CHAPTER VII.
THE CAMP ON THE TOLEDI
In the morning we set out at a reasonable hour, planning to camp that night at the foot of Toledi Lake. The last few miles of the Squatook River were easy paddling, save that here and there a fallen tree was in the way. In passing these obstructions Stranion proved unlucky. His canoe led the procession, with himself standing erect, alert, pole in hand, in the stern, while Queerman sat lazily in the bow. At length we saw ahead of us a tree-trunk stretching across the channel. By ducking our heads down to the gunwales there was room to pass under it. But Stranion tried a piece of gymnastics, like a circus-rider jumping through a hoop. He attempted to step over the trunk while the canoe was passing under it. In this he partly succeeded. He got one foot over, according to calculation, and landed it safely in the canoe. But as for the other – well, a malicious little projecting branch took hold of it by the moccasin, and held on with the innate pertinacity of inanimate things. The canoe wouldn’t wait, so Stranion remained behind with his captive foot. He dropped head-first into the water, whence we rescued him.
The next time we came to an obstruction of this kind Stranion didn’t try to step over it. He stooped to go under it. But another malicious branch now came to the front. The branch was long, strong, and sharp. It reached down, seized the back of Stranion’s shirt, and almost dragged him out of the canoe. Failing in this, – for Stranion’s blood was up, – it ripped the shirt open, and ploughed a long red furrow down his back. It took an ocean of glycerine and arnica to assuage that wound.
On the upper Toledi we found a brisk wind blowing. Hoisting improvised sails, we sped down the lake without labor. On the lower lake (the two sheets of water are separated only by a short “thoroughfare”) the wind failed us, and we had to resume our paddling. It was late in a golden, hazy afternoon when we drew near the outlet.
Here we overhauled an ancient Indian who had been visiting his traps up the lake. We recognized him as one “Old Martin,” a well-known hunter and trapper. He was plying his paddle with philosophic deliberation in the stern of the most dilapidated old canoe I have ever seen afloat. His salutation to us was a grunt; but when we invited him to camp near us and have a bit of supper with us he, quickly became more civil.
Round the camp-fire that night, with a good supper comforting his stomach, Old Martin forgot the red man’s taciturnity. Sam was busy frying tobacco, while the rest of us lounged about in the glow, testing the results of these culinary experiments. It will be remembered that when the upset took place at Squatook Falls, our tobacco was almost all shut up in a certain tin box which we fondly fancied to be water-proof. When the little store in the other canoes was exhausted, we turned to this tin box. Alas, that box was just so far water-proof as to let in the water and keep it from running out! We found a truly delectable mess inside. Sam had undertaken to dry this mess, out of which all the benign quality was pretty well steeped. He pressed it therefore, and rolled it tenderly, and spread it out in the frying-pan over a gentle fire, until it was quite dry. But oh, it was not good to smoke! Keeping a little to trifle with, we bestowed all the rest of it upon the poor Indian, whose untutored mind led him to accept it gratefully. Perchance he threw it away when our backs were turned.
Suddenly Sam’s task was interrupted by a wailing, desolate, and terrible cry, coming apparently from the shores of the upper lake. We gazed at each other with wide eyes, and instinctively drew nearer the fire; while Sam cried, “Ugh, what’s that? it must be Cerberus himself got loose!” Old Martin grunted, “Gluskâp’s hunting-dog! Big storm bime-by, mebbe!” He looked awed, but not afraid. He said it would not come near us. It was heard sometimes in the night and far off, as now, but no man of the present days had ever seen the dog. It ranged up and down throughout these regions, howling for its master, whom now it would never find. For Gluskâp had been struck down in a deep valley north of the St. Lawrence, and a mountain placed upon him, so that neither could he stir nor anybody find him. So Martin explained that grim sound.
We learned afterwards that the cry was one of the rarer utterances of the loon; but had any one told us so that night we would not have believed him. We preferred to accept the weird notion of the faithful phantom hound seeking forever his vanished master, the beneficent Indian demigod.
About the time supper was done the weather had changed. While Sam was frying his tobacco, the soft summery sweetness fled from the air, and a cold wind set in, blowing down out of the north. It was a strange and unseasonable wind, and pierced our bones. We heaped the camp-fire to a threefold height, and huddled in our blankets between the blaze and the lee of the tent. Then Stranion was called on for a story.
TRACKED BY A PANTHER
“Boys,” said he, “the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in mind of one of my best adventures, which befell me that winter when I was trapping on the Little Sou’west Miramichi.”
“Oh, come! Tell us a good summer story, old man,” interrupted Queerman. “I’m half-frozen as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place down in the tropics where they have to cool their porridge with boiling water.”
“Nay,” replied Stranion; “my thoughts are wintry, and even so must my story be.”
He traced in the air a few meditative circles with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed: —
“That was a hard winter of mine on the Little Sou’west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did me good; but, looking back upon it now, I wonder what induced me to undertake it. I got the experience, and I indulged my hobby to the full; but by spring I felt like a barbarian. It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very close to nature; but it is much more sport in summer than in winter, and it’s better when one has good company than when he’s no one to talk to but a preternaturally gloomy Melicite.
“I had Noël with me that winter, – a good hunter and true, but about as companionable as a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the other on the north. The range to the north was in my own charge, and a very big charge it was. When I had any sort of luck, it used to take me a day and a half to make the round; for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out over a range of about twenty miles. But when the traps were not well filled, I used to do it without sleeping away from camp. It’s not much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole, bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end, and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears or Indian devils that might be feeling inquisitive as to whether I would be good eating.
“The snow must have been fully six feet deep that year. One morning near the last of February I had set out on my round, and had made some three miles from our shanty, when I caught sight of a covey of partridges in the distance, and turned out of my way to get a shot at them. It had occurred to me that perchance a brace of them might make savory morsels for my supper. After a considerable détour, I bagged my birds, and recovered my trail near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as I had left them, had been solitary enough; but now I found they were accompanied by the footprints of a large Indian devil.
“I didn’t really expect to get a shot at the beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-cartridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike me as strange that the brute should happen to be going so far in my direction. Step for step his footprints clung to mine. When I reached the place where I had branched off in search of the partridges, I found that the panther had branched off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways to mine could have but one significance. I was being tracked!
“The idea, when it first struck me, struck me with too much force to be agreeable. It was a very unusual proceeding on the part of an Indian devil, displaying a most imperfect conception of the fitness of things. That I should hunt him was proper and customary, but that he should think of hunting me was presumptuous and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should be made to repent it before night.
“The traps were unusually successful that trip, and at last I had to stop and make a cache of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mislead my wily pursuer, who suddenly came out of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree-trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks, not fifty yards away, I was disgusted at his sleuth-hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised my gun to my shoulder, and in another moment would have rid myself of his undesired attentions, but the animal must have caught a gleam from the shining barrels, for he turned like a flash, and buried himself in the nearest thicket.
“It was evident that he did not wish the matter forced to an immediate issue. As a consequence, I decided that it ought to be settled at once. I ran toward the thicket; but at the same time the panther stole out on the other side, and disappeared in the woods.
“Upon this I concluded that he had become scared, and given up his unhallowed purpose. For some hours I dismissed him from my mind, and tended my traps without further apprehension. But about the middle of the afternoon, or a little later, when I had reached the farthest point on my circuit, I once more became impressed with a sense that I was being followed. The impression grew so strong that it weighed upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test. Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I sat down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I suppose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, so that I was about to give it up, and continue my tramp, when – along came the panther! My gun was levelled instantly, but at that same instant the brute had disappeared. His eyes were sharper than mine. ‘Ah!’ said I to myself, ‘I shall have to keep a big fire going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call when I am snoring!’”
“Oh, surely not!” murmured Queerman pensively. The rest of us laughed; but Stranion only waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded silence, and went on: —
“About sundown I met with an unlucky accident, which dampened both my spirits and my powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up its covering of snow, I broke through and was soaked. After fishing myself out with some difficulty, I found my gun was full of water which had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty fix! The weapon was for the present utterly useless. I feared that most of my cartridges were in like condition. The prospect for the night, when the Indian devil should arrive upon the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on miserably for another mile or so, and then prepared to camp.
“First of all, I built such a fire as I thought would impress upon the Indian devil a due sense of my importance and my mysterious powers. At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the water had not penetrated far enough to render them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw as quickly as possible.
“Then I cut enough firewood to blaze all night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted the snow beneath it, and brought it down to the level whereon I was to place my couch. I may say that the ground I had selected was a gentle slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that the melting snow could run off freely. Over my head I fixed a good, firm ‘lean-to’ of spruce saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I secured myself in such a way that the Indian devil could come at me only from the side on which the fire was burning. Such approach, I congratulated myself, would be little to his Catship’s taste.
“By the time my shelter was completed, it was full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy circle about the camp, and presently I discerned the panther gliding in and out among the tree-trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He stared at me with his round green eyes, and I returned the gaze with cold indifference. I was busy putting my gun in order. I would not encourage him, lest he might grow too familiar before I was ready for his reception.
“Between my gleaming walls of snow I had worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical. Away up overhead, among the pine-tops, a few large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far away seemed the world of my friends on whom these same stars were looking down! I wondered how those at home would feel if they could see me there by my solitary camp-fire, watched relentlessly by that prowling and vindictive beast.
“Presently, finding that I made no attack upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to within a dozen paces of the fire. There he crouched down in the snow and glared upon me. I hurled a flaming brand at him, and he sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But the brand spluttered in the snow and went out, whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then I threw another at him; but he regarded it this time with contempt, merely drawing aside to give it room. When it had gone black out, he approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in supremest contempt. Then he came much nearer, so that I thought he was about to spring upon me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the fire.
“By this time the gun was ready for action, but not so the cartridges. They were lying farther from the fire and dangerously near my unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make a diversion at once.
“Selecting a resinous stick into which the fire had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glowing coals, I launched it suddenly with such careful aim that it struck right between the brute’s fore-legs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl, and shrank farther away. When he crouched down, biting the snow, I followed up my advantage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but bounded off among the trees, where I could hear him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while I went back to see to my precious cartridges.
“Before long the panther reappeared at the limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was clear that he had set his heart on making a meal of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design by a few firebrands.
“I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were spoiled; but there were a few loaded with shot which the water had not penetrated. From these I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited for my opponent to recover his confidence. As he seemed content to wait a while, I set about broiling my partridges, for I was becoming clamorously hungry.
“So also was the panther, as it seemed. When the odor of those partridges stole seductively to his nostrils, he once more approached my fire; and this time with an air of stern determination quite different from his former easy insolence.
“The crisis had come. I seized my gun, and knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burning log in such a manner that I could grasp and wield it with both hands in an emergency. Just as the animal drew himself together for a spring, I fired one barrel, – that containing the ball, – and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him full in the breast, and he fell in a heap at my feet.
“As he lay there, struggling and snarling and tearing up the snow, I slipped in another cartridge; and the next moment a bullet in his brain put an end to his miseries.
“After this performance, I ate my partridges with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of the just and the victorious. The skin of that audacious Indian devil lies now in my study, where Sam is continually desecrating it with his irreverent shoes.”
“Good story, Stranion,” said Magnus with grave approval. “The only thing hard to believe is that you should make two such good shots.”
“Well, you see I had to,” responded Stranion. “And now let Magnus give us a hot story to satisfy Queerman.”
“I don’t think I know another tropical yarn,” said Magnus.
“I’ll give you one,” said Sam, “and a bear story it is too. It’s about a scrape I got into when I was down in Florida three years ago, looking after Uncle Bill’s oranges. I’ll call it —
‘AN ADVENTURE IN THE FLORIDA HUMMOCKS.’
“I was boarding at a country house not far from the banks of the Caloosahatchee River, in a district full of game. Most of my time was spent in wandering with gun and dog through the luxuriant woods that clothed the hummocks, and along the edges of the waving savannas or interval meadows. The dog which always accompanied me was a large mongrel, half setter and half Newfoundland, belonging to my landlord. He was plucky and intelligent, but untrained; and I used to take him rather as a companion than as an assistant.
“The soil in Florida is generally very sandy; but in the hummocks, or, as they are more usually called in Florida, ‘hammocks,’ the sand is mixed with clay, and carries a heavy growth of timber. The trees are chiefly dogwood, pine, magnolia, and the several species of oak which grow in the South. These ‘hammocks’ vary in extent from one or two to a thousand or more acres, and in many places the trees are so interlaced with rankly growing vines that one can penetrate the forest only by the narrow cattle-paths leading to the water.
“One afternoon I was threading a path which led through a particularly dense hummock to the bank of a wide, shallow stream, known as Dogwood Creek, a branch of the Caloosahatchee. I carried a light double-barrelled fowling-piece, and was seeking no game more formidable than wild turkeys. My cartridges were loaded with No. 2 shot, but I had taken the precaution to drop a couple of ball-cartridges in among the rest.
“Presently there was a heavy crashing amid the dense undergrowth on my right; and Bruce, the dog, who had dropped a few paces behind, drew quickly up to my side with an angry growl. The hair lifted along his back and between his ears.
“As the crashing rapidly came nearer, – startlingly near, in fact, – I made haste to remove my light cartridges and replace them with ball. But, alas! to unload was one thing, to find one of those two ball-cartridges in the crowded depths of my capacious pocket was quite another. Every cartridge I brought to light was marked, with exasperating plainness, No. 2.
“In my eager haste the perspiration stood out all over my face. I knew well enough what was coming. It was unquestionably a bear. A panther would move more quietly; and a stray steer would cause no such great concern to Bruce. Whatever may have been my emotions, surprise was certainly not among them when, just as I had concluded that those two ball-cartridges must have been a dream, a huge bear, which seemed very angry about something, burst mightily forth into the pathway only three or four yards behind me.
“It was not hard to decide what to do. On either hand was the thicket, to me practically impenetrable; and behind was the bear. Straight ahead I ran at the top of my speed. At the same time I managed to slip a couple of cartridges into my gun. They were just whatever ones came to my hand; but devoutly I hoped against hope that they might prove, when tested, to be those which were loaded with ball.
“For perhaps two or three hundred yards the running was distinctly in my favor, but then the pace began to tell on me. At once I slackened speed, and my pursuer closed in upon me so swiftly that I concluded to try a snap shot.
“Facing about with a sharp yell, I expected the bear to rise on his hind legs and give me a fair chance for a shot. But I had miscalculated my own momentum. The bear, indeed, rose as I expected. But at the same instant I tripped on a root and fell headlong. The gun flew up in the air in a wonderful way, and disappeared in the undergrowth.
“To recover it was, I knew, impossible. Almost before I touched the ground I was on my feet again, and running faster than ever. But what refuge there was for me to run to I knew not, and how the affair was going to end I dared not guess.
“In the first burst of my renewed vigor, and while the bear was recovering from his natural surprise at my extraordinary manœuvre, I had regained my lost ground. All at once, as my breath was about forsaking me, the path opened before my eyes upon a grassy savanna, beyond which shone the waters of Dogwood Creek. At the water’s edge was drawn up an old flat boat, with a pole sticking out over the bow. This craft was evidently used as a ferry to connect with a continuation of the path on the other side of the creek.
“I darted forward, thrust the punt off, and flung myself into it. An energetic push with the pole, and the little craft shot out into the stream. Bruce, meanwhile, ran up along the water’s edge, barking furiously, and the bear pursued him.
“Calling the dog to come to me, I pushed the punt towards him. With a frightened whine, which I did not at the moment understand, he plunged into the water and swam out bravely. The bear hesitated a second or two, and then dashed in after him, raising a tremendous splash.
“When Bruce was within a couple of yards of the boat, I was enlightened as to the cause of his reluctance to take the water. An ugly black snout, not unlike the butt of a water-logged timber, was thrust into view close by; then another, a few feet below the desperately swimming animal; then another, and yet another, till the sullen, whitish surface of the creek was dotted thickly with the heads of alligators. They had evidently been attracted by the sound of Bruce’s barking; and I called to mind some stories I had heard at the house as to the abundance and ferocity of the alligators in Dogwood Creek.
“A sturdy shove on the pole, and I was at Bruce’s side. Reaching over, I seized him by the scruff of the neck, and jerked him into the boat, just as a tremendous swirl in the water behind him showed where an alligator had made a rush for his legs.
“The next instant the snout of the disappointed animal shot up beside the gunwale, to receive a fierce jab from my pole, which made it keep its distance.
“By this time the bear was dangerously near at hand. He was approaching with great wallowing plunges, the water not being deep enough to compel him to swim. I began to pole with all my might, thinking that even yet I was far from being out of the difficulty. With a few thrusts I put a safe distance between myself and my pursuer, but the creek was not wide enough to enable me to gain any very great head start in this way. In a most discontented frame of mind I had almost reached the landing, when suddenly it occurred to me that really there was no necessity for me to land at once. I could pole up and down the creek, and dodge the bear until he should get tired and give up the chase. With this purpose I thrust out again boldly into mid-stream.
“The bear was now almost half-way across, but those black snouts were closing about him ominously. Indeed, the animal must have been blinded with rage, or he would never have ventured into the deadly stream. In a moment, however, it seemed to dawn upon him that he had got himself into trouble. He stopped with an uneasy sort of whine. Then he turned, and made for the shore as fast as he could.
“But it was too late for him to escape in that way. His path was blocked by several of the great reptiles, whose appetites were now thoroughly aroused. I thought to myself, ‘If that bear is game, there’s going to be a lively time around here just now.’
“And he was game. True, seeing that the odds were so overwhelmingly against him, he had at first tried to avoid the combat. But now that he was fairly in for it, he acquitted himself in a way that soon won my sympathetic admiration, and made me forget that but a moment before he had been thirsting for my own blood.
“With a huge grunt of indignant defiance, the bear hurled himself upon the nearest alligator. On the massive armor of the reptile’s back even his powerful claws made slight impression; but with one paw he reached to the soft under-side of the throat, and the water was suddenly crimsoned, as the alligator, lashing the surface with his tail, made off and took refuge in a bed of reeds.
“At the same instant, however, the jaws of another assailant closed upon the animal’s flank. With a roar he rose straight up in the water, shaking himself so mightily that his adversary’s hold was broken. Then he threw his whole bulk on another which was advancing against him in front. The alligator was borne under and disappeared, probably forever hors de combat, and the bear gained several yards toward safety. Then others crowded in upon him, and his progress was stopped.
“Up to this time my sympathies had naturally been with the alligators, to whom I owed my release from an embarrassing situation. Now, however, I felt myself going over to the side of the bear. I hated to see the splendid, though to me very objectionable, brute thus at the mercy of a horde of ravening reptiles.
“Again shaking off his assailants, the bear seemed merely bent on selling his life as dearly as possible. Rising on his hindquarters, he faced toward the centre of the stream, where his foes were most numerous. What tremendous buffeting blows he dealt, and how the strong knife-edged hooks of his claws searched out the unarmored spots on his adversaries! In my excitement I pushed perilously near, and if I had had my lost gun I should certainly have taken a hand in the contest myself. I would have given a good deal at that moment to be able to help the bear.
“But the odds were too great for any strength or pluck to long contend against. Before many minutes the bear was dragged under, and there was nothing to be seen but a heaving, lashing, foaming mass of alligators. On the outskirts of the mêlée swam a few hungry reptiles, who could not get in to the division of the spoils. These presently turned their attention to the boat, purposing to console themselves with Bruce and me.
“Awaking to the peril of the situation, I began poling hurriedly toward the landing-place whence I had first started. But almost instantly I was surrounded with alligators. Excited and enraged from their battle with the bear, they were much more formidable than at ordinary times. I had great reason to be thankful for the skill in poling which I had acquired in the birch-bark canoes of our Northern rivers. Dodging some of my assailants, I beat off others with the pole, thrusting fiercely at their wicked little eyes, which is the surest way to daunt them.
“All at once there was a wild yelp from Bruce, and the punt reeled sharply. The gunwale went under water, and I was all but pitched out head-first into the swarm of alligators. My heart was in my mouth as, with a swift and violent motion of the pole, I recovered my balance, and steadied the boat. But with all my terror I had room for a pang of grief as I saw that poor Bruce had been dragged overboard.
“The capture of the dog, however, was probably my salvation. The alligators which were in front of the boat darted into the scramble which was taking place over the new victim, and I saw a clear space between me and the safety of the shore. Desperately I surged on the pole, and the light craft shot in among the sedges. As the prow lifted onto solid ground, several of the long snouts rose over the stern, snapping greedily; but I had bounded forward like lightning, and was beyond their reach in a second. I paused not till I was clear of the savanna and among the timber.
“Throwing myself down on the reeking mould of the path, I lay there till I had recovered my breath, and a measure of my equanimity. Then, after finding my gun in the depths of a mimosa thicket, I wended my way homeward, much depressed over the fate of Bruce.”
“Talking of dogs,” said Queerman, “I’ll tell you a story with a dog in it. And it’s got other things in it too. A college story, by way of a change. Come to think of it, though we are all college men, there has been very little in our stories to indicate the fact.”
“By all means, Kelly Queerman,” said Sam, “let’s have the college story at once!”
“Well, to give it a proper scholastic flavor, I will entitle it —
‘THE JUNIOR LATIN SCHOLARSHIP.’
“The sunshine of mid-May streamed alluringly into the great stone portico of the old college of X – . The wide-winged gray edifice stood on a high terrace just under the crest of the hill, its ample windows looking down over the topmost boughs of ash and elm and maple over the roofs and spires of the little university town of X – , and out to the broad blue curve of the placid river. On the steps, lounged a group of students, members of the Senior and Junior years. Several of the loiterers stood close to the open, arched door, and from time to time glanced expectantly into the hall. A large black dog, a cross between Spitz and Newfoundland, lay in the centre of the hall, assiduously licking at a small but angry wound on his leg.