. There, crouching on an upper limb of a tree perhaps a foot in diameter, was the huge lynx, watching him with curling lips, crouching ready to spring.

“Weewah’s first impulse was to send the finishing shaft through the great body on the limb. It would be a great triumph for Weewah—the little Indian boy, too small yet to be a hunter—to drag into his father’s tepee early that morning a great forest cat killed with his own bow and arrow. But after all, would a really great hunter feel much pride in killing a captive lynx from a safe distance with an arrow?

“He knew very well that doing such a thing would not mark him as a great hunter. And he was determined that he should be called a great hunter before he was a day older.

“So he lowered his arrow, removed it from the string, and laid the bow down beside the tree. He loosened his own tomahawk, also, and laid that close at hand near the tree trunk. Then he seized the big axe of his mother that he had brought with him and began chopping at the trunk, making the chips fly rapidly under his skillful aim.

“At the first blow of the axe against the trunk the lynx had half risen, giving a fierce growl of rage. For a moment it hesitated, ready to spring on the boy. But that moment of hesitancy was decisive. And as the strokes of the axe continued uninterruptedly the great animal gradually settled down sulkily on the branch, cowed by its fruitless battle with the cord and stick.

“Meanwhile Weewah was swinging his axe to good purpose. Nor was he directing his blows in a haphazard manner. With practiced eye he had selected a clear spot where he wished the tree to fall, and now by cutting half way through the trunk on the side facing in that direction, and then cutting on exactly the opposite side a little higher up he knew that the tree would fall precisely as he wished.

“Presently the tree began to waver slightly. It was sufficient, however, to make the great cat on the bough crouch and whine with fright. A few more sharp blows of the axe made the top limbs tremble ominously. A puff of wind now would have toppled it over; but there was not a breath of air stirring. Another axe stroke or two and it would bring it to the ground.

“But before delivering the finishing strokes Weewah paused long enough to replace his snow-shoes which he had removed before he began chopping. He also picked up his tomahawk and thrust it half way into his belt, where he could seize it instantly. Then he took the axe and gave three vigorous, carefully directed finishing blows.

“And still the lynx did not leap. When the creature felt the limb quivering beneath it, it rose as if to jump; then, confused and uncertain, it crouched low again, clinging tightly to the branch as if for protection. Just before the limb reached the ground, however, it sprang far out into the snow, making violent leaps with the club whirling about it, and quickly becoming entangled.

“Weewah, with tomahawk raised, was close upon its heels. Another stride and he would have buried the blade in the animal’s skull. But at that moment the lynx wheeled suddenly, dodging the blow aimed at its head, and sprang toward its pursuer. Its great claws as it struck at him cat fashion, scratched Weewah’s cheek, and cut two deep grooves in his shoulder. It was a blow that would have been disastrous had not the entangled club jerked the animal to one side.

“With a yell the little Indian sprang toward the crouching, snarling animal, thrusting out his right snow-shoe as he did so. Instantly the frame and lacings of the shoe were crushed in the savage jaws of the lynx. But at the same moment the tomahawk blade flashed through the air and buried itself deep in the thick skull.

“Without a sound the great fur-covered body relaxed, quivered, and then lay still with the teeth still buried in the snow-shoe frame only an inch from Weewah’s foot.

“The little Indian stood for a few moments looking at his victim. Then he reached down and tried to pry loose the fixed jaws. It was no easy task. For the muscles had set in the last convulsive death grip and it was only with the aid of his tomahawk blade that they could finally be relaxed.

“Weewah now lashed the forepaws to the dead animal’s lower jaw to prevent them from catching against things as he dragged the body over the snow. Then he unfastened the strap from the club, and taking the line over his shoulder started for home, scuffing along as best he could on his broken snow-shoe, towing the big cat after him.

“All that morning Weewah’s mother had scolded about the missing axe. Weewah was missing too, but she felt no solicitude about that. With the axe it was different: people who took away axes were not always particular about returning them, whereas boys always came back. It hadn’t occurred to her that the boy and the axe had gone away together.

“She had grumblingly gathered wood for the fire without the aid of her usual implement, and now was busily engaged in boiling roots and meat in a great pot, while her husband smoked his pipe, paying no attention to his spouse’s complaints. Some of the smaller children were playing noisy games, running in and out of the tepee, shouting and laughing like a pack of white school children.

“Presently one of Weewah’s younger sisters, squatted on a stump, raised a shrill cry, ‘Weewah, Weewah is coming!’

“The playing stopped at once, the children gathering in front of the tepee to gaze in mute astonishment at their older brother. Tired as he was from dragging the load, and leg weary from stumbling along with his broken snow-shoe, he now held his head erect and his chin high. Without a word he strode into the open flap of the tepee, dragging the dead lynx after him. In front of his father he stopped and dropped his burden; then he drew the blood-stained tomahawk from his belt and laid it beside the dead animal, and stood silently before his parent with folded arms.

“For several minutes the warrior smoked his pipe in silence. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction, laid his pipe aside, and ran his hand deliberately over the body of the dead animal. He found no arrow holes. Next he turned the great head and examined the clean wound, and then the blood-stained blade of the tomahawk, and the tightened cord of buckskin about the neck.

“His examination told him the story of what had happened out there in the woods. He knew that Weewah had first caught the lynx in his snare, and then had killed it with a blow from his tomahawk instead of shooting it with an arrow. And he was proud of his son. But no one but an Indian would have known it.

“With another grunt of satisfaction, however, he drew his hunting knife from the sheath in his belt. By a few deft strokes he severed two toes from the forepaw of the lynx, with the long curved claws protruding, leaving a strip of fur at the back. Then he quickly fashioned a loop in the skin so that the claws hung as a pendant from it. When this was finished to his satisfaction he stood up and beckoned to the boy; and when Weewah stepped forward the old Indian placed the fur string about his neck with the lynx claws suspended in front.

“Then he placed his hands on the little fellow’s shoulders and looked sharply into his eyes, the little Indian returning the gaze with quiet dignity.

“‘Weewah, the mighty hunter,’ the old Indian said slowly.

“Then he seated himself and resumed his pipe as if nothing had happened.”

Martin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and threw an extra chunk of wood on the fire.

“Time we were turning in,” he said.

“But tell me,” Larry asked; “did Weewah’s mother give him the beating for taking her axe?”

“What, beat a mighty hunter like Weewah?” Martin asked in feigned surprise. “No indeed! No more beatings for him. From that day on no woman, not even his mother, would ever give him a blow. And his father would now take him with him on his hunting trips, even into the most dangerous places, just as he would any other hunter. For he had proved his title, you see.”

Then the old man took his pipe from his lips, and said to the boy earnestly:

“You see I am the old Indian and you are Weewah in this case. Only you haven’t had a chance to kill your lynx yet. But we are going right into that country where the lynx lives, and sooner or later you’ll have a chance to show your metal. When that time comes remember the story of little Weewah.

“And now you must turn in for the night.”

CHAPTER VI
FINAL PREPARATIONS

Sometime in the middle of the night Larry was awakened by flakes of snow driven into his face, and by the sound of the storm howling around the tent. The flakes sputtered in the fire which still flared and struggled to keep burning. The boy was warm and comfortable in the fur bag, however, and after pulling the flap over his head to keep out the snow, he was soon sleeping soundly. When he opened his eyes again it was daylight, and Martin was plodding about in the storm, building a fire close to the tent where the wind struck it least. The snow was still falling and was even then a foot deep on the level.

The old hunter was in high spirits: he had been hoping for the storm, and the fact that it was a roaring blizzard made no difference to him so long as the snow kept falling.

The inside of the tent was warm and the boy crawled out of the fur bag reluctantly and reached for his shoes.

“Not that pair,” old Martin said; “there are your things over at the foot of your bed. No more city clothes from now on. I nearly worked my fingers off last night getting things ready for you.”

Larry wondered how much time the old hunter had found for sleep when he examined the pile of clothing the hunter had laid out for him. For most of the pieces had been altered in some way to make them so that the boy could wear them, cut down from some of the larger garments from the hunting outfit. Sleeves and trouser-legs had been cut off or turned up, and buttons set over to take up the slack of the bagging jacket in a way that showed how handy the old hunter was with the needle. His most laborious task had been in reducing the size of a pair of moose-skin moccasins, although he had simplified this operation by taking in the back seam. At that they were at least three sizes too large, as Larry pointed out.

“But when you have on two, or three, or four pairs of thick German socks,” Martin assured him, “you won’t notice a little thing like that. And you’ll fill out the rest of the clothes with underwear the same way.”

Beside the pile of clothing Martin had placed some other things which he told the boy were to be his personal belongings that were to be carried with him all the time except when he slept. But the hunter told him not to put them away until after they had had breakfast, and made things a little more secure about the tent. So Larry left the things as he found them, and went to help Martin.

He soon discovered the difference between his new clothes and the “city” ones he had discarded. Even the fury of the blizzard could not force the piercing cold through the thick, soft Mackinaw cloth; and with the exception of the end of his nose, he was as warm as toast as he worked under the hunter’s directions.

One side and the back of their tent was protected from the wind by the wall of rock, and the fire checked the fury of the storm from the front; but the snow drifted in on them from the unprotected side, and they remedied this by stretching a piece of canvas across the gap. It was no easy task, and several times the wind tore it away before they could get it anchored securely, but when it was finally made storm proof the enclosure before the roaring fire was almost as warm and comfortable as a house.

“Now for your equipment,” Martin announced, when everything was secured to his complete satisfaction.

Larry found that a light hunting hatchet and a stout hunting knife had been added to his belt of cartridges, suspended in leather sheaths from loops slipped over the belt. The belt itself was passed through the loops in the jacket, so that the weight came upon his shoulders instead of his waist, and when buckled, drew the coat snugly around him. The gun in its sheath was slung over his shoulder and hung at his left side. His fur mittens were fastened with leather strings to the coat sleeves so that there was no possibility of losing them even when slipped off.

There was a pocket compass in a hunting case about the size of a watch which fitted into an upper pocket of his jacket which had a button flap for holding it. As an additional precaution against losing it a leather string reached from the inside of the pocket and was fastened to the ring. And Larry found that his watch was secured in his watch-pocket in a similar manner.

“We can’t take a chance on losing anything,” the hunter explained; “for there are no jewelry stores along the road that we are going to travel.”

Larry found that there were three water-proof match boxes to be distributed in his trousers’ pockets, and a pocket knife that combined several kinds of useful tools. The matches seemed to be the ordinary parlor kind. But Martin surprised him by taking one, dipping it in a cup of water, and then after wiping it off, lighting it like an ordinary dry match. Even after a match had been floating in the water for several minutes it would light and burn readily.

“They’ve all been dipped in shellac,” Martin explained. “The shellac forms a water-proof coating that keeps out moisture but doesn’t interfere with lighting or burning. So even if your match safe leaks you won’t have to go without a fire.”

In one box which Larry thought contained matches he found six little cubes looking like wax run into little square aluminum cups. Martin explained their use by a simple demonstration. He placed one of them on the ground where he had scraped away the snow, laid a handful of sticks over it, struck a match and touched the wax-like substance. It burst into a bright flame at once, and continued to burn fiercely for several minutes, igniting the sticks about it and helping to keep their struggling flames going until enough heat had been generated to make a steady fire.

“That’s a new fangled thing called ‘solid alcohol,’ used to start a tenderfoot’s fire when he is wet and cold and has no little dry twigs at hand,” said Martin. “An old woodsmen like me ought to throw the stuff away and scorn to use it; and forty years ago I would have done so. But I am wiser now, I hope, and I don’t despise some of the new things as I did then. And I remember two different occasions when I came near losing my life in the snow because my hands were so cold and numb, and the small wood was so scarce, that I came near not getting my fire started at all. So now I am going to take along a few packages of these cubes, and you must do the same. We’ll never use it except as a last resort; but sometime it may come in handy for starting a fire or boiling a cup of tea.

“You know we will only use two matches a day after we leave here—one match to start our fire at noon and at night. There will be coals from the night next morning to cook our breakfast by. It’s a mark of bad woodsmanship to have to use more than one match to start a fire, no matter what kind of weather is going.”

“But how about your pipe?” Larry asked. For the old man smoked almost continually during his waking hours.

Old Martin sighed and shook his head. “No more pipe for me after we leave here,” he said, with a little laugh. “The weight in pemmican that I’ll take instead of the tobacco may be just the amount that will decide the question of our getting through alive. Smoking isn’t a necessity, but eating is.”

Larry looked at the old man to see if he were not joking; but he saw that he was thoroughly in earnest. It made the boy realize the serious nature of the task before them to know that the old man was going to sacrifice the greatest solace of his life. But it roused his determination, and his spirits were too buoyant to be long depressed.

All day long Martin kept him busy helping at various things that must be completed before their departure. The toboggans were hauled into the canvas enclosure, where he and the old man packed and unpacked the loads, adding something here, or leaving out something there, working in the glow of the warm fire. Dog harnesses had to be altered and extra ones tucked away on the sleds, snow-shoe lacings examined and re-lashed, and a dozen things attended to that Larry recognized as important when Martin pointed them out. The fire, too, needed considerable tending to keep a huge kettle of beans cooking which Martin declared must simmer all day if they were to be cooked properly.

Toward night the wind subsided, and the clouds cleared away, so that by the time they had finished their heaping plates of pork and beans the stars were out glistening like steel points in the frosty air. Later in the evening they heard howling in the distance—terrifying sounds to the boy, made by a pack of big timber wolves out on a hunt, as Martin explained. And for fear the dogs might start an independent wolf hunt on their own account, Martin tied up the big malamoots after he had fed them.

During the day Martin had brought several armfuls of packages into the tent from the stores under the tarpaulin as he went back and forth at his work. Now that supper was over and the dishes cleaned he lighted his pipe and and seated himself beside the packages. He was always talkative when working by the evening fire, and seemed to find great pleasure in imparting bits of information to the boy from his inexhaustible store of woodland experiences.

To-night as he began fumbling among the packages, he asked:

“Larry, have you decided what you are going to carry in your ditty bag?”

“Ditty bag?” Larry repeated; “I’d know better what I was going to carry in it if I knew what a ‘ditty bag’ was.”

“What, a veteran forest pilot like you not know what a ditty bag is!” Martin asked in mock astonishment. “Then it’s high time for you to learn. A ditty bag is the thing that does for the woodsman what all the pockets in a suit of clothes do for a boy—it carries the forty and one indispensable things that can’t be carried in some other place. You’d better sit over here beside me and make yours up to-night while I am fitting out mine.”

So the boy moved over to the little pile of packages ready for instructions.

The hunter handed him a little bag made of tough water-proof material with a string at the top for tying securely. Then he rummaged through the packages, taking out what he wanted and placing them in the bag. At his suggestion Larry duplicated this selection of things for his own bag, so that in case one bag should be lost they would still have the other. “But,” said Martin, “you must put in some little thing for luck—anything that strikes your fancy, after the other things are in. That’s a hunter’s superstition, like the Indian’s ‘medicine.’”

The first useful article selected was a neat Red Cross package containing a few useful medicines and surgical dressings for an emergency. Next came needles of all sizes, with several skeins of thread, and a wooden handle in which were several awls, neatly stored in a hollow bobbin on which was wound many lengths of strong waxed cord. A can of gunoil found a place, and a small whetstone, rough on one side for sharpening the axes, and smooth on the other for the knives. A tool case, containing a “good-sized carpenter shop,” as Martin explained and made of aluminum after Mr. Ware’s own design, found especial favor; and a broken shell extractor was considered indispensable.

Buttons and skeins of twine of various sizes went into the bag as a matter of course; but when the old hunter selected three packages, each containing a dozen yards of the kind of twisted wire used for hanging pictures of different sizes, the boy burst out laughing and rolled on the blankets. He suspected Martin of trying to play off a quiet hoax on him, and did not intend to be caught in the trap.

Nothing was farther from Martin’s thoughts, however, as Larry discovered when the use of the wire was explained. It was to be used for making the snares for catching small animals, particularly rabbits, the hunter said, and for that purpose was unequaled. And the old man assured him that for securing food on the march in a snow-bound country snares were far more useful than rifles. Indian families in many northern regions depended almost entirely upon their snares for their supply of winter food.

“Rabbits are the bread and butter of the woodsman in the winter,” Martin said. “The rabbits make little narrow paths in the snow—thousands of them, running in all directions—and when they are not disturbed and going about their business, they always follow these paths. Now when the rabbit comes to a fallen limb lying across his path a few inches above the ground, he likes to go under the limb rather than hop over it. This simplifies matters for the Indian. He simply hangs his snare in front of the hole under the limb, and is almost sure to catch the first rabbit that comes hopping along that particular path.

“The snare is just a simple slip-noose made large enough to let the rabbit’s head pass through easily. If the wind is blowing the snare can be held open and in place by tying it with blades of dead grass, which are strong enough to hold it in place until the rabbit gets his head through.

“The other end of the snare string is tied to a limb that is bent down and fastened in a notch cut in a stick or a small sapling if it happens to be in the right place. The notch is cut deep enough to hold the bent limb, but not firmly enough but what it can be jerked loose pretty easily.

“Now when the rabbit comes hopping along the path and starts to go under the limb, he runs his head through the snare. When he feels something around his neck he pulls back to get out of its way; but that tightens the noose about his neck, and he begins leaping about frantically to get loose. In this way he jerks the bent limb out of the notch that holds it down, the limb flies back, and swings him up into the air where he smothers in short order.

“Of course if the snare was simply fastened to the limb over the path the rabbit would choke himself to death for a certainty, because he never stops pulling and tugging at the noose while he has a kick left in him. But then some fox or weasel would probably come along and get him. But neither of them will get him if he is dangling in the air: the weasel can’t reach him, and the fox is such a crafty fellow, always looking out for traps and tricks, that he won’t go near a dead rabbit hanging on a string, even if he is starving.

“Now that the snow has stopped falling the rabbits will be out to-night making paths, and to-morrow night we’ll put out some snares just for practice. I’ll teach you a dozen ways to make snares for different kinds of game, but the principle of all of them is the same as the one for catching Mr. Rabbit. And he’s the boy we’re interested in mostly.”

The old hunter rose and went out to “have a look at the snow,” as he put it. He came back well pleased with his inspection.

“The crust will form and set hard to-night,” he said to Larry, “and to-morrow you’ll begin your hardest and most important lesson—learning to walk on snow-shoes. You can look forward to taking some of the grandest headers you have ever taken in your life,” he added, grinning.

“But—” Larry began, and then stopped.

“‘But’ what?” Martin asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Larry answered evasively. “I was just thinking of those headers that I am going to take to-morrow, that’s all.”

“Well, go to bed and dream about them then,” the old hunter instructed.

CHAPTER VII
THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE FOREST

“My goodness, boy,” the old hunter said the next morning at breakfast, “I do wish you could handle a pair of snow-shoes. We’d start for home to-morrow, if you could. For the crust is perfect, and the weather is settled for a spell I think. But there’s no use starting until we can make good time every hour, so we’ll spend another week letting you learn to use the snow-shoes, and getting the kinks out of your legs.”

Larry made no reply but munched his bacon and biscuit, occasionally handing a bit to Kim who sat near, watching expectantly. As soon as breakfast was finished, Martin brought our two pairs of snow-shoes and strapped one pair to his own feet, instructing Larry to follow his example. Then he showed the boy how to take the swinging, gliding steps, sliding one shoe past the other with the peculiar leg motion that shot the shoe ahead without getting tangled up with its mate.

“Now watch me while I run out to that tree and back, and try to do as I do when you start,” he instructed. And with that he struck out, the two dogs running beside him, barking excitedly, for they seemed to know the significance of snow-shoes, and were eager for a run through the woods.

The tree Martin had indicated was about a hundred yards away, and the old hunter covered the distance at top speed, exhilarated as a boy trying his skates on the first ice of the winter. He did not stop when the tree was reached, but turned sharply to one side so as to circle it. As he did so Larry passed the tree on the other side, running like a veteran, trying to beat him, and bursting with suppressed laughter. “I’ll race you to the top of the hill and back,” the boy shouted exultantly.

But the old man, in his astonishment, bumped into a sapling and came to a full stop.

“Where in the world did you learn to use snow-shoes like that?” he asked, when Larry had swung around to him.

“Oh, in the Adirondacks that winter,” Larry answered, trying to seem as if knowing how to use snow-shoes was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“But why didn’t you say so?” Martin persisted, his face beaming.

“Well, you never asked me,” said Larry. “I came within one of telling you last night, but I just thought I’d save it and surprise you.”

“Well, you sure did surprise me,” the old hunter said; “the very best surprise I have had since I can remember. Why, I woke up half a dozen times last night worrying because we would have to wait so long because you had to learn to use the shoes before we could start. And here you knew how all the time. You can run like an Indian, Larry.”

“Well, I can run pretty good,” Larry admitted modestly. “I beat all the boys in the Christmas races up there last year, and one of them was an Indian boy, at that.”

“I’ll bet you did,” Martin exclaimed with admiration. “Why, I was going at a pretty good clip myself just now, and yet you were at my heels. Face about and back to the tent we go, for now we have a new day’s work before us, and to-morrow we head for home.”

Saying this Martin turned and ran for the camp, Larry doing his best to keep up; but he finished twenty feet behind. It is one thing to beat a crowd of boys on snow-shoes, but quite another to have a competitor who could show his heels to every man in the whole North Country.

And now everything was arranged exactly as if they were making their start in earnest. The sledges were loaded with infinite care, and the dogs harnessed in their places, one dog to each toboggan. Larry was to have Kim under his charge, and to pull in harness with the dog; for Kim was not only the stronger dog of the two, but also the one most easily managed.

Martin had made harnesses for himself and Larry, with broad draw straps over the shoulders and across the chest, so that the weight of the body was thrown into the harness as they bent forward in walking. The old hunter harnessed himself in front of his dog, so as to choose the course, set the pace, and break the trail all at the same time. But he instructed Larry to harness himself next his toboggan and behind Kim.

By this arrangement the old man worked out a shrewdly conceived plan. He knew that Kim would always strive to keep up with the sled just ahead of him, for that is the nature of the malamoot when sledging. This would force the boy to keep up the pace, no matter how tired and leg weary he might be. At the same time it gave Larry the benefit of a thoroughly broken-out trail every step of the way—a thing the boy learned to appreciate within an hour.

Before starting Martin built up a rousing fire to keep the camp kettle boiling, and then with a shout struck out into the forest. At first he went almost in a straight course, and at a pace that made Larry open his eyes in amazement. Was this the speed they would have to keep up hour after hour? Then the old man made wide circles, bending first one way and then the other, until they had been going about an hour and a half. Now he stopped and asked the panting, perspiring Larry, how he would take a short-cut to camp.

“Good gracious, I don’t know!” said the boy.

“Well, I didn’t expect you would,” Martin said quietly; “but I’m going to let you steer us back to it all the same. Take your compass and lead us straight northeast and you’ll land us there. It will be good practice for you. And mind you, keep up the pace.”

Larry now changed places with Kim, taking the lead as Martin had done, got out his compass, and they were off again. The country was fairly open, so that while he was guided by the little instrument, he really steered by landmarks, as Martin had instructed him. Usually the landmark was some tree some distance away that stood exactly in line with the northeast mark indicated by the compass. This tree would then be the boy’s goal until he reached it, when some other mark further on would be selected. In this way the instrument was only brought into use every half mile or so, a much easier method than constantly watching the dial.

The old hunter offered no suggestions about the route, he and Jack simply plodding along in the procession. But Larry, upon whom the brunt of everything had now fallen, had hard work to keep his flagging legs moving along at a rate that would satisfy the members of his rear guard. He was surprised that they did not come across some marks of the trail they had made on the way out even after they had been plodding for a full three-quarters of an hour. This made him apprehensive that Martin was letting him take them out of their course, for some reason of his own. He was astonished, therefore, suddenly to come in sight of their camp dead ahead, and not over a quarter of a mile away. The compass had given him a short-cut from Martin’s purposely bending course.

As soon as the dogs sighted the camp they began barking wildly and tugging at the traces in their eagerness to reach it; and Larry, whose legs were flagging sadly, felt all weariness disappear in the excitement of finishing the run. So, shouting and laughing, with both dogs leaping and barking, the two teams raced into camp neck and neck.

They rested a few minutes, and then began making final preparations for an early start the next day. They visited the yacht and found that she was packed thick in a huge bank of ice that had formed upon her, and been banked about her by the waves, so that she was practically frozen in for the winter. Then they strengthened all the fastenings of the canvas under which the provisions and supplies were stored, and Martin cut several strips of canvas and tied them with short pieces of rope to trees a few feet away and all about the heap, where they would blow about in the wind and frighten any inquisitive prowlers, particularly foxes.

“But what is the use of going to all that trouble, Martin?” Larry asked. “We will never come back to this place, and probably no one else will come here, so all this work is for nothing it seems to me.”

The old hunter smiled and shook his head. “That’s the way I should have talked at your age,” he said. “But I have learned that many things in this world turn out very differently from what we expect, and so I always plan for the very worst that can possibly happen. And it will be a comfort for me to know that there is a big cache of supplies waiting here in case we have to come back, although I haven’t the faintest idea of doing so.”

When the canvasses had been secured to Martin’s satisfaction he made the fastenings all about their camp secure in the same way. For he had decided not to take their present tent with them, but in its place a smaller one, made with a stout canvas bottom sewed fast to the rest of the tent, so that the whole thing resembled a huge bag. There were several advantages in this arrangement. It provided a dry, clean floor, kept the wind from creeping in, and obviated the likelihood of losing small articles at the camp site that might otherwise be overlooked and left behind on breaking camp. Moreover, it insured the tent not being blown from over their heads in a gale should the fastenings give way—a very important thing when passing through a barren, windswept country.

Then they made a final inspection of the toboggan loads, unpacking them and re-packing them carefully, Martin enjoining the boy to memorize every article and where it could be found on each sledge. This would save them much useless hunting, and overhauling, and disarranging of the loads. And so when night came they were all ready for the early start the next morning.

At daylight they were off on their race for life—just how grim and serious an undertaking Larry was to learn before the day was over. For now it was plod, plod, plod, Martin setting the pace and breaking the trail, keeping up an even swing forward regardless of obstacles. Long before midday Larry realized the magnitude of their undertaking; for Martin allowed no pause, no resting to catch up lost breath. It was on, and on, every step ahead being counted precious gain through the unknown stretch of wilderness.

At noon they stopped, the dogs dropping in their tracks, and Larry stretched his aching legs on his load while Martin boiled a pot of tea and heated up their lunch. But in half an hour they were back in the harness again, trudging on silently. Even the dogs seemed to realize that they must do their utmost, straining at the traces all the time, with noses pointed straight ahead, but wasting no energy in useless looking about at interesting objects along the trail as they had always done on their previous journeys.

By the middle of the afternoon even the dogs showed signs of fatigue, as the loads were heavy, and despite every effort he could make, Martin’s speed was gradually slackening. By this time Kim was obliged to haul his load practically without aid from Larry, whose legs were tottering. Yet the boy pushed his feet ahead mechanically, watching the slowly descending sun, and hoping the old hunter would soon decide to stop for the night. But it was not until just before sunset that the old man halted and selected a place for their camp.

His first provision for the night was to help Larry set up the tent; then he took his snares and went off into the woods to set them, instructing Larry to get in a good supply of wood and a big heap of boughs for their bed. “We can cook and eat after dark, you know,” he said, “but these other things have to be done in daylight.”

Fortunately for the boy boughs and wood were close at hand, for he was fagged and exhausted beyond expression. He knew what Martin had said to him about “getting accustomed to it in a few days” was probably true, and this helped him keep up his courage; but there is a limit to muscular endurance even when backed by the highest quality of will-power. He managed to collect the wood and the boughs, however, by the time Martin returned, and the old man found him lying on the heap of boughs, sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.

The six days following were practically repetitions of the first—a ceaseless grind of hard work through the timber. Martin, although a tough and seasoned veteran, began to show the effects of the strain, while Larry had become an automaton, who performed the three functions of working, eating, and sleeping mechanically. There were no talks beside the camp-fire now before turning in, neither man nor boy having enough surplus energy left at the end of the day to indulge in more conversation than was absolutely necessary. Both had settled down to their grim work, more and more of which Martin had taken upon himself as they proceeded; and every day the boy had reason to be thankful to the tough old woodsman for little acts of kindness and thoughtfulness. But his efforts left the old man too tired for useless conversation even if Larry had cared to listen.

At noon on the seventh day the woods thinned out into scraggly trees, and an hour later the travelers emerged upon a flat, and apparently treeless plain. Here Martin called a halt and left Larry and the dogs while he took observations. In a few minutes he returned, but instead of fastening on his harness he sat down beside Larry on the sled.

“It isn’t as bad as it might be,” he said, “but it is bad enough, at that. I can make out the outline of the fringe of trees on the other side from the top of a big rock over yonder, and I think it is only ten miles over to them. But I’m not sure, for distances are deceptive in this country. So we’ll camp here now and get an early start in the morning.”

Then he added, with a grim smile, “I guess you won’t mind the six hours’ extra rest.”

They made their camp accordingly in a clump of trees, and Larry and the dogs slept and rested, while the old hunter arranged for the next day’s run. This consisted in rearranging the loads, examining and mending harnesses and sled lashings, besides performing Larry’s usual task of gathering wood and boughs, not rousing the tired boy until a hot supper was ready. And when Larry had gorged himself, Martin sent him back to his sleeping bag to get more rest without waiting to help about cleaning up the supper pans and pots.

CHAPTER VIII
THE BLIZZARD

Even after the dogs were harnessed and ready to start the following morning Martin hesitated.

“There’s a storm brewing,” he said. “The moon and the stars showed it last night, and I can feel it in the air this morning. But we may be able to get across before it strikes us, and I suppose we’ve got to chance it.”

To Larry the old hunter’s apprehensions seemed absurd. The sun was glaring brightly over the tree tops, and across the glistening crust of the open plain the trees on the other side could be seen as a low gray line, apparently close at hand. Surely those trees would be reached before any storm settled over this clear day.

The hauling was much easier, too, on the smooth, level crust, so different from the rough woodlands. Indeed, Larry’s toboggan seemed to move so lightly that the boy stopped and examined his load after he had been traveling a few minutes. He found, to his surprise, that fully half his load had been transferred to Martin’s toboggan. The discovery made his heart go out anew to the old man now rushing ahead in feverish haste over the crust, and he put every ounce of strength into keeping up the pace.

At the end of two hours the gray line ahead had become broad and well-defined, while the line of trees behind them had dwindled to a low gray streak on the horizon. But meanwhile the sun had turned to a dull red ball and the wind had shifted into their faces. It took no practiced eye now to see that a storm was approaching. But no one unfamiliar with an arctic blizzard could conceive the fury of such a storm as the one that broke half an hour later.

Squarely in their faces the wind struck them with such force that even the dogs turned instinctively to avoid it, and to shield themselves from the cutting, sand-like snow that was driven before it. The temperature, too, dropped with inconceivable rapidity, and the cold penetrated Larry’s thick clothing so that his skin tingled despite the fact that he was exerting himself to the utmost, and a moment before had been hot from his efforts. He closed his eyes for a moment to shield them, and instantly the lashes were frozen together. Unable to proceed he turned his back to the blast to rub them open, and when he succeeded in doing so he found that Martin’s sledge was completely blotted out by the storm, so that he was not sure even of its location.

In a panic he realized the seriousness of his situation and rushed forward in a frenzied effort to overtake his leader, shouting as he struggled with the load. But his voice scarcely carried to the struggling Kim, being drowned in the howl of the storm. He still had enough command of his senses to remember that the wind was blowing from dead ahead. But now, for some reason he did not understand, Kim refused to face the blast squarely, but persisted obstinately in turning almost at right angles to the left. In vain Larry shouted, and kicked at the dog in desperation with his snow-shoe, but the wind caught the clumsy framework, tripping the boy face downward into the icy snow which cut and bruised his face.

Choking and gasping for breath he struggled to his feet again now forcing his way forward blindly in the vague hope of stumbling upon the elusive Martin. He was numb with the cold and exhausted by his violent efforts; and while he strove to face the blast, he found himself turning instinctively from it, while Kim, with seeming perversity strained at the traces, first in one direction and then another.

For a few minutes this struggle continued, and then a feeling of irresistible drowsiness came over the boy. Standing with his back to the wind he no longer felt the keen bite of the cold; and as he was able to accomplish nothing by trying to go forward, he crouched down behind the toboggan, mindful of Martin’s oft-repeated instructions to keep moving to avoid freezing, but too much overcome to heed it.

Meanwhile the old hunter was in a far more distressed state of mind. When the storm struck he had turned and shouted to Larry to keep close to the tail of his toboggan, meanwhile fumbling to get his compass from his pocket, for he knew that only the needle could hold him to his course. It was just at this time that Larry’s lashes had frozen together, and he had stopped to rub them open, so that he did not overtake Martin’s sledge as the old man expected. And when the old hunter looked up from fumbling with the compass a moment later, the storm had blotted out the boy completely.

Instantly the old man brought his dog about to return to the other sled, which was at most thirty yards away; but the heavy load, clogged by the snow, moved slowly, and by the time he reached what he felt sure must be the spot where Larry had stood the boy had vanished. He was indeed only a few feet away, struggling desperately with Kim who instinctively was striving to reach the other toboggan; but in that storm an object thirty feet away was as completely blotted out as if the interval had been miles instead of feet.

Martin knew that in a very short time the boy, struggling aimlessly in the storm, would be overcome and frozen, and he realized that his chance of finding him was desperate, as he could neither hear nor see anything two yards ahead. His only hope lay in the sagacity of the dog. So without a moment’s hesitation at the terrible risk he was taking he cut the traces freeing the dog from his sled, and, leaving the load of precious supplies standing where it was, sent the animal ahead, holding the leash to restrain it. Guided by the compass he began walking in narrowing circles, trusting to the dog to find its mate should they pass near it. If he succeeded he could weather the storm by the aid of the supplies on the boy’s toboggan. If he failed?—well, the storm would shorten the end mercifully; and the boy would have gone on before him.

For half an hour he fought his circular course through the storm, Jack plodding ahead, crouched down to resist the blast. Then the animal suddenly straightened up on its legs, and plunged off to one side barking excitedly, and jerking Martin after him. A few short leaps brought them to where Larry lay curled down behind the toboggan.

Kim, who had been curled up beside the boy, sprang up to meet his mate, jerking Larry about in his excitement, as they were still fastened together in harness. But even this violent shaking only roused the boy for a moment, who dropped back into a doze immediately.

The situation confronting Martin was desperate. Larry was rapidly freezing, and as the nearest shelter of the woods was several miles away, it was useless to attempt to reach it. The only alternative was to try to make such shelter as he could with the supplies on Larry’s sled. Fortunately in distributing the packs the day before he had put the tent on Larry’s toboggan, and now he conceived a plan for using it, although it would be sheer madness to attempt to pitch it in a gale that almost blew the dogs off their feet at times.

First of all he pulled out Larry’s fur sleeping bag and, crouching behind the load, managed to get the stupified boy into it, twisting the top of the bag over his head so that the boy’s own breath would help warm him. Then he took out the tent, standing with his back to the blast and with the toboggan load in front of him, he gradually worked it over one end of the load and under the sled.

It will be remembered that this tent was made with the floor cloth sewn firmly to the side walls so that it was in effect a great bag. Martin worked the opening of this bag around the sled, fighting fiercely against the gale, and then forced the sled into the bottom, turning it at right angles to the wind. In this way he formed a barrier on the inside of the low tent. Then he pushed Larry in his sleeping bag inside, and he and the dogs crawled in and huddled together. Next he gathered together the loose edges of the opening of the tent and tied them with the guy ropes, thus shutting out the storm on every side and amply protected on the side where the wind was fiercest by the loaded sled.

The old hunter, accustomed to severe cold, and heated by his exertions, was warm and comfortable for the moment, at least, in this nest; and the dogs found their lodgings so agreeable that they licked the snow from between their toes, and soon curled up for a nap. But Larry still remained motionless, and when Martin felt inside the bag he found his face cold. Evidently the little warmth left in the boy’s body was not sufficient to warm him back to life, even in the sleepng bag.

Closing the bag again to retain what warmth there was inside, Martin ripped open the lacings of the sled, and fumbling about found Larry’s tin cup, a tin plate, and the little box containing the cubes of “solid alcohol.” Placing one of these on the bottom of an overturned tin plate the old hunter struck a match and lighted it, keeping the dish between his outspread knees to prevent the dogs knocking against it, and using his rifle as a tent pole to raise the canvas as high as possible. It was a hazardous thing to do, as they were all crowded into a space so small there was scarcely room for all of them to curl up together, to say nothing of space for starting a fire. But Larry’s case was desperate: Martin must find some way of warming him. And even a very tiny flame in that closely packed space would soon do this.

As the little blue flame grew larger and flickered upwards, the dogs instinctively drew away from it, crowding close to the tent walls, in this way leaving Martin a little more elbow room. It also gave him an opportunity carefully to work loose part of the fastening so as to make an opening a few inches long on the leeward side of the tent for ventilation. For as the tent cloth was practically air tight the flame and the breath from four pairs of lungs quickly made the atmosphere stifling. But Martin did not wait for this warmth alone to start up the boy’s flagging circulation. He scooped a tin cup full of snow, reaching through the ventilating slit, and holding this over the flame, melted and warmed it.

Each little cube was supposed to burn for ten minutes, and give out an amount of heat entirely disproportionate to its size. But the first cube had burned itself out and a second one was half consumed before Martin secured half a cup of steaming hot water. Meanwhile Larry had not roused, although his face was warmer and he was breathing more naturally. A few sips of the hot water forced between his lips, however, roused him quickly; and by the time he had swallowed the contents of the cup the color had come back to his cheeks.

The hot water warmed his tingling body like magic, and by the time the third cube was burned out his cheeks were pink and even the tips of his fingers warm. But Martin was not satisfied with this. He dug out some lumps of pemmican, heated them in the flame, and fed him the bits as they became warm, occasionally taking a mouthful himself, and giving some to the dogs as a reward for good behavior. By the time the last cube had burned itself out they had all made a hearty meal, and Larry was feeling like himself again, warm and comfortable in the fur bag.

But now Martin found himself in a dilemma. His own sleeping bag was somewhere on his sled lost in the blizzard; and while his clothing was warm, he soon realized that it would not be enough protection to keep him from freezing in a few hours, now that the cubes were all gone. There was only one thing to be done: he must wedge himself in beside the boy and share his warm bag until the storm subsided. Luckily for him the bag was a full-sized one like his own. So that by dint of much wriggling and squeezing he managed to crawl in beside the boy and pull the folds over his head, although it was such a tight fit that neither of them could move when it was finally accomplished.

They were warm, however, and other discomforts were a minor consideration. And in a few moments all hands were sleeping soundly while the storm raged about their little tent. All the rest of that day and well into the night it roared incessantly. Then gradually it began to abate in fury, and finally “blew itself out” as Martin said. By sunrise there was scarcely a breath of air stirring, but everything creaked and sparkled in the cold.

Getting out of the bag proved to be almost as hard a task as getting into it, but the old hunter finally worked his arms free and then crawled out, pulling the boy after him. Both were stiff and lame from lying in the cramped position, but they were soon limbered up by dancing about to keep warm while they gnawed at the frozen pemmican and packed the sled.

Fortunately the fury of the wind had swept the plain clear of new snow as fast as it had fallen on the glassy crust, so that the few elevations on its surface were easily seen. One of these a quarter of a mile away proved to be Martin’s sled, clear of snow on the windward side, with a long pointed bank slanting off to leeward. So that in half an hour’s time they had recovered it, harnessed the dogs, and were making their way as quickly as possible to the edge of the woods for which they were aiming the day before.

The distance proved to be short—only a scant three miles. But Larry was still weak, and was tottering and almost exhausted when they finally wallowed through the snowbanks at the edge of the great spruce forest. He had said nothing to Martin of his weakness, but the old man had been watching him out of the corner of his eye and was well aware of his condition.

As soon as they reached an open space among the trees, therefore, Martin stopped and made a roaring fire, while Larry sat on his sled and rested, watching the old man brewing tea and cooking a hot meal. His legs ached and his head swam a little, although he was beginning to feel more like his old self by the time their breakfast was over. But the thought of the weary hours of toil through the woods was almost intolerable; and he was ready to cry for joy when Martin announced that he “was going to look around for a camp,” leaving the boy to toast his shins by the fire. “And I may find something to shoot while I’m looking,” the old hunter added as he started on his search.

In half an hour Martin returned fairly beaming at his success. He had found no game, but he had stumbled upon a camping place which he announced was “the best in all Canada.” “And these woods are full of game, too,” he added.

The camping place which Martin had discovered was indeed an ideal, as well as a very unusual one. It was a natural excavation under the south side of an overhanging ledge of rock which was so protected from the wind that only a thin layer of snow covered its rock floor. A roaring fire built at the entrance warmed the hollowed out space like a great room, and Larry found that the old hunter had started such a fire and left it to warm things up while he returned for the toboggans. It seemed a sylvan paradise to the exhausted boy.

The hunter watched the boy slyly as they stood in the warm glow by the fire. “Perhaps you’d rather go on than to stop here over to-morrow,” he suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

For answer the boy threw off his heavy coat, went over to his toboggan, and began unfastening Kim and unpacking his load. And Martin with a little laugh followed his example.

“You’ll stay and keep house to-morrow,” he explained as he worked, “while I go out and have a try at some of this fresh meat that is running loose around here. We need a supply to take the place of what we’ve eaten in the last week, and I never saw a likelier place for getting it, judging by the signs.”

All the afternoon the tireless old man worked laying in a supply of fuel and making things snug, not allowing the boy to help, but making him “tend camp” lying on a pile of warm furs beside the fire.

CHAPTER IX
THE TIMBER WOLVES

Early the next morning Martin roused Larry for breakfast. The old man had been up an hour and was ready to start on his hunt as soon as breakfast was finished, but he had let the boy sleep as long as possible. While they ate Martin gave Larry final instructions as to what he was to do during the day.

“Rest all you can,” he instructed, “and don’t go far from camp under any circumstances. Don’t let the dogs loose even for a minute. It isn’t likely that they would wander off, but they might get started after a rabbit and wind up chasing caribou or fighting wolves. Anyhow don’t give them a chance.”

At the mention of wolves the boy looked anxious. “What if the wolves came near here—came right up to the camp and wanted to fight Jack and Kim?” he asked.

The old man pointed to the little rifle standing against the wall. “Give ’em the thirty-eight,” he said. “But they won’t come very near,” he added. “They’ll be howling around in the distance of course, because they will scent our cooking. But at worst they wouldn’t dare come near until night; and I’ll be here by that time. And always remember this: a wolf is a coward; and your thirty-eight will knock dead in his tracks the biggest wolf that ever lived. Just keep the little gun strapped on you all day and you won’t be afraid or feel lonesome. Next to a man a gun is the most comforting companion in the world.”

Larry followed Martin’s instructions almost to the letter. He strapped on the gun and loafed about the camp-fire all the long forenoon, varying the monotony by patting and talking to the dogs, who lolled luxuriously beside the fire where Martin had tied them with double leashes. By noon the period of idleness palled on the boy who had entirely recovered from the exhaustion of the day before. So he took his axe and spent a couple of hours gathering fuel although Martin’s huge pile was still more than sufficient for another day.

At intervals he heard wolves howling at a distance, but that had now become a familiar sound, and he paid little attention to it. When the sun was only an hour high he began getting supper ready, keeping a sharp lookout for Martin who might appear at any minute. He had planned an unusually elaborate meal to surprise and cheer the old man when he returned, and he was so occupied with the work that he was oblivious to everything else, until the dogs startled him by springing up, bristling and snarling fiercely. Thinking that they had scented or sighted the returning hunter Larry ran out to look for him, shouting a welcome. But there was no sign of the old man.

In dismay he noticed that the sun was just setting, and on looking through the trees in the direction indicated by the dogs’ attitude he saw the silhouettes of four huge, gaunt wolves skulking among the trees. The odor of his elaborate cooking had reached them, and as night was coming on they were emboldened to approach.

The sight of the great creatures snarling and snapping in the gloomy shadows made the “goose flesh” rise on the boy’s skin. And while the presence of the dogs was a comfort, their attitude was not reassuring. They pulled and strained at their leashes, bristling and growling, but sometimes whining as if realizing that in a pitched battle they would be no match for the four invaders.

The realization that he was utterly alone in the great wilderness with darkness at hand, and a pack of wolves howling at his open door made the boy chill with terror. Instinctively he sought shelter behind the fire near the dogs, who welcomed him with appreciative whines. They looked upon him as a protector, and their faith helped his courage. Martin’s instruction to “give ’em the thirty-eight” also cheered him, and he took out the little gun and prepared for battle.

“Every wolf is a coward,” the old hunter had said; but these wolves were not acting like cowards at all. They did not rush forward boldly, it was true, but they were stealthily drawing nearer, snarling and bristling. They would stand pawing and sniffing the snow for a few moments as if the object of their visit was entirely forgotten. Then one of them would suddenly spring forward two or three short steps, and the whole crew would stand snapping their jaws and glaring savagely at the camp. In this way they were deliberately closing in upon it.

This method of approaching by short rushes was most disconcerting and terrifying, and several times Larry decided to open fire without waiting for the wolves to emerge from the shelter of the trees. But each time his better judgment restrained him.

When they had approached to within the circle of the nearest trees, however, he decided to act. Holding some cartridges in his left hand for quick loading, as Martin had taught him, he knelt beside the fire, rested his elbow on his knee, and tried to take careful aim. But his hand trembled, and his heart pounded so hard, that the sights of his rifle bobbed all about the mark he had selected. The more he tried to steady the rifle the more it seemed to waver and dance about, so that he knew it would be useless to fire.

At that moment the story of Weewah, the Indian boy, flashed into his mind—the little savage who fought with a hatchet, while he, the white boy, had his hard-hitting rifle and plenty of cartridges. He lowered the gun for a moment, and steadied himself with a few deep breaths, shutting his eyes and summoning all his courage. When he opened them he found that his hand was steadier and the pounding in his breast had almost ceased.

Meanwhile the wolves had spread out forming a restless semicircle before the camp. There were three gray ones, and one huge fellow almost pure white. Larry selected this white one for his first victim. Resting his elbow again on his knee he took careful aim, waiting for the restless wolf to pause for an instant. The moment the huge animal stopped to snarl fiercely at the camp, Larry pressed the trigger and fired.

At the sound of the report three of the wolves gave a startled leap sidewise, and then crouched forward again as they recovered from their surprise. But the white wolf sank in the snow where it stood, and lay still: the little bullet had “knocked him dead in his tracks” sure enough. With a gulp of exultation Larry slipped in a fresh cartridge and aimed carefully at a wolf that was a little in advance of the other two. Again his aim was true; but this wolf did not drop silently as had the white one. Instead he gave a howl of pain and rolled in the snow, turning it red all about him in his death struggles.

The other two wolves had leaped back at the flash and sound of the rifle as before. But at the sight and smell of their companion’s blood they rushed upon him, tearing and gashing him in their lust, and sucking his blood ravenously. Jack and Kim, made frantic by the struggle, added their furious but impotent howls to the uproar in their frenzied efforts to free themselves. While Larry, forgetful of personal danger in the excitement, sprang up and approached the struggling group, meanwhile inserting a fresh cartridge, and despatched the third wolf as he crouched wallowing in his companion’s blood.

The remaining wolf had paid no attention to the report that struck down his mate; but now as the boy paused to take careful aim, the huge creature, maddened by the taste of blood, turned suddenly and rushed upon him. There was no time to retreat, even if Larry had wished to do so. But he had no such intention, for the hot blood of fighting ancestors was now surging through his veins. With the coolness of a veteran the boy aimed and fired just as the gray monster shot through the air in his final spring toward him. The next instant his coat sleeve was ripped open clean to the shoulder by the furious snap of the animal’s jaws, and he was knocked headlong by the impact of the creature’s body.

Fortunately for him his bullet had found its mark, breaking the wolf’s back just as the animal leaped from the ground, and thus diverting the aim of its deadly jaws, while the force of its spring knocked Larry out of the wounded creature’s reach. Its hind legs were paralyzed and useless, but its jaws snapped viciously as it struggled to reach its foe on its fore legs.

The boy was up in an instant, maddened by his fall, and full of fight. Without trying to recover his gun which had fallen several feet away, he rushed to the pile of fire-wood, seized a heavy club, and brought it down again and again on the head of the crippled beast, until he had pounded out the last spark of life. Then, when it was all over, he stood trembling and weak, overcome by his efforts and the excitement.

A moment later he ran to the dogs and, regardless of Martin’s orders, turned them loose. He wanted them to share his victory, and stood laughing and gulping hysterically as he watched them rush upon the lifeless victims, and tear and maul them with wolfish ferocity. It was no fault of theirs that they had not shared the fight, and they vented their animosity by rushing from one victim to another, jerking the limp carcasses about, and shaking them like rats.

Meanwhile it had grown dark; and still no sign of Martin. For a little time after the battle Larry had stood forgetful of the old man’s absence, reveling in the thought of the story he should have to tell. But presently he realized the seriousness of his position. He no longer feared for his own safety: he and his little gun could “tend camp” against all comers he felt sure. But what was keeping Martin away so long?

He consoled himself with the thought that probably the old man had followed some game trail farther than he intended and was unable to get back before nightfall. So when the dogs had tired themselves out worrying the dead wolves, Larry tied them up and ate his cheerless supper. This revived his spirits a little, and he put into effect a plan he had made for surprising Martin. For this purpose he dragged the carcasses of the wolves together and covered them with boughs so that the old man would not notice them when he returned. At the right time the boy would tell his story and revel in Martin’s astonishment.

Then he built up a roaring fire, crawled into his sleeping bag and tried to sleep. But after two hours of restless tossing about, his mind filled with gloomy forebodings, he got up and seated himself beside the fire for his long vigil.

It was a terrible night for the boy. The thought that Martin might have been injured, or even killed, kept obtruding itself, and he shuddered at the awful consequences of such a calamity. He reassured himself over and over by the more probable explanation that the old man had gone farther from camp than he intended. But the other possibility could not be banished from his thoughts. And so he sat before his roaring fire, a big dog snuggling against him on either side, comforting his loneliness.

CHAPTER X
THE WOUNDED MOOSE

In this way he passed the long, terrible hours of the night. But as soon as it began to grow light he untied the dogs, and took a circle of several miles through the woods, hoping that he might find some trace of the missing hunter. But he remembered the old man’s instruction that he was not to leave the camp to go any very great distance, and after two hours of futile search he returned in despair.

The dogs, seeming to realize that something was wrong, were alert to every unusual sound; and when Larry would spring up and peer through the trees expectantly, they would leap about and bark excitedly. But the sun rose higher and higher, and still Martin did not come.

At last the boy could stand the suspense no longer. In defiance of Martin’s explicit instructions he decided to leave the camp and try to find him. The thought that the old man must have been injured, or taken ill, kept forcing itself into the boy’s mind. An experienced hunter like Martin would not lose his way; and moreover, if he should become confused, he would still have his own trail to follow back to camp; for this trail was well marked in the snow. In any event, Larry could not remain inactive any longer with these terrible fears tearing at his heart.

So he harnessed the dogs tandem to one of the empty toboggans, strapped on his snow-shoes, and started out following Martin’s trail of the day before. At first he took the lead, running at top speed; but presently he found that, since the trail had been broken out by Martin, he could make better time by letting the dogs haul him on the toboggan. His weight was so much less than the load they were accustomed to haul that now they ran along the trail at high speed, following Martin’s tracks without any guiding instructions.

For two hours they went forward, Kim leading, his nose close to the snow, and both dogs keenly alert. The tracks wound in and out among the thickets, indicating where Martin had explored likely looking places for game, but their general direction was toward the southwest, the course the old hunter had said he should take. Once the snow-shoe trail had followed the track of a deer for half a mile; but evidently the animal was not overtaken, for presently they found where Martin turned off into his original course again.

By noon the dogs had begun to slacken their pace a little, and Larry, thoroughly discouraged, had decided that he would retrace his course, when they reached the crest of a low hill a short distance ahead, which seemed to command a view of the country for some distance around. If nothing could be seen of Martin from this hill, he would face about and return to camp; and more than likely he should find the old man there waiting for him. Hardly had he reached this decision, however, when Kim stopped so suddenly that Jack and the toboggan bumped into him, and stood with bristling hair and stiffened muscles for a moment, and then made a frantic leap forward, snarling and barking.

At the same time Jack seemed to have discovered the cause of his mate’s excitement, and it was only by twisting the sled rope about a sapling that Larry prevented them from dashing madly off into the woods. Yet he was unable to discover the cause of their actions, although he peered intently through the trees in all directions. But whatever the cause, he knew that they had scented something quite out of the ordinary; and as a precaution he drew the little rifle from its case and made sure that the firing-pin was set for the heavy cartridge.

Then he took a firm grip on Kim’s collar, putting all his weight against the dog’s strength, and advanced cautiously through the trees toward the top of the hill.

The crest of this hill had been cleared of large timber years before by a forest fire, and there was an open space for several hundred yards beyond. When Larry reached this cleared space he saw a sight that made his heart leap into his throat and his hair seem to lift his cap. His hand trembled so violently that he came near dropping his rifle, and his breathing ceased altogether for a moment.

For at the opposite side of the clearing stood a huge animal, tall and gaunt, its thick neck supporting a head like a great black barrel crowned with a pair of thickly pointed horns that seemed as long as the toboggan from tip to tip. The great creature stood facing him, the long, coarse hair about its head and neck standing out straight, its fore legs wide apart, its hind legs slightly bent ready for a spring forward. All about it for a space of several yards the snow was trampled into a hard bed and blotched with blood.

In the center of this trampled space was a huge boulder, and just beside it a sapling perhaps six inches in diameter. Perched on the top of the boulder and only a few inches out of reach of the great antlers, old Martin lay huddled. Or, to be more exact, what appeared to be a bundle of Martin’s clothes that looked as if they might have been hurled there by the infuriated animal. The mystery of the old man’s failure to return to camp was explained.

At the sight of the huge animal so close at hand the dogs became absolutely frantic; and knowing that it would be folly to try to control them further, and wishing to give them every possible advantage in the fight that was now inevitable, the boy slipped the harness from each.

As the dogs bounded toward the wounded animal, the moose sprang forward to meet them, snorting fiercely; but in doing this the heavy creature put itself at once at a disadvantage. For its hoofs broke through the crust at every step, while the dogs kept their footing on the surface, darting in and out, snapping fiercely at legs and flank.

The noise of this battle roused Martin from the stupor into which he had fallen, so that he raised his head, and then gradually dragged himself into a sitting posture. Then, as he recognized the dogs, and saw Larry hurrying forward, new life thrilled the old man, and he began waving his hand and shouting feebly to the boy.

At first his voice was so low that the boy could not hear it above the din; but as he approached the rock, waiting for a favoring moment to place his one shot in some vital spot, he could make out some of Martin’s instructions shouted through his trumpeted hands.

“Steady, boy, steady!” the old man shouted. “Wait till he turns his head, and shoot between the eyes! Not now—wait till he turns—not yet—!”

Just then the moose, frantic with pain and anger, caught sight of the boy approaching him. At this discovery the huge animal seemed to forget the dogs, and wheeling, made straight for Larry, head down, bristles standing, and bloody foam blowing from its nose and mouth.

“Shoot! Shoot! For God’s sake shoot, Larry!” the old man screamed, half rising, and then toppling back upon the rock.

But Larry needed no instructions. He had proved himself and his weapon only yesterday, and he had the courage born of experience. The first terror inspired by the huge animal had passed, and now he stood with his feet braced wide apart on his snow-shoes, the rifle at his shoulder and his eye fixed on the little bead of the front sight as the huge animal plunged toward him. Kim and Jack, realizing the impending danger to their master, buried their teeth in the moose’s flanks on either side and hung on grimly causing the animal to pause momentarily. This was Larry’s chance. There was a flash and report, and the big animal, rearing upwards and sinking on its hind legs, plunged sidelong into the snow and lay still. The heavy steel-jacketed bullet had crashed into its brain, killing it instantly.

Before the huge head fairly reached the ground both dogs were at the animal’s throat, tearing and mangling, mad with the lust of battle. Larry, reacting from the tense excitement, felt his knees sag under him as he realized the result of the shot. But even this did not make him forget to load his gun again instantly—a thing that becomes automatic with the hunter—and approach the beast cautiously, ready for another shot. But the dogs, with fangs buried in the creature’s throat, gloating in the hot blood, bore silent witness that more shots were unnecessary.

Then Larry’s pent-up emotions found expression in a wild shout as he rushed to where old Martin lay.

But his feeling changed to dread apprehension when he reached the base of the rock, saw where the blood had trickled down over the side, and found that the old man had fallen back unconscious. Perhaps his triumph had come too late after all! In an instant he had kicked off his snow-shoes, climbed the sapling that rose beside the rock, and was kneeling over the still, crumpled figure, his warm hands caressing the white cheeks, his voice choked with emotion.

His warm touch revived the hunter, who opened his eyes slowly, and then smiled faintly up at the boy.

“I’ll be all right in a minute,” the old fellow whispered; “get me off this rock and build a fire, quick. I’m frozen.”

But getting the injured hunter off the rocks without hurting him proved a difficult task. The sides were almost perpendicular, and Martin too weak to help himself at all. So, after several futile attempts, Larry was obliged to get the harnesses from the toboggan, fasten the draw strap under the hunter’s arms, and in this manner lower him over the side. Then the boy quickly gathered some sticks and made a hot fire.

During most of this time Martin remained inanimate, but he revived again when Larry had dragged him near the fire; and now he asked faintly for water. A few gulps of the melted snow water from Larry’s cup revived him perceptibly, and meanwhile the boy was chafing his cold hands, and had removed his moccasins and drawn his feet close to the fire.

Presently Martin asked feebly for food; but Larry shook his head. For once he had forgotten one of the old man’s reiterated instructions—that he should never go anywhere from camp without taking at least one ration with him. When he started out he had only expected to be gone a few hours, and in his perturbation he had forgotten to take anything to eat.

But the old hunter’s wits had not completely failed him.

“The moose,” he said faintly.

And then the boy remembered that a month’s supply of food, upon which the dogs were still feasting, was lying only a few feet away. So in a few minutes he had a huge slice of moose steak suspended on a stick over the fire, from which he cut off thin strips and fed to the ravenous hunter.

During this process he had time to observe the nature of Martin’s injury, although he was not quite sure of its exact location, as the hunter’s clothes were rent and blood-stained in many places.

“It’s my left leg,” Martin said, interpreting the boy’s anxious expression. “It’s all ripped to pieces. But it was the cold that was killing me. Now I’m getting warm and feeling stronger every minute. In another half hour I’ll be ready to take a ride home with you while the sun is high.”

By the time the steak was consumed Martin was sitting up, taking sips of hot water out of the tin cup from time to time. Every movement caused him great pain, but he strove stoically to conceal this from the boy.

“Harness up the dogs,” he said presently, “pack me into the toboggan, and let’s start for camp. We haven’t any time to lose, for it gets cold on a sled when the sun goes down.”

So Larry called the dogs, who were loth to leave their feast, packed the old man into the bag on the toboggan so that only his head showed above the flaps, and started.

Several times he had tried to get the old hunter to tell him how it had all happened; but Martin put him off, assuring him that there would be plenty of time for talking when they were back in camp again.

Once the start was made there was no chance for talking, all Larry’s energies being required to keep the now lazy dogs up to their usual speed. And now he realized the wisdom of not feeding them until their day’s work was done, as was Martin’s inflexible rule. He was kept busy steering the toboggan around rough places that would jar his passenger, as the old man’s excruciating pain was accentuated by every additional shock. Yet Martin would not consider stopping, or even slackening the pace; and as the dogs warmed to their work after the first few miles they were able to make the camp just as the sun was setting, all hands ready to drop from exhaustion.

They found Larry’s big fire still burning, and in a few minutes he had warmed up the remains of the feast he had planned for the night before. Then, when he had wrapped up the injured leg, and propped the old hunter in a comfortable position before the fire, Martin was ready to tell his story.

“Don’t you mind now, and look scared whenever I screw up my face,” the old man began; “for the pain shoots around pretty bad at times. But I’ll stand it all right, and I’ll kill many a bull moose to pay for it, too.”

Then he chuckled softly in the old familiar manner.

“What makes me laugh,” he said, “is to think that all this time I have been letting you think that I am something of a hunter, trying to show you how to kill game; and here you go out and kill the moose that came mighty near killing me. This is how it all happened:

“I came across signs of game after I had left the camp about an hour, and the signs were good too; but still I didn’t get sight of anything, and I kept going right on until well after noon. So I decided to turn about and take the back track home, feeling sure that I should have better luck on the way in. Sure enough, when I came near the place where you found me, I found where a moose had floundered along through the snow, probably scared from some yard by my scent as I passed. He was standing near the big rock and as the wind was blowing toward me, he hadn’t discovered me.

“So I worked around to get the rock between us, and then I sneaked up so as to get a close shot and make sure of him. I ought to have tried a longer shot at him, but you see the .38-40 is a pretty small cartridge for moose except at close range, and I intended to get him, sure.

“I sneaked along until I was right behind the rock, and then I stepped out and shot point blank for his head. But just at the very second I pulled the trigger the old rascal had to jerk his head about six inches to one side, so that the bullet ploughed deep into his neck, just where it would hurt and make him mad, but nothing more.

“And then all the trouble happened in about three seconds. I jerked down the lever to throw in another cartridge, for he was coming right at me. But Jumping Jee-rusalem! if the old gun didn’t jam. The head of the empty shell had broken off and stuck in the chamber! I didn’t have any time for investigating, for the bull was right on top of me, so I just jumped for the side of that rock. Nothing but a fly could have gone up it—without help; and I knew that then as well as I do now. But I hadn’t any choice. And the curious thing is that the old moose himself furnished the help.

“He was so close to me when I jumped that one of his points caught my leg and ripped it open as he went along; but at the same time he flung his head up and threw me clean up the side of the rock. So by the time he could stop and turn around I was up out of his reach. But I was his meat, all the same. All he had to do was to sit down and wait long enough and I’d freeze or starve to death.

“He had no notion of waiting, though,—that is, not at first. He planned to come right up there and finish the job. But you see he didn’t have any friend around to hook him in the leg and give him a boost as I had, so he couldn’t make it. He tried for a full hour, getting madder and madder every minute, snorting and pawing up the snow, and then coming back for another try at me. And there I had to sit and take it, with my gun lying down below in the snow.

“Pretty soon I saw that the old scoundrel had settled down for a regular siege. He gave up trying to reach me, but he never took his eyes off me, and just walked ’round and ’round that rock hoping I’d come down. I’ll bet he made that circle a thousand times in two hours.

“I thought when night came that he would start off and give it up, and several times he did go away behind a clump of trees a few rods away. But the minute I raised my head or moved a finger he was right back on the job again.

“Then I knew that my time had come. It wasn’t such a terribly cold night, you know, but I lay out there in the open with nothing over me, and I was mighty weak from the blood I’d lost. And I knew that I was slowly freezing to death. I thought of a dozen things to try, but all of them were hopeless. There was no use in sliding off and grabbing the rifle for by the time I could get the broken cartridge out the moose would have killed me several times over. If it hadn’t been for the leg I’d have come down and fought it out with the old brute with my hunting knife. I have done that before with a wounded bull. But I was so weak that I could hardly raise my body, let alone my leg. So I just settled down to freeze.

“But you see I’m a tough old rooster, and when the sun came up this morning I was still there, with my moose taking good care that I should stay there. By that time, though, I didn’t care much whether he stayed or not. It didn’t make any difference. For I couldn’t have crawled fifty yards if I’d had the chance I was so stiff and weak.

“After a while I dozed off; and the next thing I remember I heard the bull fighting with some wolves. I thought they were wolves then, but I didn’t even open my eyes to see, although I hoped they’d kill him. And then something sounded familiar about those wolves’ voices, and I turned my head. And there was old Jack and Kim trying to even up my score with the old critter.

“My God! boy, I never knew what it was to be glad about anything in my life before! There you were coming with the little gun, and there was Jack on one side and Kim on the other taking out hunks from the old moose’s side at every jump, and—”

The old man stopped, and brushed his arm across his eyes, unable to go on for a minute, while Larry sat blinking hard at the fire. But presently the hunter regained his composure a little, and continued:

“And then when you fired and shot that old devil right between the eyes, I was willing to die for sheer joy.”

The old man paused again and tried to force a little laugh.

“And to think that you had to come and kill him with the little gun, while the best that I could do was to make him mad.”

And he patted the boy’s shaggy head affectionately.

“But you see, Martin, I’ve been having more practice lately than you have,” the boy said, springing up. “Wait till I show you something.”

He darted out of the tent and came struggling back hauling the big white wolf and dropped it before the fire, and then brought the other three and laid them in a row for Martin’s inspection. His eyes were shining with pride and the old hunter’s face beamed with genuine admiration.

“Just four cartridges—one for each wolf,” Larry said proudly, “and a little tap with a club thrown in for good measure.” And then he told the old man the story of the wolves, and exhibited the rip in his coat sleeves.

Several times during the recital Larry noticed that Martin’s face twitched with the agonizing pain he was suffering, although the old man tried hard to conceal it, protesting that it was a thing too slight to be worth noticing.

“It isn’t the pain so much,” the old man said, at last. “I can stand that all right. But I could stand it just a thousand times better if I had my old pipe and one pinch of tobacco. Boy, I’d give one long year of my life if I could have five minutes’ smoke. I’d get up and fight a moose, or a grizzly, or both, right now for a dozen whiffs of the old pipe.”

With a little laugh Larry jumped up, ran to their pile of plunder, and fumbled in his ditty bag. Then he turned and held up a pipe and a plug of tobacco for Martin to see.

“Will this new pipe do?” he asked, laughing, as he handed Martin the precious articles.

The old man’s eyes were round with astonishment, and his hands trembled with eagerness. They trembled so that he could hardly pare off the shavings of the plug and load the pipe, and light it with the brand that Larry handed him from the fire. But a few whiffs steadied him.

“You see,” Larry explained, “when you told me to put something or other into my ditty bag for luck, I couldn’t think of anything that would be luckier than a pipe and some tobacco for you—just to buy you off some time when you got cranky, you know. So here’s your bribe to keep you good natured about my running off and leaving the camp when you told me not to.”

“Well, this makes twice to-day that you’ve saved my life,” the old man grinned, “so I’ll forgive you. And now pile some wood near me so that I can keep the fire going, and then you crawl into bed and get some sleep. I don’t suppose this moose leg of mine would let me sleep anyhow, but even if it did I wouldn’t waste my time doing it when there was a pipe and some tobacco around. I am almost glad now that the old beast gouged me.”

CHAPTER XI
THE RETURN TO THE WRECK

Martin was in fine spirits when Larry finally crawled out of his sleeping bag and set about getting breakfast next morning. The injured leg was stiff and useless, to be sure, but the acute pain had subsided and did not bother the old man except when he attempted to move. “By to-morrow,” he assured the boy, “I’ll be ready to hit the trail again.”

Larry, with a perplexed look, turned from his work of frying moose meat to see if Martin was in earnest.

“I guess your tobacco has gone to your head, Martin, if you expect to be able to use that leg much by to-morrow,” he said indulgently.

“I don’t expect to be able to use it much by to-morrow,” Martin replied simply, “but we’ll be moving all the same.”

Larry set the frying pan down beside the fire, and came in and stood before the old man with his arms akimbo, scanning the old fellow’s immobile face. For a moment or two they faced each other, neither of them speaking and both looking very serious. Larry was puzzled but determined.

“Now see here, Martin,” he began, “you don’t really suppose that you are going to be able to travel to-morrow, do you?”

“I certainly do,” the old man replied without relaxing a muscle; “and what’s more to the point, I’m going to!”

“But Martin,” Larry protested, “how do you expect that your leg which is so sore you can’t even move it to-day, will be so you can walk on it to-morrow?”

“I don’t,” Martin replied.

“Then how do you suppose you are going to stumble on through these woods mile after mile,” Larry persisted.

“Who said anything about stumbling through these woods, or any other woods?” the old hunter asked, with a twinkle in his eye. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Larry.” And he chuckled at the boy’s discomfiture.

Larry gave a defiant toss of his head and returned to his frying pan. “Kim and Jack and I are going to eat our breakfast now,” he announced with a grin. “Perhaps you can beg some breakfast too when you are ready to tell me what you are driving at.”

“All right,” Martin capitulated; “I’m too hungry to be stubborn. Bring on the breakfast and we’ll talk while we eat. I’ve been thinking this thing all out during the night, and here it is:

“We’re going to travel to-morrow, but I intend to ride. I am going to have you pack me on the sled with a few days’ stock of food, and get Kim and Jack to haul me. You can come along as escort, if you care to. In fact if you don’t care to I shan’t go, and we’ll spend the winter here and starve, instead of going back to the yacht to get fat.”

At this announcement Larry gave a shout that brought the dogs to their feet in surprise. The idea of returning to their comfortable quarters on the coast instead of struggling on through the wilderness seemed a vision of perfect happiness to the boy.

Martin outlined his plan completely while they ate their breakfast. They would take the two sleeping bags, the tent, and a supply of food, harness the two dogs to one of the sleds and “hit the back trail for ‘home,’” as he called the wreck. He would sit on the toboggan in one of the sleeping bags and direct the dogs while Larry would trudge behind helping to steady the sled and prevent it overturning in the rough places. In this way they could make the return trip in four days easily unless a storm came up. If a storm came they would simply “hole up” and wait until it blew over. When the wounded leg had healed, as it would very shortly in their comfortable camp, they would make another start for civilization.

It took Larry the greater part of the day to make the necessary preparations for this trip. Under Martin’s direction he rigged one of the toboggans with handles at the back, so arranged that he could use them for steadying the sled or helping the dogs in the hard places as he walked behind. He also made a back-piece of twisted branches for Martin to lean against as he sat on the sled, strengthening this rough framework with cord and strips of canvas. When finished Martin declared that it looked like a movable brush heap; but he admitted that it was strong and serviceable, and made a comfortable support for his back.

The second toboggan and the extra provisions were suspended from limbs high above the ground where they would be out of the reach of animal prowlers, and available for future use should they ever need them.

They broke camp the next day before dawn and headed the dogs out into the open expanse of glistening crust. There was no need to direct their course, nor stimulate them to top speed. A trained sledge dog remembers directions better than a man, and is as keen for the return trip toward home as his human companions. Indeed Jack and Kim showed such enthusiasm and found that their load ran so easily on the hard crust that Larry had difficulty in keeping up with them at times except by clinging to the handles. Crossing the plain, which consumed so much time on the outward trip, required only three hours for the return; and even in the woods that lay beyond their progress was almost twice as fast as before.

Despite Larry’s efforts, however, the sled received severe bumps at times, that made Martin groan with pain. But the old hunter would not allow any stops or slackening of speed for so trivial a matter as his personal discomfort. His dominant idea was to get back “home” as quickly as possible, and his attitude spurred Larry on to exert himself to the limit of endurance. By sundown they had covered a quarter of the distance to the coast; and in the afternoon of the fourth day they came tearing into the home camp, the dogs barking frantically and Martin and Larry shouting their delight.

Here they found everything practically as they had left it, so that they had only to open the tent flaps, light a fire in front, and sit down to rest and enjoy themselves.

But it was no part of Martin’s plan to let Larry sit idle during the long weeks that lay ahead of them, or to remain inactive himself one hour longer than his injured leg compelled him to. He knew that idleness and lack of diversions were bad things for the boy, who would very soon feel the strain of their solitary surroundings if not kept so fully occupied that the time would pass quickly. He could offer few diversions, but he had planned plenty of active work.

His first move next day, therefore, was to have Larry haul him to a point where he could inspect the wreck. He found it frozen in where they had left it, and wedged into a huge mass of ice that would hold it fast until the warm spring weather. So he transferred their living quarters temporarily to the after cabin, which Larry made snug with a little tinkering. Here, warmed by the galley stove, he could give his wound more effective treatment than in the open tent. Meanwhile he set Larry to work building a hut made from the wood of the forward cabin.

The task of tearing this cabin to pieces was even greater than that of actually putting it together again, but Larry set about it with saw, axe, and crow-bar. At first he worked alone; but after a few days Martin was able to crawl up on deck and superintend things from his seat in a sleeping bag, while the dogs acted as interested spectators. The days were very short now in this far northern latitude, and every hour of daylight was devoted to the wrecking work, leaving the “housekeeping” work to be done by lamplight. In this way the boy was kept so completely occupied, doing and accomplishing, that there was little time left to dwell upon the loneliness of their situation. So that, on the whole, the time passed quickly and pleasantly. This was what Martin had hoped to accomplish.

By the time the house-building material was secured, the old hunter could hobble about on extemporized crutches and give directions about building the hut, and sometimes assist Larry in steadying the boards that held the frame in place. And when their new home had reached a stage that called for finishing touches he was able to handle hammer and saw in performing some of the lighter work.

The hut was a curious little creation, with round port holes for windows and a ship’s cabin door, which gave it the appearance of having been cast up from the sea. It was made of the tight fitting boards, and rendered doubly wind proof by two thicknesses of canvas stretched over every part of it and nailed securely. Inside it was made attractive with all manner of ornaments taken from the yacht. There were two comfortable bunks arranged cabin-fashion one above the other at one end, a table and chairs, a case of books, and the little stove from the galley that kept the room warm even in the coldest weather. With its complete equipment, even to spring cots and mattresses, Martin declared it the finest winter home ever owned by shipwrecked hunters.

By Christmas day it was completed even to the smallest detail, and on that day they moved in and formally took possession, deserting the yacht forever. This day was made one of special merriment and rejoicing, for Martin was able to dispense with his cane or crutches for the first time, and use his leg in a natural manner without assistance. It was still weak, but strengthening so rapidly that it promised soon to be completely restored to power. So, to celebrate this combination of happy events, they brought all manner of delicacies from the pile of stores, and devoted the first part of the day to preparing for a grand feast.

In the afternoon they harnessed the dogs tandem to the toboggan, Martin took his place in the “movable brush heap,” and all went for a “joy ride” of several miles through the woods in a great circle that brought them back to the cabin about sundown. In several places on this journey they crossed caribou tracks, the sight of which made Martin’s eyes sparkle, and he predicted great hunting trips before the winter was much older.

In the evening they had their grand dinner which the dogs attended, all hands doing full justice to every course. After the feast Martin and Larry played cards until far past their usual bedtime. Taken all in all Christmas day proved a very cheerful one in the great wilderness.

The old man had cherished the hope that his leg would heal and gain strength so rapidly that they could make another attempt to reach the settlements before the winter was over. For he knew that if they did not do so they must wait until the unsettled weather of spring was over, and the ground dry enough for reasonably easy traveling. At that season they would encounter the terrible wood flies and insects, far more to be dreaded in certain regions than cold and snow. But it would be madness to attempt to make the winter journey until his strength had returned fully, and he soon realized that this would not be until well on toward spring. Very soon he was able to take fairly long snow-shoe tramps, assisted by the dogs and the toboggan, but hauling a heavy sled was quite out of the question. So he finally resigned himself to spending the winter at the cabin.

Larry had shown such aptitude in learning the many secrets of woodcraft that he determined to make a “land pilot,” as he called it facetiously, of him during their exile. As the boy had become proficient in the use of the rifle, Martin devoted part of the time to instructions in the art of trapping. They were in the land of the silver fox,—the most highly prized skin of all the fur-bearers—and so they concentrated their efforts to catch some of these wary animals. Meanwhile they made constantly lengthening hunting excursions after caribou, Larry occupying the position of chief hunter with the old man playing assistant. But on these hunting trips the little gun that Larry had carried at first was left hanging on its peg in the hut. In its place Larry now carried a repeater similar to Martin’s—a heavy weapon, that gave the boy many an arm ache.

Game was not very plentiful, however, and it required constant efforts to keep their larder supplied with fresh meat. But this scarcity of game gave the old hunter more opportunities for teaching the boy all manner of woodland tricks to secure it. Meanwhile he imparted to his pupil the most important and difficult feature of woodcraft—the art of “being at home” in the woods—to know directions instinctively, to observe and interpret every sign, and to take care of himself under all conditions.

Several times, when the injured leg was stronger and his pupil more advanced, Martin made practical tests of the boy’s progress. He would select a day when snow was falling, harness the dogs to the toboggan loaded with tent, sleeping-bags, and provisions, and make a zigzag journey into the heart of the woods. Here they would pitch camp and wait until the storm ceased. By that time their trail would be completely obliterated. Then, without any guiding suggestions, he had Larry take the lead and pilot them back to the cabin.

At first the boy would become confused, and be obliged to call upon the old hunter to straighten him out; and sometimes Martin allowed him to become completely at fault before he would aid him. But little by little Larry learned to observe and remember instinctively, until presently Martin found it impossible to confuse him even on long trips.

He learned how to interpret the signs of game, also, how to approach it successfully, and where to expect to find the wood denizens under the ever varying conditions. And when they were successful with gun or traps, Martin taught him how to skin and dress the game, and to care for the pelts.

“We’ll have to leave all these good furs behind us, I know,” the old man would say; “but we won’t waste them; and perhaps some other fellow will come along some day and find them. There’s just one pelt that we won’t leave, if we get it. That’s the silver fox.”

But this silver fox is a wily fellow. He seems to realize the value of his coat; or at least he knows that it is very valuable to himself, and uses his cunning to retain it. Week after week Martin used his knowledge and Larry’s increasing skill to trap one of these fine fellows, only to be disappointed on each occasion. They would find where Reynard had hovered about their trap, sometimes actually stepping over it to steal the bait, knowing in some occult manner just where the fatal jaws were concealed. It was in vain that Martin coated the trap with wax to disguise the scent, covering his hands and feet with the skins of the wild animals in setting or approaching the trap. Reynard refused to be deceived.

But perhaps success made him careless, although it was probably the fault of the thin covering of wet snow that fell one day late in the spring. For at last, after Larry had almost given up hope of getting even a single silver fox skin, the inevitable happened. Poor Reynard walked deliberately into a trap that had been set rather carelessly to catch a marten.

When Larry discovered this long sought prize held securely by one foot in the jaws of the trap, he gave a shout of delight at his unexpected success. The little animal had evidently been caught several hours before, and from the appearance of the ground about the trap had struggled fiercely to free itself. But now it seemed resigned to its fate, and stood crouching, watching Larry’s approach without making any further effort to escape. Even when the boy raised a heavy stick to despatch the captive, the little animal made no attempt to evade the blow, acting more like a dog resigned to take punishment from its master than a denizen of the wilderness accustomed to battle for its existence. But its wide, intelligent eyes, seemed to beg mutely for mercy.

The actions of the little animal completely unnerved the boy: he could not strike the crouching figure. If the fox had struggled fiercely, or attempted to fight for its life as a mink or marten always did, Larry could have despatched it at once; but that submissive attitude completely disarmed him. He could not resist the mute appeal in those eyes.

He lowered the club and turned away, ashamed of his weakness. But when he turned again, determined to overcome his scruples, the eyes met his with their mute plea, and again he lowered the club.

What would Martin think of such girlishness? he asked himself. Would Martin, or any good hunter, hesitate to snatch the prize that he had been struggling for all winter? He was sure they would not, and he despised himself for his weak-heartedness.

The longer he hesitated the surer he felt that he could not strike. Then the thought obtruded itself: Who would ever know if he did not strike? Who would there be to judge him but his own conscience if he were to set the little animal free instead of killing it? The moment these thoughts passed through his mind he knew that the fox had won its freedom. He should have struck at once: now it was too late.

But freeing the captive foot from the jaws of the trap without encountering the animal’s sharp, white teeth was no easy task; for he could not expect the fox to interpret his humane action correctly, and stand mutely while he forced down the trap spring. So it was not until after several fruitless attempts that he succeeded in placing a heavy limb across the spring, and by bending it down, allowed the jaws to fall open and release the foot.

During this manipulation the fox made no attempt to struggle, simply crouching down and watching the boy with its haunting eyes. And even when the jaws of the trap relaxed it did not bound away as Larry had expected, but slipped out of sight stealthily and with no apparent haste, not yet fully assured of its unexpected good fortune.

The boy watched the animal disappear with mingled emotions of shame and satisfaction. But when it was out of sight he drew a long breath, and went back to camp in a sober mood.

That night at supper Martin was unusually talkative. In about a week, he said, they should start for home if the fine weather continued, and the thought of it put him in a happy frame of mind. But Larry ate his supper in silence, trying to excuse himself for his deception, and his “chicken-heartedness” in freeing the fox.

Martin, who was watching him out of the corners of his eyes, suddenly surprised him by stopping in the middle of a story to ask:

“Larry, what happened out in the woods to-day that you are so ashamed of?”

The boy replied evasively at first, but the old hunter shook his head incredulously.

“See here, Martin,” Larry said at last, “what would you do if you happened to come along to a marten trap and found a silver fox there—not a dead fox, you know, and not one that snarled and snapped and tried to bite you. But a fox that had fought to get loose until he couldn’t fight any more, but just stood there and looked you straight in the eye even when you raised a club to kill him, and seemed to say to you:

“‘That’s right, take your club and kill me, I can’t get out of your way now. I’m only a poor little fox, anyway, while you are a big, brave boy, with guns and dogs and traps, and you needn’t even come near enough so that I can bite you. You have been trying to kill me all winter, just because some woman will give you a thousand dollars for the fur I wear to keep warm in, and now you’ve got your chance to do it.’—What would you do, Martin, if a fox looked at you and talked to you with his eyes like that?”

“What would I do, Larry?” the old man repeated, looking at the roof and puffing slowly at his pipe. “Why, I’d say, ‘Martin, here’s your chance to make a thousand dollars mighty easy. I’ll just hit him a rap on the head, and take him home and skin him.’ That’s what I’d say, Larry. But what I’d do when I saw the little fellow’s big brown eyes asking me to let him go home to his family—what I’d do, probably, would be to look all around to make sure that no one was looking to see what a coward I am in my heart, and then I’d spring the trap and turn the little rascal loose.”

With a bound Larry was out of his chair.

“That’s just what I did this afternoon, Martin,” he shouted, dancing joyfully about the room to relieve his pent-up feelings.

“And so you sat here all the evening calling yourself a coward,” said Martin, when Larry had subsided, “just because you couldn’t bear to kill a fox in a trap. How about killing wolves, Larry, and moose that are trying to kill you? Cowards don’t act that way, boy. And the bravest men usually have the softest spots in their hearts.”

CHAPTER XII
THE EARLY MORNING VISITOR

Martin and Larry were roused the next morning at daylight by the dogs who were barking excitedly in their shed outside. Evidently some animal was approaching the hut too close for their approval. So Larry, hoping for a pot shot from the window, slipped out of bed, took down his rifle stealthily, and cautiously opened the port on the landward side. Just then he heard voices outside, and the next moment some one pounded sharply against the door and turned the latch. In the doorway stood Mr. Ware, with half a dozen sailors crowding behind him.

With a shout Martin was out of his bunk, while Larry, dropping his gun, collided with the old hunter as they rushed together into Mr. Ware’s outstretched arms, and for five minutes the three were locked together in a tangled embrace dancing about like happy children, each asking questions which no one answered. Then Larry discovered that one of the sailors was an old acquaintance from the crew of the yacht, and the sailor came in for a similar wild demonstration, while Mr. Ware stood laughing and gasping for breath. And all this time the dogs, recognizing that something quite out of the ordinary was taking place inside, were adding their voices to the din, and struggling madly to get out of their shed.

Finally Martin disengaged himself and sank into a chair overcome with exhaustion and emotion. For the coming of Mr. Ware was like one risen from the dead. And then followed a flood of questions and explanations.

Mr. Ware and his companions in the boat had escaped quite as miraculously as had Martin and Larry, although they had suffered far greater hardships in the storm. They had left the shore in their boat and were making an exploratory trip along the mouth of the inlets of the bay just before the storm broke that destroyed the yacht. The fury of the gale drove them helplessly along the coast, and pitched them about, breaking their oars and tearing loose their rudder, so that they were completely disabled. Fortunately they had rounded the point of land that marked the entrance to the bay, so that instead of being blown against the rocks they were driven along parallel to the coast-line for a time, and thus saved from the breakers.

But they were hurried from this peril into another quite as great, as the boat was in danger of swamping at any moment in the waves. For now the wind shifted and blew them steadily out to sea, as they were without means of controlling or steadying the boat, which filled with water continually, and was only kept afloat by ceaseless bailing with the pots and pans of their cooking outfit.

All that night they worked, buffeted by the gale, with no idea where they might be drifting. But when morning came and the gale subsided there was no land in sight. That made little difference to them, as without oars or sails they could not have reached it in any event. Fortunately the boat was supplied with a box of sea biscuit and a keg of water—a precaution against emergencies always taken by Mr. Ware in manning his boats. So that while they were almost frozen, they were not hungry or thirsty during the six days and nights of their aimless drifting. But their days seemed numbered, as they had little hope of being picked up so late in the season.

Imagine their delight, therefore, when on the seventh morning they discovered a three master heading almost directly for them. The captain of the vessel had seen them, and changed his course to pick them up.

As soon as he was safely on board Mr. Ware made tempting offers to the captain to turn about and attempt to find the yacht. But his efforts were unsuccessful. The schooner was far out of her course and must make the best time possible to her English port, and no offer could tempt the captain to turn back. Moreover, as he pointed out, it would do little good to return if the yacht was lost; whereas if she were safe, she would make her way back to New York and would be waiting for Mr. Ware on his return.

So he was forced to curb his impatience for three long weeks while the schooner floundered her way across the ocean, and two weeks more before he reached his home. By that time winter had set in and it would be madness to attempt to approach the frozen Labrador coast at that time, even if he had hoped to find any of his party alive.

But he laid his plans for an early start in the spring, and the moment he could do so with reasonable safety he secured a staunch little steamer and started on his search. They had arrived near the entrance of the little bay the night before, but it grew dark before they rounded the point where they could make observations. Shortly after this the man in the lookout reported what he believed to be a light up among the rocks on shore. It was so faint that it could barely be made out through the glasses; and presently it disappeared.

This discovery kept Mr. Ware awake all night; and as soon as it was near daylight, he had come off in a life-boat to investigate, leaving the steamer to follow cautiously by daylight. Imagine his delight, then, at finding the snug little hut, with Martin and Larry safe inside.

When Mr. Ware had finished his recital Martin told him in detail the experiences that he and Larry had had during the winter; of their start for home, the blizzard, his encounter with the moose, and their final return to the coast and the comfortable time spent in the little hut.

“And you got here just in the nick of time, Mr. Ware,” he commented. “In another week we should have been footing it cross-country for home; and no knowing where we should have landed.”

While they had been talking the little steamer had come into the bay and dropped anchor half a mile off shore ready to receive her passengers. The captain, anxious to be away from the dangerous locality as quickly as possible, kept signalling repeatedly with short blasts of the whistle, and at last Mr. Ware decided that it was time for all hands to be off. But the snug little hut, tucked away up under the rock among the spruces, appealed strongly to his fancy; and Martin and Larry actually seemed reluctant to leave it now that their long-looked-for chance to do so had come. They had spent many happy hours in their tight little room, and it seemed like treachery to an old friend to turn their backs upon it forever. The old hunter said nothing of his thoughts on this score, however, and set about gathering together the articles he was to take away. But Larry, with a lump rising in his throat, found it difficult to repress his feelings.

“I wish it could go with us,” he said, stopping in his work to take a wistful look at the many familiar objects they were leaving. “It will be pretty lonesome for the little house standing up here all alone year after year and never seeing any of us again.” And the boy leaned over his work again to hide his emotions.

“We’re not going to desert it for good, Larry,” said Mr. Ware, patting the boy on the head kindly. “This is the best little shooting lodge I know of. So every year we will come up here for a hunt, and Martin will take us to the best hunting places, and keep us out of mischief generally, as he always does. What do you say, Martin?”

But the old hunter shook his head.

“I’ll be mighty glad to come every year, Mr. Ware,” he said laughing; “but I leave the hunting and guiding to a younger fellow who can do it just as well, or better. That’s the ‘younger fellow’ I mean, right here,” and he pointed to Larry. “He knows the country as well as I do, and he can follow a trail, shoot a rifle, and run a camp with the best of them. And if you ever get into a tight place out there in the woods, he’ll steer you out of it safely every time. For he’s learned his trade up here this winter. He’s a regular forest pilot now—a real woodsman, sure enough.”

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- THE FOREST PILOT
- THE STORM
- THE HOME ON THE ROCKS
- THE FIRST SUPPER
- LESSONS IN PILOTING
- THE STORY OF WEEWAH THE HUNTER
- FINAL PREPARATIONS
- THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE FOREST
- THE BLIZZARD
- THE TIMBER WOLVES
- THE WOUNDED MOOSE
- THE RETURN TO THE WRECK
- THE EARLY MORNING VISITOR
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE