The Backwoodsmen

Lying flat on her stomach behind the door, Lidey stared out through the narrow crack with eyes that seemed starting from her head. Out there in the clear glitter of the moonlight she saw the wolves go prowling savagely to and fro, and heard their steps as they cautiously circled the hut, seeking another entrance. They kept about five or six feet distant from it at first, so suspicious were they of that man smell that had greeted the leader’s first attempt at investigation. When they had prowled about the hut for several minutes, they all sat down on their haunches before the door and seemed to deliberate. The child felt their dreadful eyes piercing her through and through, as they searched her out through the crack and penetrated her vain hiding.

Suddenly, while the eyes of all the pack were flaming upon her, she saw the leader come swiftly forward and thrust his fierce snout right against the crack of the door. In a sort of madness she struck at it with her little, mittened hand. The wolf, apparently still disconcerted by the man smell that greeted his nostrils, sprang back warily. Then the whole pack drew a foot or two closer to the open doorway. Ravenous though they were, they were not yet assured that the hut was not a trap. They were not yet quite ready to crawl in and secure their prey. But gradually they were edging nearer. A few moments more and the leader, no less crafty than savage, would creep in. Already he had accustomed himself to the menace of that scent. Now, he did creep in, as far as the middle of his body, investigating. His red jaws and long, white teeth appeared around the edge of the door. At the sight Lidey’s voice returned to her. Shrinking back against the farthest wall, she gave shriek after shriek that seemed to tear the dreadful stillness. In the madness of her terror she hardly noticed that the wolf’s head was suddenly withdrawn.

III

When Dave Patton set out for the Settlement, he found the snow-shoeing so good, the biting air so bracing, and his own heart so light with hope and health, that he was able to make the journey in something less than a day and a half. Out of this time he had allowed himself four hours for sleep, in an old lumber camp beside the trail. At the Settlement, which boasted several miscellaneous stores, where anything from a baby’s rattle to a bag of fertilizer or a bedroom suite could be purchased, he had no difficulty in gathering such gay-coloured trifles, together with more lasting gifts, as he thought would meet Lidey’s anticipations. When he went to his wife’s people, he found that all had something to add to his Santa Claus pack, for Mary as well as for the little one; and he hugged himself with elation at the thought of what a Christmas there was going to be in the lonely wilderness cabin. He had bought two or three things for his wife; and when he shouldered his pack, slinging it high and strapping it close that it might not flop with his rapid stride, he found the burden no light one. But the lightness of his heart made compensation.

That night he took but two hours’ sleep in the old lumber camp, aiming to reach home soon after noon. In the morning, however, things began to go wrong. First the pack, as packs sometimes will for no visible reason, developed a kink that galled his shoulders obstinately. Again and again he paused and tried to readjust it. But in vain. Finally he had to stop, undo the bundle, and rearrange every article in it, before he could induce it to “carry” smoothly.

Half an hour later, as he turned a step off the trail to get a drink at a bubbling spring, that kept open all through the bitterest winter, he caught his snowshoe on a buried branch and fell forward, breaking the frame. In his angry impatience he attempted no more than a temporary repair of the damage, such as he thought might see him to the end of his journey. But the poor makeshift broke down before he had gone a mile. There was nothing for him to do but to stop long enough to make a good job of it, which he did by chopping out a piece of ash, whittling down a couple of thin but tough strips, and splicing the break securely with the strong “salmon twine” that he always carried. Even so, he realized that to avoid further delay he would have to go cautiously and humour the mend. And soon he had to acknowledge to himself that it would be long after supper-time, long after Lidey’s bed-time, before he could get home.

As the moon rose, he was accompanied by his shadow, a gigantic and grotesque figure that danced fantastically along the snow before him. As the moon climbed the icy heaven, the shadow shortened and acquired more sobriety of demeanour. Plodding doggedly onward, too tired to think, Dave amused himself with the antics of the shadow, which seemed responsible for a portion of the crisp music that came from his snowshoes.

From this careless reverie Dave was suddenly aroused by a ghost of sound that drifted towards him through the trees. It was a long, wailing cry, which somehow stirred the roots of his hair. He did not recognize it. But he felt that it was nothing human. It came from somewhere between himself and home, however; and he instinctively quickened his steps, thinking with satisfaction of the snug and well-warmed cabin that sheltered his dear ones.

Presently the long cry sounded again, nearer and clearer now, and tremulous. Dave had heard wolves before, in Labrador and in the West. Had he not been quite sure that wolves were unknown in this part of the country, he would have sworn that the sound was the hunting cry of a wolf-pack. But the idea was impossible. He had no sooner made up his mind to this, however, than the cry was repeated once more. Thereupon Dave reluctantly changed his mind. That the sound meant wolves was not only possible, but certain. It filled him with resentment to think that those ravening marauders had come into the country.

It was soon manifest to Dave’s initiated ears that the wolves were coming directly towards him. But he gathered, too, that they were in pursuit of some quarry. Dave had the eastern woodsman’s contempt for wolves, unless in a very large pack; and he soon decided that this pack was a small one. He did not think that it would dare to face him. Nevertheless, he recognized the remote possibility of their being so hungry as to forget their dread of man. That in such case his axe would be an all-sufficient defence he did not doubt. But he was in a fierce hurry to get home. He did not want to be stopped and forced into any fight. For a moment he thought of turning off through the woods and giving these night foragers a wide berth. Then he remembered his uncertain snowshoes. The snow would be very soft off the trail, and there would be the chance of breaking the shoe again. Who was he, to be turned out of his path by a bunch of wild curs? It was the snow-shoe that settled it. He set his jaws grimly, unslung his axe, and pressed forward. The clamour of the pack was now so near and loud that it quite drowned one single, piercing cry of “Father!” that would otherwise have reached his ears. There was a new note in the howling, too, which Dave’s ear interpreted as meaning that the quarry was in sight. Then the noise stopped abruptly, save for an impatient yelp or two.

“Whatever it be they’re after, it’s took to cover,” said Dave to himself. “An’ in the old shanty, too!” he added, as he saw the little patch of clearing open before him.

Realizing that the wolves had something to occupy fully their attention, he now crept noiselessly forward just within the edge of the wood. Peering forth from behind the cover of a drooping hemlock branch, he saw the roof of the hut, the half-open doorway nearly choked with snow, and the wolves prowling and sniffing around it, but keeping a couple of yards away.

“Scairt of a trap!” he thought to himself with a grin, and cursed his luck that he had not his rifle with him.

“A couple o’ them thick, grey pelts,” he thought–“what a coat they’d make for the little one!”

There were six wolves, and big ones–enough to make things look pretty ugly for one man with only an axe. Dave was glad they had something to keep them from turning their attention to him. He watched them for a few moments, then decided to go around by the other side of the clearing and avoid trouble.

He drew back as silently as a lynx. Where the woods overhead were thick, the snow was soft, with no crispness on the surface; and instead of the crunching that his steps made on the trail, here the snow made no sound under his feet but a sort of thick sigh.

Dave had taken several paces in retreat, when an idea flashed up that arrested him. Why were the wolves so wary about entering the hut, when their quarry was certainly inside? Their dread of a trap was not, of itself, quite enough to explain their caution. The thought gave him a qualm of uneasiness. He would return and have another look at them! Then his impatience got the better of him. Mary and the little one were waiting and watching for him at home. He retreated another pace or two. What should he be doing, wasting his time over a parcel of wolves that had got a fox cornered in the old shanty? Dave felt sure it was a fox. But no! He could not escape the conviction–much as he wished to–that if the fugitive were a fox, or any other animal of the north-eastern woods, it would not take six hungry wolves much more than six seconds to get over their suspicions and go in after him. What if it should be some half-starved old Indian, working his way into the Settlement after bad luck with his hunting and his trapping! Whoever it was, he had no gun, or there would have been shooting before this. Dave saw that he must go back and look into the matter. But he was angry at this new delay. Cursing the wolves, and the Indian who didn’t know enough to take care of himself, Dave stole back to his covert behind the hemlock branch, and peered forth once more, no longer interested, but aggrieved.

The wolves were now sitting on their haunches around the hut door. Their unusual behaviour convinced him that there was a man inside. Well, there was no getting around the fact that he was in for a fight. He only hoped that the chap inside was some good, and would have “somethin’ to say fer himself, darn him!” Dave gently lowered the bundle from his back, and threw off his thick coat to allow his arms freer play.

It was at this moment that the leader of the pack made up his mind to crawl into the hut.

As the wolf’s head entered the low opening, Dave gripped his axe, thrust aside the hemlock branch, and silently darted forth into the clearing. He did not shout, for he wanted to take his enemies, as far as possible, unawares. He had but a score of yards to go. So intent were they upon their leader’s movements that Dave was almost upon them ere they heeded the sound of his coming. Then they looked around. Three shrank back, startled at the tall and threatening shape. But two sprang at his throat with snapping jaws. The first met the full sweep of his axe, in the chest and dropped in a heap. The second dodged a short blow and warily drew back again. Then, from within the darkness of the hut, came those screams of the madness of terror.

For one beat Dave’s heart stopped. He knew the voice!

The big wolf was just backing out. He turned, jerking himself around like a loosed spring, as he saw Dave towering over him. But he was not in time. The axe descended, sheering his haunches across, and he stretched out, working his great jaws convulsively. Dave saw that the jaws had no blood upon them, and his own blood returned to his heart. He had come in time. The screams within the hut died into piteous sobs.

Across Dave’s mind flamed a vision of the agony of horror that Lidey had been suffering since first those howlings fell upon his ears. His heart-break transformed itself into a mad rage of vengeance. As he turned, with a hoarse shout, upon the rest of the pack, he felt a hot breath on his neck, and bare fangs snapped savagely within an inch of his throat. His assailant sprang back in time to escape the deadly sweep of the axe, but at the same instant the other three were leaping in. One of these caught a glancing blow, which drove him off, snarling. But the other two were so close that there was no time for Dave to recover. Instinctively he jabbed a short back-stroke with the end of the axe-handle, and caught one of his assailants in the belly. Sickened, and daunted by this unexpected form of reprisal, the brute hunched itself with a startled yelp and ran off with its tail between its legs. At the same moment, dropping the axe, Dave caught the other wolf fairly by the throat. The gripping hand was a kind of weapon that the beast had never learned to guard against, and it was taken at a disadvantage. With a grunt of fury and of effort Dave closed his grip inexorably, braced himself, and swung the heavy brute off its feet. Whirling it clear around his head, he let go. The animal flew sprawling and twisting through the air, and came down on its back ten feet away. When it landed, there was no more fight left in it. Before Dave could reach it with his axe it was up and away in a panic after its two remaining fellows.

Breathing heavily from his effort and from the storm of emotion still surging in his breast, Dave turned to the hut door and called–

“Lidey! Lidey! Are you there?”

“Popsie! Oh, popsie, dear! I thought you weren’t goin’ to come!” cried a quivering little voice. And the child crept out into the moonlight.

“Oh, popsie!” she sobbed, hiding her eyes in his neck as he crushed her to his heart, “they were goin’ to eat me up, an’ I thought you wouldn’t ever come!”

IV

With the bundle on his back and Lidey in his arms, Dave strode homeward, his weariness forgotten. His first anxiety about his wife was somewhat eased when he learned that Lidey had left her asleep; for he remembered that a heavy sleep always marked the end of one of her attacks. He only hoped that the sleep would hold her until they got home, for his heart sank at the thought of her terror if she should wake and find Lidey gone. As they came out on the edge of the clearing, and saw that all was quiet in the cabin, Dave said–

“We won’t tell mother nothin’ about the wolves to-night, sweetie, eh? It ’ld jest git her all worked up, an’ she couldn’t stand it when she’s sick. We won’t say nothin’ about that till to-morrow!”

“Yes!” murmured Lidey, “she’d be awful scairt!”

They were then about halfway up the slope, when from the cabin came a frightened cry of “Lidey! Lidey!” The door was flung open, the lamplight streamed out in futile contest with the moonlight, and Mrs. Patton appeared. Her face was white with fear. As she saw Dave and the little one hurrying towards her, both hands went to her heart in the extremity of her relief, and she sank back into a chair before the door.

Dave kicked off his snow-shoes with a dexterous twist, stepped inside, slammed the door, and with a laugh and a kiss deposited Lidey in her mother’s lap.

“She jest run down to meet me!” explained Dave, truthfully but deceptively.

“Oh, girlie, how you frightened me!” cried the woman, divided between tears and smiles. “I woke up, Dave, an’ found her gone; an’ bein’ kind o’ bewildered, I couldn’t understand it!”

She clung to his hand, while he looked tenderly down into her face.

“Poor little woman!” he murmured, “you’ve had a bad turn ag’in, Lidey tells me. Better now, eh?”

“I’m plumb all right ag’in, Dave, now you’re back,” she answered, squeezing his hand hard. “But land’s sakes, Dave, how ever did you git all that blood on your pants?”

“Oh,” said the man, lightly, “that’s nothin.’ Tell you about it bime-by. I’m jest starvin’ now. Let’s have supper quick, and then give old Mr. Sandy Claus a chance. Tomorrow we’re going to have the greatest Christmas ever was, us three!”

The Gentling of Red McWha

I

It was heavy sledding on the Upper Ottanoonsis trail. The two lumbermen were nearing the close of the third day of the hard four days’ haul in from the Settlements to the camp. At the head of the first team, his broad jaw set and his small grey eyes angry with fatigue, trudged the big figure of Red McWha, choosing and breaking a way through the deep snow. With his fiery red head and his large red face, he was the only one of his colouring in a large family so dark that they were known as the “Black McWhas,” and his temper seemed to have been chronically soured by the singularity of his type. But he was a good woodsman and a good teamster, and his horses followed confidently at his heels like dogs. The second team was led by a tall, gaunt-jawed, one-eyed lumberman named Jim Johnson, but invariably known as “Walley.” From the fact that his blind eye was of a peculiar blankness, like whitish porcelain, he had been nicknamed “Wall-Eye”; but, owing to his general popularity, combined with the emphatic views he held on that particular subject, the name had been mitigated to Walley.

The two were hauling in supplies for Conroy’s Camp, on Little Ottanoonsis Lake. Silently, but for the clank and creak of the harness, and the soft “thut, thut” of the trodden snow, the little procession toiled on through the soundless desolation. Between the trees–naked birches and scattered, black-green firs–filtered the lonely, yellowish-violet light of the fading winter afternoon. When the light had died into ghostly grey along the corridors of the forest, the teams rounded a turn of the trail, and began to descend the steep slope which led down to Joe Godding’s solitary cabin on the edge of Burnt Brook Meadows. Presently the dark outline of the cabin came into view against the pallor of the open clearing.

But there was no light in the window. No homely pungency of wood-smoke breathed welcome on the bitter air. The cabin looked startlingly deserted.

“Whoa!” commanded McWha, sharply, and glanced round at Johnson with an angry misgiving in his eyes. The teams came to a stop with a shiver of all their bells.

Then, upon the sudden stillness, arose the faint sound of a child’s voice, crying hopelessly.

“Something wrong down yonder!” growled McWha, his expectations of a hot supper crumbling into dust.

As he spoke, Walley Johnson sprang past him and went loping down the hill with long, loose strides like a moose.

Red McWha followed very deliberately with the teams. He resented anything emotional. And he was prepared to feel himself aggrieved.

When he reached the cabin door the sound of weeping had stopped. Inside he found Walley Johnson on his knees before the stove, hurriedly lighting a fire. Wrapped in his coat, and clutching his arm as if afraid he might leave her, stood a tiny, flaxen-haired child, perhaps five years old. The cabin was cold, almost as cold as the snapping night outside. Along the middle of the floor, with bedclothes from the bunk heaped awkwardly upon it in the little one’s efforts to warm it back to responsive life, sprawled rigidly the lank body of Joe Godding.

Red McWha stared for a moment in silence, then stooped, examined the dead man’s face, and felt his breast.

“Deader’n a herring!” he muttered.

“Yes! the poor old shike-poke!” answered Johnson, without looking up from his task.

“Heart?” queried McWha, laconically.

Johnson made no reply till the flame caught the kindling and rushed inwards from the open draught with a cordial roar. Then he stood up.

“Don’ know about that,” said he. “But he’s been dead these hours and hours! An’ the fire out! An’ the kid most froze! A sick man like he was, to’ve kept the kid alone here with him that way!” And he glanced down at the dead figure with severe reprobation.

“Never was much good, that Joe Godding!” muttered McWha, always critical.

As the two woodsmen discussed the situation, the child, a delicate-featured, blue-eyed girl, was gazing up from under her mop of bright hair, first at one, then at the other. Walley Johnson was the one who had come in answer to her long wailing, who had hugged her close, and wrapped her up, and crooned over her in his pity, and driven away the terrors. But she did not like to look at him, though his gaunt, sallow face was strong and kind.

People are apt to talk easy generalities about the intuition of children! As a matter of fact, the little ones are not above judging quite as superficially and falsely as their elders. The child looked at her protector’s sightless eye, then turned away and sidled over to McWha with one hand coaxingly outstretched. McWha’s mouth twisted sourly. Without appearing to see the tiny hand, he deftly evaded it. Stooping over the dead man, he picked him up, straightened him out decently on his bunk, and covered him away from sight with the blankets.

“Ye needn’t be so crusty to the kid, when she wants to make up to ye!” protested Walley, as the little one turned back to him with a puzzled look in her tearful blue eyes.

“It’s all alike they be, six, or sixteen, or sixty-six!” remarked McWha, sarcastically, stepping to the door. “I don’t want none of ’em! Ye kin look out for ’er! I’m for the horses.”

“Don’t talk out so loud,” admonished the little one. “You’ll wake Daddy. Poor Daddy’s sick!”

“Poor lamb!” murmured Johnson, folding her to his great breast with a pang of pity. “No; we won’t wake daddy. Now tell me, what’s yer name?”

“Daddy called me Rosy-Lilly!” answered the child, playing with a button on Johnson’s vest. “Is he gettin’ warmer now? He was so cold, and he wouldn’t speak to Rosy-Lilly.”

“Rosy-Lilly it be!” agreed Johnson. “Now we jest won’t bother daddy, him bein’ so sick! You an’ me’ll git supper.”

The cabin was warm now, and on tiptoe Johnson and Rosy-Lilly went about their work, setting the table, “bilin’ the tea,” and frying the bacon. When Red McWha came in from the barn, and stamped the snow from his feet, Rosy-Lilly said “Hush!” laid her finger on her lip, and glanced meaningly at the moveless shape in the bunk.

“We mus’ let ’im sleep, Rosy-Lilly says,” decreed Johnson, with an emphasis which penetrated McWha’s unsympathetic consciousness, and elicited a non-committal grunt.

When supper was ready, Rosy-Lilly hung around him for a minute or two before dragging her chair up to the table. She evidently purposed paying him the compliment of sitting close beside him and letting him cut her bacon for her. But finding that he would not even glance at her, she fetched a deep sigh, and took her place beside Johnson. When the meal was over and the dishes had been washed up, she let Johnson put her to bed in her little bunk behind the stove. She wanted to kiss her father for good-night, as usual; but when Johnson insisted that to do so might wake him up, and be bad for him, she yielded tearfully; and they heard her sobbing herself to sleep.

For nearly an hour the two men smoked in silence, their steaming feet under the stove, their backs turned towards the long, unstirring shape in the big bunk. At last Johnson stood up and shook himself.

“Well,” he drawled, “I s’pose we mus’ be doin’ the best we kin fer poor old Joe.”

“He ain’t left us no ch’ice!” snapped McWha.

“We can’t leave him here in the house,” continued Johnson, irresolutely.

“No, no!” answered McWha. “He’d ha’nt it, an’ us, too, ever after, like as not. We got to give ’im lumberman’s shift, till the Boss kin send and take ’im back to the Settlement for the parson to do ’im up right an’ proper.”

So they rolled poor Joe Godding up in one of the tarpaulins which covered the sleds, and buried him deep in the snow, under the big elm behind the cabin, and piled a monument of cordwood above him, so that the foxes and wild cats could not disturb his lonely sleep, and surmounted the pile with a rude cross to signify its character. Then, with lighter hearts, they went back to the cabin fire, which seemed to burn more freely now that the grim presence of its former master had been removed.

“Now what’s to be done with the kid–with Rosy-Lilly?” began Johnson.

Red McWha took his pipe from his mouth, and spat accurately into the crack of the grate to signify that he had no opinion on that important subject.

“They do say in the Settlements as how Joe Godding hain’t kith nor kin in the world, savin’ an’ exceptin’ the kid only,” continued Johnson.

McWha nodded indifferently.

“Well,” went on Johnson, “we can’t do nawthin’ but take her on to the camp now. Mebbe the Boss’ll decide she’s got to go back to the Settlement, along o’ the fun’ral. But mebbe he’ll let the hands keep her, to kinder chipper up the camp when things gits dull. I reckon when the boys sees her sweet face they’ll all be wantin’ to be guardeens to her.”