Around the Camp-fire

CHAPTER VI.
THE CAMP ON SQUATOOK RIVER

That night around the camp-fire stories were once more in demand. Stranion was first called upon, and he at once responded.

“I’ll call this story —

‘SAVED BY A SLIVER,’

and ask you to observe the neat alliteration,” said Stranion.

“In the autumn of 1887 I was hunting in those wildernesses about the headwaters of that famous salmon river, the south-west Miramichi. I had old Jake Christison with me, the best woodsman on the river; and I had also my inseparable companion and most faithful follower, Jeff, a large bull-terrier. Jeff was not a hunting-dog in any accepted sense of the word. He had no inherited instinct for the chase; but he had remarkable intelligence, unconquerable pluck, unquestioning obedience, and hence a certain fitness for any emergency that might arise. In the woods he always crept noiselessly at my heels, as unembarrassing and self-effacing as my shadow.

“One morning we set out from camp soon after breakfast to follow up some fresh caribou signs which Jake had just reported. We had gone but half a mile into the thickets when the woodsman discovered that he had left his hunting-knife by the camp-fire, where he had been using it to slice the breakfast bacon. To go without his hunting-knife could not for a moment be thought of; so he turned back hurriedly to get it, while I strolled on at a leisurely pace with Jeff at my heels.

“My way led me through a little wide ravine, in the centre of which lay the fragments of a giant pine, shattered years ago by lightning, and bleached by storm and sun. A portion of the trunk remained yet upright, – a tall splinter, or ‘sliver’ as the woodsmen call it, split from the rest of the trunk by some electric freak, and pointing like a stern white finger toward the spot of open sky above, whence the bolt had fallen. Saturated with resins, the sliver was practically incorruptible; and time had only served to harden its lance-like point and edge. A few feet beyond this blasted pine the woods grew thick, – a dusky confusion of great gnarled trunks and twisting limbs.

“As I sauntered up to the foot of that whitened trunk, Jeff suddenly thrust himself in front of me with a low, almost inaudible growl, and stood obstinately still, as if to bar my farther advance. Instantly my glance penetrated the thicket, and fell upon a huge panther crouching flat along a fallen tree of almost the same color as the brute’s hide. It was the panther’s cold green eyes indeed that so promptly revealed him to me. He was in the attitude to spring; and ordering Jeff ‘to heel,’ I sank on one knee, cocking my rifle and taking aim at the same time, for there was not a moment to lose.

“Even as I pulled the trigger the animal dashed upon me, in the very face of the flash. The suddenness of the assault of course upset my aim; but by good chance the ball went through the animal’s fore shoulder, breaking the bone. I was hurled backward into a hollow under the fallen fragments of the pine-tree, and I felt the panther’s teeth go through my left arm. Thrusting myself as far as possible beneath the shelter of the log, I reached for the long knife at my belt. Just as I got it out of its sheath, the panther, with an angry cry, dropped my arm, and turned half round, while keeping his place upon my prostrate body. My faithful Jeff had come to the rescue of his master, and had sunk his terrible teeth into the root of the panther’s tail.

“The snarling beast doubled back upon himself, and struggled to seize the dog between his jaws; but Jeff was too wary and active for this, and the panther would not leave his post of vantage on my body. He was a sagacious beast, and perceived that if he should let me up he would have two enemies to contend with instead of one. As for me, in my restricted position, I found myself unable to use my knife with any effect. I lay still, abiding my opportunity, and watching with intense but curiously impersonal interest the good fight my bull-terrier was making. I was not conscious of much pain in my arm, but the shock of the panther’s assault seemed in some way to have weakened my vital force. Presently the panther, finding it impossible to release himself from that deadly grip of Jeff’s, threw himself over on his back, curling himself up like a cat, and raked the dog severely with his dangerous hind claws. The change in our assailant’s position released my right arm, and at once I drove the knife into his side square to the hilt. I failed to touch a vital spot, but the wound diverted his attention; and Jeff, bleeding and furious, was enabled to secure a new hold. The panther was a splendid beast, and fought as I never before or since have seen a panther fight. Had it not been for my shot, which broke his fore shoulder, it would have gone hard with both Jeff and me. As it was, however, the panther found his work cut out for him, though I was so nearly helpless from my position that Jeff had to bear the brunt of the battle. The brave terrier was getting badly cut up. I could not see very well what went on, being at the bottom of the fight, and my breath nearly knocked out of me; but all of a sudden a rifle-shot rang in my ears, the smoke and flame filled my eyes, and the body of the panther stiffened out convulsively. The next moment old Jake was dragging me out from beneath, and anxiously inquiring about my damages.

“Reassuring him as to my condition, I sat down rather faintly on the trunk, while Jeff, at my feet, lay licking his scratches. The old woodsman leaned upon his empty rifle, contemplatively scanning our vanquished foe, and loudly praising Jeff. Suddenly he broke off in the midst of a sentence, and glanced up into the branches ahead of him.

“‘Great Jee-hoshaphat!’ he exclaimed in a startled voice, springing backward, and snatching for a fresh cartridge, while Jeff jumped to his feet with a wrathful snarl. In the same breath, before I could realize what was the matter, I heard the female panther, mate of him we had killed, utter her fearful scream of rage and pain. From a giant limb overhead her long tawny body flashed out into the sunlight, descending upon our devoted party like a yellow thunderbolt.

“Weak and dazed as I was, I shut my eyes with a sense of sick disgust and weariness, and a strange feeling of infinite suspense. There was a curious sound of tearing and scratching; but no shock came, and I opened my eyes in astonishment. There was Jake calmly slipping a cartridge into his rifle. There was Jeff standing just as I had seen him when I closed my eyes. It seemed hours, but it had been merely an eyewink – the fraction of a second. But where was the panther?

“My inward query was answered on the instant. A wild and indescribable screeching, spitting, and snarling arose, mixed with a sound of claws tearing desperately at the hard wood of the pine trunk. The panther was held aloft in the air, impaled on the sliver, around which she spun madly like a frightful wheel of tawny fire. Her efforts to free herself were tremendous, but there was no escape. The sliver was hard as steel and as inexorable. Suddenly Jeff sprang at the creature, but in his impetuosity missed his hold, and got a lightning blow from one of those great claws, almost laying his side open. The brave dog carries the marks of that wound to this day. His revenge was instantaneous; for his next leap gained its object, and his jaws fixed themselves securely in the panther’s haunches. The whole wild scene had thus far been like a dream to me, and the yellings and snarlings sounded far off and indistinct. The only reality seemed to me the still brown and green of the forest, the moveless tree-tops, the cheerful morning sun streaming down into the little glade, and the old woodsman standing in his contemplative attitude, watching the gyrating form of the panther. Then on a sudden my blood seemed to flow with a rush of new force, and a sense of reality came back to me. I jumped up, slipped a cartridge into my rifle, and with a timely bullet put the unhappy beast out of its pain.

“In order to release the panther’s body we had to cut down the sliver, the blood-stained top of which, with its point sharp and spear-like, as if fashioned by the hand of man, now hangs as a treasured relic upon my library wall. Right beneath, as a foot-rug to my writing-table, and a favorite napping-place for Jeff, is the panther-skin with two holes in it, where the sliver went through. The other skin I gave to old Jake as a memorial of the adventure; but it is probable he sold it at the earliest fair opportunity, for it was a comely and valuable skin.”

“Stranion,” said I when he concluded, “your Jeff is one of the dogs whom I am proud to have known. I have only met, in all my career, one better dog, and that was my brave old Dan, of blessed and many-scarred memory.”

“Bigger, not better, dog,” interrupted Stranion sternly.

“Well, we won’t argue over it. They were both of the same stock, anyway; and I fear we will not look upon their like again, eh, Stranion?”

“Now you are talking, O. M.,” responded Stranion warmly. “But tell us that great yarn about Dan’s battle!”

“No, not to-night,” was my answer. “It would seem like making rivals of Dan and Jeff, which they never were, but always sworn chums. Jeff is enough for one night. Dan shall be commemorated on another. Let Sam give us a bear story now.”

“All right,” said Sam. “Here’s one in which Stranion and I were both concerned. Note it down by the name of —

‘SKIDDED LANDING.’

“Three winters ago, as some of you will remember, Stranion and I took a month in the lumber-woods. It was drawing on toward spring. As we were both good snow-shoers, we managed to visit several widely scattered camps. At all we were received hospitably, with unlimited pork and beans, hot bread and tea; and at each we made a stay of several days.

“For our climax we selected that camp which promised us the most picturesque and exciting experiences at the breaking up of the ice. This was Evans’s Camp on Green River, where the logs were gathered in what is known as a ‘rough-and-tumble landing,’ – a form which entails much excitement and often grave peril to the axeman whose work is to cut the ‘brow’ loose.

“As it happened, however, the most stirring adventure that fell to our personal experience on that trip was one we encountered at Clarke’s Camp, on the Tobique, where we stayed but three days.

“This camp, but one of the many centres of operation of the great lumbering firm of Clarke & Co., was generally known as ‘Skidded Landing.’ And here let me explain the terms ‘brow,’ ‘drive,’ ‘rough-and-tumble landing,’ and ‘skidded landing.’

“In lumbermen’s parlance, the logs of the winter’s chopping, hauled and piled on the river-bank where they can conveniently be launched into the water upon the breaking up of the ice, are termed collectively ‘a brow of logs.’

“When once the logs have been got into the water, and, shepherded by the lumbermen with their pike-poles, are flocking wildly seaward on the swollen current, they and their guardians together constitute ‘the drive.’

“The task the lumbermen are now engaged upon is termed ‘stream driving;’ and laborious, perilous work it is, especially on those rivers which are much obstructed by rapids, rocks, and shoals. A brow of logs is a ‘landing’ when the logs are piled from the water’s edge. A landing may be either a ‘rough-and-tumble’ or a ‘skidded’ landing.

“The ‘rough-and-tumble,’ which good woodsmen generally regard as a shiftless affair, is made by driving a few heavy timbers into the mud at the water’s edge, at the foot of a sloping bank. These form a strong and lofty breastwork. Into the space behind are tumbled the logs helter-skelter from the top of the bank, as they are hauled from the woods. All through the winter the space keeps filling up, and by spring the strain on the sustaining piles is something tremendous.

“When the thaw comes and the river rises, and the ice goes out with a rush, then the accumulation of logs has to be set free. This is done by cutting away the most important of the sustaining timbers, whereupon the others snap, and the logs go roaring out in a terrific avalanche.

“It is easy to realize the perils of cutting out this kind of landing. If the landing has been unskilfully or carelessly located, the peril of the enterprise is greatly increased.

“The ‘skidded’ landing is a much more business-like affair. In this kind of structure the logs are placed systematically. First a layer of logs is deposited parallel with the river’s edge. Across these, at right angles, are laid a few light poles, technically termed skids. On these another layer of logs parallel to the water, and so on to the completion of the structure.

“With this species of landing, to release the logs is a very simple matter. There is nothing to do but quietly roll them off, layer by layer, into the stream, which snatches them and hurries them away.

“From this it will be seen why we did not elect to stay long at Skidded Landing. But while we were there something happened in this fashion.

“On the second day of our stay in the camp, it chanced that Stranion was lazy. When I set forth to examine some snares which I had set the night before, he chose to snooze in his bunk rather than accompany me. As events befell, he proved to have made the wiser choice.

“Of course I took my gun with me. I was thinking of small game exclusively, – during our wanderings, hitherto, we had seen nothing larger than a fox, – and both barrels were loaded with cartridges containing No. 4 shot. But with unaccountable thoughtlessness I neglected to take any heavier ammunition in my pocket; yet that was the only time on the trip that heavier ammunition was needed.

“I visited my snares, and found in one of them a rabbit. ‘The boys’ll appreciate a rabbit stew,’ thought I, as I hitched the frozen carcass to my belt. A little farther on I started another rabbit, which I shot, and hitched beside its fellow; and then I struck out blithely for camp. Before I had retraced my path many paces, I came face to face with an immense bear, which apparently had been dogging my steps.

“We halted and eyed each other sharply. I thought I detected a guilty uneasiness in the animal’s gaze, as if he were properly ashamed of himself for his ungentlemanly conduct. Presuming upon this, I spoke in an authoritative voice, and took one or two firm steps in advance. I expected the animal to step aside deferentially and let me pass, but I had forgotten that this was a hungry season for bears. The brute lumbered forward with alacrity, as if ferociously surprised at my readiness to furnish him a much-needed luncheon.

“In my trepidation I did not let him get near enough before I fired my solitary cartridge. Had I let him come to close quarters, the heavy bird-shot would have served the full purpose of a bullet. But no, I was in too much of a hurry. The charge had room to scatter before it reached my assailant; and the pellets only served to cut him up badly about the head without in the least interfering with his fighting capacity.

“With something between a grunt and a howl of pain and fury he dashed upon me; and I, dropping my cherished weapon in a panic, made a mighty bound to one side and darted toward the open river. I wanted free play for my snow-shoes, and no risk from hidden stumps.

“In the woods the snow was soft enough to give me some advantage over my pursuer. I gained on him when doing my utmost. But being gaunt from his long fast, and very light in proportion to his prodigious strength, his progress, with that awkward gallop of his, was terrifyingly rapid. Moreover, I had vividly before my mind’s eye the consciousness of what would be my instant fate should I trip on a buried stump or root, or plunge into some snow-veiled bush that would entangle my snow-shoes.

“Once out upon the river I breathed more freely. But the bear was hard upon my heels. Here the snow was more firmly packed, and he travelled faster. I ceased to increase the little distance between us. After two piercing yells for help, I saved my breath for the race before me.

“I was really not very far from the camp; but the trees and a high point intercepted my cries, and the wind blew them away, so they failed to reach Stranion’s ears. Nevertheless, it happened that Stranion grew restless about the time of my first meeting with the bear.

“He strolled down to the landing, which was perhaps three hundred yards from the camp, seated himself upon a spruce log, and began to dig off with his pocket-knife the perfumed amber-like globules of gum. He was engaged in this innocent if not engrossing occupation when he caught sight of me racing desperately around the jutting point immediately above the landing.

“At the sight of my terror he sprang to his feet, and was about to rush back to camp for his gun; but straightway the bear appeared, and so close behind me that he knew there was no time to get the weapon. The emergency was upon him. He knew something had to be done at once. Fortunately he was ready of resource. He dropped down, and crawled swiftly to the edge of the landing.

“The track I was following led along close under the front of the landing, then turned the corner sharply and ran straight up to the camp. The bear was now gaining on me. He was not more than thirty or forty feet behind. I was beginning to realize that he must catch me before I could reach the camp.

“Coming to this conclusion, I was just about to put forth all my remaining breath in one despairing shriek for help, then to turn and make what fight I could with my sheath-knife, which had already been used to cut away the dangling rabbits, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Stranion on the top of the logs. I took one look at his face and saw its look of readiness. He grinned encouragingly, but put his finger on his lips for silence.

“At the sight of him I felt new vigor flow through all my veins. With fresh speed I raced along past the front of the landing, turned the corner, and bounded up the slope. Reaching the hard track, I kicked my feet clear of the snow-shoes, and started to climb up the logs to join Stranion.

“At this moment Stranion found his opportunity. The bear came plunging along on my tracks, immediately beneath the face of the logs. And now, with a stake which he had snatched up, Stranion pried mightily upon the two front logs of the top tier. The great timbers rolled swiftly over the edge.

“One of them, the heaviest, was just in time. It caught the animal over the hindquarters, and crushed him to the ice. When Stranion’s triumphant shout proclaimed the success of his attack, I threw myself down between two logs and lay there gasping, while Stranion returned to the camp, got his gun, and put the wounded animal out of his pain.

“Later in the day, much later, Stranion and I together went over the ground I had traversed with such celerity. We recovered the rabbits, and also, after a persistent search in the snow, the gun which I had so basely abandoned.”

“I think that is a pretty straight account of what happened,” said Stranion; “and now we will hear something from Magnus’s uncle.”

“No,” said Magnus; “I’ll tell you something my cousin Bob Raven told me about a time he had with —

‘A MAD STALLION.’

“There is perhaps no beast,” said Bob, “more terrible, more awe-inspiring, than a stallion that has gone mad. Such an animal, bursting all the fetters of his inherited dread of man, seems inspired with a frightful craving to take vengeance for the immemorial servitude of his kind. As a rule, he has no quarrel with anything but humanity. Often with other horses he associates amicably, and toward the cattle and lesser animals that may be with him in the fields he displays the indifference of disdain. But let man, woman, or child come within his vision, and his homicidal mania breaks into flame.

“I have had several disagreeable encounters with vicious horses, but only once was I so unfortunate as to fall in with one possessed by this homicidal mania. My escape was so narrow, and the experience left so deep an impression upon my mind, that I have felt ever since an instinctive distrust for this most noble of domestic animals.

“One autumn, when I was about eighteen, I was taking a tramp through the eastern townships of Quebec preparatory to resuming work at college. I reached the little village of Maybury one day at noon, and dropped into the village inn for luncheon. The village was in a state of excitement over a tragedy which had taken place that very morning, and which was speedily detailed to me by every one with whom I came in contact. The most authentic account, as it appeared, was that given me by the proprietor of the inn.

“‘You see,’ he answered eagerly, in response to my question as to the cause of the general excitement, ‘a boy ’at old Joe Cook was bringin’ up on his farm has jest been killed by a mad horse. The boy come out from Liverpool las’ June two year ago, with a lot more poor little beggars like him; an’ old Joe kinder took a fancy to him, an’ was a-bringin’ him up like he was his own son. The horses is mostly runnin’ at pasture now in the back lots yonder; an’ Atkinson’s stallion, what has always had the name of bein’ kind as a lamb, is pasturin’ with the rest. But he seems somehow to’ve gone mad all on a suddent. This mornin’ airly, as Cook’s boy was comin’ home from drivin’ the cows out onter the uplands, he found the horses all crowdin’ roun’ the gate leadin’ onter the meadows. He knowed some of ’em might try and shove through if he didn’t take keer, so he jest kind of shooed ’em off with a stick. They all scattered away savin’ only Atkinson’s stallion; an’ he, wheelin’ round with a kind of screech as’d make the marrer freeze in your bones, grabbed the boy right by the back of the neck, an’ shook him like old Tige there’d shake a rat. I guess the poor boy’s neck was broke right off, for he never cried out nor nothin’. Steve Barnes was jest then a-comin’ up the meadow road, an’ he seen it all. He yelled, an’ run up as fast as he could; but afore he could git to the fence the stallion had jumped on the boy two or three times, an’ was a-standin’ lookin’ at him curious-like. Steve seen ’at the boy was dead, but he started to climb over an’ drive off the brute; but as soon as the stallion seen Steve he let another screech, an’ run at him with his mouth wide open, an’ Steve had nothin’ fur it but to hop back quick over the fence. Seein’ as the boy was deader’n a door-nail, Steve didn’t think it’d be common-sense to resk his life jest for the dead body; but he stayed there a-stonin’ the brute, which was jest spilin’ to git at him. After ’bout an hour the other horses came back, an’ the stallion forgot about the boy an’ went off with them ’way back behind the hills; an’ Steve got the body an’ carried it home.’

“‘And what have they done to the brute?’ I inquired, with a fierce anger stirring in my veins.

“‘Well,’ answered Boniface, ‘this afternoon there’s a crowd goin’ out to ketch him an’ tie him up. If he’s too bad fur that, – an’ if I know anything about horses he’s jest gone mad, stark mad, – why, they’ll have to shoot him off-hand, to save their own necks.’

“‘I wonder if I’ll run any risk of meeting him?’ I queried rather anxiously. I had no weapon but my heavy walking-stick, and I had an almost sentimental regard for the integrity of my neck.

“‘Which way be you bound?’ inquired Boniface.

“‘For Blissville,’ I answered.

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you’re all right then. The horses are feedin’ out yonder to the no’th-east, an’ Blissville lays south.’

“It was with few misgivings that I now resumed my journey. In the tonic autumn air my spirits rose exultantly, and I walked with a brisk step, whistling and knocking off the golden tops of the hawk-bit with my cane. The country about Maybury is a high, rolling plateau, for the most part open pasture-ground, with here and there a shallow, wooded ravine, and here and there a terrace of loose bowlders with bramble-thickets growing between. I was soon beyond the cultivated fields, past the last of the fences. I had climbed one of those rocky terraces, and made a couple of hundred yards across the delightful breezy down, when, behind a low knoll, I caught sight of a group of horses quietly pasturing, and remembered with a qualm the morning’s tragedy. Could this, I asked myself anxiously, be the herd containing that mad stallion?

“I halted, and was about to retrace my steps unobtrusively, in the hope that I had escaped their notice. But it was too late. Two or three of the animals raised their heads and looked toward me. One in the group snorted with a peculiar half-whinny, at the sound of which my heart sank. Then I caught sight of one in the centre that seemed to be jumping up in the air off all four feet at once. The next moment this creature, a great black animal, appeared outside the group, plunging and biting at his flank. Two or three times he sprang into the air in that strange, spasmodic way I had already observed, and threw his head backward over his right shoulder with an indescribable gesture of menace and defiance. Then with a short, dreadful sound he darted toward me, open-mouthed.

“Up to this point I had stood my ground, eying the brute resolutely, with an appearance of fearlessness which I was very far from feeling. But now I saw that my only hope, and that a desperate one, lay in flight. I was accounted at college a first-rate sprinter, and now I ran my best. The two hundred yards that lay between me and the terrace I had just left must have been covered in not much more than twenty seconds. But as I reached the brow of the slope the mad brute was close on my heels.

“I had no time to check myself, and even less notion to do so. In fact, I fell, and rolled headlong down, dropping bruised and bewildered into a crevice between two bowlders. The next instant I saw the black mass of my pursuer dashing over me in a splendid leap. Before he could turn and seize me I had rolled farther into the crevice, and found that one of the rocks overhung so as to form a little narrow cave into which I could squeeze myself so far as to be quite beyond the animal’s reach.

“Never before or since have I discovered so unexpected and providential a refuge. The raving stallion came bounding and leaping up to the very door of my burrow, but I felt safe. He would roll back his lips, lay his ears flat to his head, spring straight into the air, and shriek through his wide, red nostrils his fury and his challenge. The latter I did not think it incumbent upon me to accept. I waived it in disdainful silence.

“For a time the brute kept up his boundings and those strange, proud jerkings of his head; but at length he actually tried to stretch his neck into my burrow, and reach me with his frightful naked teeth. This was a vain attempt; but I resented it, and picking up a stone which lay at hand, I struck him a heavy blow on the nose. This brought the blood from those cruel nostrils, and made him even, if possible, more furious in his rage; but he returned to his former demonstrations.

“It must have been for nearly an hour that I watched the mad creature’s antics from my den. The rest of the herd had approached, and were feeding indifferently about the foot of the terrace. From time to time my enemy would join them, and snatch a few restless mouthfuls of grass. But almost immediately he would return to his post at my door, and his vigilant watch was on me all the time.

“I was beginning to cast about somewhat anxiously for a way of escape from this imprisonment, when I saw the pasturing herd suddenly toss up their heads, and then go scurrying away across the down. My adversary saw this, too, and turned his attention away from me. I peered forth cautiously, and to my profound relief I observed a party of men, several carrying ropes and halters, and others armed with rifles, approaching below the terrace. One man walked a little ahead of the others, and held out a peck measure, in which he shook something which I presume to have been oats.

“The stallion eyed them sombrely for an instant; and then his mane rose like a crest, and his head went back with a shrill cry. In the self-same way as he had greeted my appearance he bounced into the air twice or thrice, and then he dashed upon the party.

“The man with the oats fell back with wonderful alacrity, and the fellows who carried halters seemed bent upon effacing themselves in the humblest manner possible. One tall, gray-shirted woodsman, however, stepped to the front, raised his rifle, and drew a bead upon the approaching fury, while two or three of the others held their shots in reserve. There was a moment of breathless suspense. Then the fine, thin note of the woodsman’s rifle rang out; and the stallion sprang aside with a shriek, and stumbled forward upon his knees. Almost instantly, however, he recovered himself, and rushed upon his opponents with undiminished ferocity. I held my breath. He was almost upon the party now. Then two more rifles flashed from the marksmen standing moveless in their tracks, and the mad brute rose straight up on his hind legs, and fell over backward, dead.

“I stepped out to welcome my rescuers, and detailed to them my adventures. They had been wondering who or what it was that the brute was laying siege to. There was so much, in fact, to talk about, and I found myself for the moment so important a figure, that I returned to Maybury for that evening, and there had to retell my story at least a score of times.”

“If it’s my turn now – and I suppose it is,” said Ranolf, “I can’t pretend to give you anything so blood-curdling as this story of Magnus’s; but I’ll do my little best to make an angry bull moose as interesting as a mad stallion. Take this down, O. M., as —

‘AN ADVENTURE WITH A BULL MOOSE.’

“I don’t know much about the lumber-camps; but I got this from a Restigouche lumberman, so of course it must be true.