The Outdoor Chums in the Big Woods: or, Rival Hunters of Lumber Run

“I figured that three fat partridges would be about as much as any fellow cared to carry; and, if you should bag another, that’d make it complete. So forget it, and be on the watch.”

That was Frank’s way, and Bluff knew it was no use trying to make him change his plans. There was not a selfish bone in Frank Langdon’s body – even his worst enemy would admit that much.

Before ten minutes had passed the chance came whereby Bluff was enabled to fill out his assortment of partridges, so that every camper could have one.

“That was a fine shot, Bluff!” Frank told him, when he had seen how the spinning bird dropped like a stone the instant the gun was discharged.

“That’s nice of you to say, Frank; sometimes I do manage to get where I aim.”

They had to rest several times while on the way home. Finally the cabin near the bank of the partly frozen creek was reached. Jerry spied them coming, and at once set up a yell.

“Come out here, Will; hurry up!”

Immediately the other came flying into view. He carried his camera in his hand, and there was a startled expression on his face.

“It isn’t fair to give a fellow a scare like that, Jerry,” he said reproachfully. “I certainly thought a bear had you up a tree, and I hoped to get the picture. It would have been the prize of my collection, too. Now it turns out that it’s only Frank and Bluff coming home from their hunt.”

“Well, that ought to make a good scene for a picture, oughtn’t it?” Jerry demanded. “See what they’ve got with them, will you? A big pack that contains venison, I know, because that’s a deer-skin it’s wrapped in. And see Bluff fairly staggering under his load of game. Boys, we’re proud of you.”

“Now we can begin to live like real hunters,” Will remarked, after he had clicked his camera deftly, getting the proper light on the returned chums. “With partridge and venison hung up we’ll be in clover. All I’d like to see now would be a haunch of bear meat alongside.”

Of course they must have plenty of the fruits of the hunt for supper that night. The birds were immediately prepared and baked in an oven that Frank showed them how to make, using a hole dug in the ground.

“This way of baking game is an old hunter’s trick,” said Frank, while he was excavating the oven, “and has been known among Indians and others for nobody can tell how long. You see, it might be called the origin of the up-to-date ‘fireless cookers.’ It is made very hot, and then the food sealed in it so that the heat gradually does the business.”

The others knew something about the method, although they had possibly never been in a position to see the thing in operation. Frank burned a special kind of hard wood in his oven until he had a bed of glowing ashes. These he took out, and then the four partridges, plucked and ready for eating, were wrapped in some clean muslin Frank produced from his pack, and which had been previously dampened.

After that the oven was sealed up the best way they could. As the frost had not as yet penetrated more than an inch below the surface of the ground, digging had not been found unduly difficult, using a camp hatchet to hew the crust.

Hours later, when the oven was opened, it still retained an astonishing amount of the heat that had been sealed up in it. The birds they found cooked through and through.

“The very best way of preparing partridges that can be found, I think,” was the comment of Will, who had read several cook-books at home and had a jumble of their contents in his mind.

“It certainly has made these birds mighty tender and sweet,” confessed Jerry, as he pulled his prize apart with hardly any effort.

“Things cooked in this way are always made tender,” Frank told them. “A tough steak made ready for the table in a fireless cooker will be as nice as the most costly porterhouse is when broiled or fried. The only thing I object to is that it never seems to have that nice brown look, and the taste that I like most of all. It’s more after the style of a stew to me.”

As the four partridges were only skimpy “racks” when the boys tossed them aside, it can be readily inferred that all the campers enjoyed the feast abundantly. Indeed, they even had some of the venison as a side dish; this was cooked in the frying-pan after the usual manner.

“Might as well have enough game while about it,” Bluff remarked. “And let me say right here and now that this sort of thing tastes a heap finer when you’ve had the privilege of knocking over the game yourself; or it’s been done by the party you’re with.”

When finally they had eaten until no one could contain another bite, the boys, as was their habit, drew around the crackling fire, and started discussing their affairs, as well as other matters that came up.

Frank had warned Bluff that it might be just as well if they kept still about the series of shots they had heard, accompanied by faint shouts that might have stood for either triumph or excitement.

To his chagrin Jerry himself introduced the topic.

“While you were gone, fellows,” he went on to remark, “Will and I were prowling around near here to find a good place to set his flashlight trap camera to-night, when we heard a regular row some distance over there. Must have been as many as five or six shots in rapid succession, and some hollering, too.”

As the cat was now out of the bag, Frank felt there was no need of keeping secret the fact that they, too, had heard the series of shots.

“Yes, we caught it just after we’d got our partridges, and before we raised the buck,” he confessed; “I didn’t mean to say anything about it, because there seemed no need; but since you’re wise to the fact we can talk about it.”

“It must have been that Nackerson crowd, don’t you think?” asked Will.

“There can be no question about that,” Frank replied.

“They started a deer, and were peppering away at him in great shape, of course?” suggested Jerry.

“That sounds like the explanation,” he was told; “but then the same shooting would have followed the discovery of a lynx, or perhaps a black bear in a tree. All we can be sure about is that we want to fight shy of that country over there. We can hunt a different field; and I’m in hopes that by doing so we’ll miss running across those men all the time we’re up here.”

“Now, Frank, you remember you told us to remind you of something?” Jerry remarked when the conversation flagged.

“You mean about this wonderful woods country up in the State of Maine,” Frank went on, smiling as though the task he had been called on to shoulder pleased him, since he was a native of the State, and loved it dearly.

“Yes; something about the strange ways you said there were for men to make a living in the woods,” Bluff added.

CHAPTER IX – THE WONDERLAND OF MAINE

“I’ve already spoken about the professional honey hunter,” began Frank, “who puts in a lot of his time summers roaming the woods in certain sections, always on the lookout for bees working in the blossoms or flowers.”

“Yes,” Will broke in, “and we know how they find the hives in dead limbs of trees, by trailing working bees. They catch a bee that’s loaded with honey, or sugar water supplied by the bee hunter, and attach a little white stuff to him. This they can see for a long distance as he makes a beeline for his home.”

“That’s right, because I watched a chap doing it once,” Bluff asserted. “He kept edging closer and closer with every bee he marked, till in the end he found the hive. I saw him take a heap of good honey out of that tree, and I got beautifully stung in the bargain.”

“Then there’s the man who gathers the crooked wood that ship carpenters use for making boats’ knees,” Frank continued, marking with his fingers as he spoke. “Nearly every small boat has to have just so many. They’re mighty hard to get, even after you’ve run across the right juniper or hackmatack, because it’s necessary that they should be of a certain shape.”

“That’s sure a queer occupation,” remarked Jerry.

“Of course, there are lots of trappers up here who work all winter,” Frank observed, “just as we know our old friend, Jesse Wilcox, does out where we live. But the furs they get here are pretty valuable, though not bringing quite as high a price as others taken up in Canada and the Northwest.”

“How’s that?” demanded Bluff.

“Stop and think a minute,” he was told, “and you’ll understand why it should be so. The colder the climate the more need of a heavy coat of fur. Now, take the common raccoon that is found all over the eastern section of our country. The animal down in the Gulf region grows a poor thin coat beside the one that has to stand a spell of winter weather up here.”

“Oh, I see now, plain enough!” Bluff exclaimed.

“Trust Nature to look out for her children,” remarked sentimental Will.

“She always does,” Frank told him seriously. “That’s why certain animals in the far North change their coats with the coming of winter. From gray or brown they take on a snow-white fur. That’s intended either to help them escape from their enemies in the midst of the snow, or else to assist them in creeping up on their food supply.”

“Yes,” broke in Jerry, “and when we were down at New Orleans and caught some saltwater fish for a change, didn’t they tell us that certain ground fish like the flounder is white underneath, where it doesn’t count, but mud-colored on top? That looks as though Nature wanted to protect him as he lay on the bottom of the shallow bayous and flooded places.”

“Then,” continued Frank, “there are the Indians, who act as guides to parties of sportsmen in the summer fishing and in the fall hunting. Their women make baskets, and lots of other pretty things, using colored grasses and porcupine quills, and sell them to the guests at the hotels in the State.”

“How about the spruce gum hunters, Frank?” Bluff asked.

“I’m coming to them right now,” replied the other. “That’s one of the most interesting employments in the Maine woods – gathering the gum of the spruce trees. Of course you know it’s used in making some kinds of chewing gum for the girls.”

“Yes, and some boys are just as bad about using the stuff,” Bluff went on, in a scornful tone. It happened that he himself had recently graduated from the ranks of chewers.

“These fellows keep on the move pretty much all the year,” Frank told them. “A gum hunter has to cover his field about once in so often. He must have pretty good eyes, or he couldn’t discover where the sticky mass hangs on the side of tall trees. Some of them use field-glasses in their work, and I don’t blame them much.”

“I should think that would help out considerably,” Will commented, doubtless remembering how difficult it often was for the unaccustomed eye to tell whether a certain protuberance far up on a tree trunk was a boll or a woodpecker flattened out at his hammering work.

“It’s a paying business, if only they can pick up enough gum,” Frank explained. “They get as high as a dollar and a half a pound for the stuff. As a rule they go in couples, because there is often need of help. And they work far away from civilization, so it must be lonely at times.”

“But that isn’t all, Frank, I take it?” queried Bluff.

“Why,” replied the other, “I’ve hardly begun to tell you about the scores of things that are going on up here in these wonderful woods, pretty much the year round. Perhaps you’ve never bothered your heads about finding out where all the hoop poles come from. They use millions of them every year, and the supply is inexhaustible, even if it does take time and trouble to gather it.”

“Then that’s one of the Maine woods’ industries, is it?” questioned Will.

“A big one,” Frank answered promptly. “You know that after certain trees like birch and ash are cut down, the roots throw up sprouts a-plenty.”

“Yes; I’ve seen regular little forests of them, many a time,” Bluff replied.

“Well, that’s where the harvest of the hoop pole man comes in,” Frank continued. “He follows the path where the loggers have gone a year or two before. Of course, his work makes it necessary for him to have a horse, so as to carry his day’s gathering to a central point, where it can be shipped.”

“Do they fetch the stuff out just as it’s cut?” asked Jerry.

“Not as a rule,” Frank answered. “At night the men sit by the fire, and spend the time in talking, while they use their shavers to take the bark off the poles. Later on these poles are split at the factories and used for barrels, kegs, and orange boxes.”

“The men who gather them don’t get rich at the job, I reckon,” Bluff commented, at a hazard, seeking still more information concerning this wonderful country which he had never dreamed could produce so many strange livelihoods.

“Oh, they get a few cents apiece for the poles,” said Frank, “but as they work steadily, and there are no labor agitators to call them out on strike, I guess they make it pay. Another strange business up here is getting ax-handles.”

“Gee whiz! doesn’t it beat the Dutch about that?” chuckled Bluff. “Like every other fellow, I’ve often wondered where they got all those fine ax-handles that come to our town. So here’s where they come from? I’m glad to know it.”

“A fair part of the supply comes from up around Maine,” Frank told him. “The woods roamer needs the best quality of ash for his business. He hunts over a large territory to find just what he wants. In the fall of the year the trees are dropped, and in a rough way each handle is shaped by a tool they call a ‘froe.’ After that they keep them underground for a time.”

“What’s that – bury the handles?” remarked Will wonderingly.

“Just to season the wood so it will not crack,” Frank explained. “Of course, after all this the finer work of finishing the ax helves has to be done at the factory. Another man who makes his living from the woods is the fellow who gathers the hemlock bark used by nearly all tanneries. Besides, all sorts of roots that bring in good money are being dug every year throughout Maine.”

“You mean wild ginseng roots, and golden seal, don’t you, Frank?” Will asked.

“Yes, and many others in the bargain. In lots of places boys make quite a little money finding these roots, and drying them. Then – let’s see, did you know that pearl hunting had become a regular business in some parts of Maine?”

“Now you must be joshing us, Frank,” Bluff remonstrated, “because pearls are found in oysters; and I’ve read that there are only a few places in the wide world where these pearl oysters grow plentifully enough to pay for working the banks.”

“You’re mistaken about that,” Will broke in. “I know fine pearls have been picked out of mussels in Missouri and Indiana. Is that what you mean, Frank?”

“Yes,” the other explained, “there’s been considerable hunting in the streams up here for mussels, or fresh water clams, that happened to have a pearl in the shell. While every hunter isn’t lucky enough to make a big find, still a man found one last summer near Moosehead Lake that sold for several hundred dollars.”

“And then there’s the shells; they say they’re worth something,” added Will, who apparently was posted on that subject at least.

“They sell those to factories where buttons and such things are made,” continued Frank. “If you’ve ever noticed the shell of a mussel, you’ve seen that the inside is mother-of-pearl and mighty fine.”

“Does that finish the list?” Jerry wanted to know.

“There are plenty of other things that bring in money to those who follow them up,” Frank told him; “but in every case it takes more or less hard work. Thousands of men are employed in logging during the winter. Then, ice is gathered in great quantities, to be shipped to Boston, and even to New York, when it’s warm weather. Protecting the game in the close season gives work to a good many men as wardens.”

“I never would have dreamed a single State could have so many ways of making a living in its woods,” murmured Will.

“Think of the hotel men,” Frank continued, “who live on the swarms of tourists and sportsmen. And the guides who get big pay for their work in season. There are the canoe-makers in Oldtown and other places; they seldom try to build the older style of birch-bark boats nowadays, even the Penobscot Indians preferring the smooth-sided canvas canoe, painted green, so the fish can hardly notice it above them in the water. There must be thousands of these boats built every year, and they find a ready market from Florida to the far West, and all over the country.”

“Well, you have certainly interested us by telling about these things,” declared Bluff. “Nobody but a fellow who had lived in Maine pretty much all his life would be apt to know so much about how people made their living up in these Big Woods.”

“I’ll have a heap more respect for the Maine pine woods after this,” admitted Jerry. “Up to now I kind of looked down on ’em, because there didn’t seem to be a great many whopping big trees, such as we see out our way in the forests. But, shucks! the more you travel the bigger your knowledge box grows.”

“That’s right,” added Bluff frankly.

“There are plenty of other things I could tell you,” continued Frank, “but they wouldn’t seem quite as interesting after what you’ve heard. And I’ve talked myself pretty hoarse by now, so I’d better close shop and quit.”

“I hope my flashlight trap works all right,” mused Will.

The fire felt so delightful that no one seemed in any hurry to crawl into his bunk. This was the life these boys enjoyed more than anything they could imagine. Will was perhaps the only one of the quartet who cared little for hunting; but it pleased him to be in the company of his chums, and, besides, his new hobby was causing him to look forward to a season of profitable employment.

He was fully determined not to let any opportunity pass whereby he might secure some remarkable pictures of outdoor life to enter in that competition which the railroad companies had inaugurated.

While they sat there, looking into the fire, each one engaged with his own thoughts, Frank was noticed to suddenly raise his head and listen.

“What was that sound, Frank?” demanded Bluff. “Ever since we spent that time out in the Rockies on that ranch I’ve believed I’d be able to know the howl of a wolf if ever I heard one again, and seems to me that was what came down on the wind just then.”

CHAPTER X – THE FLASHLIGHT PICTURE

“But didn’t they tell us that wolves had been pretty much cleaned out of Maine in the last twenty years?” ventured Will, looking uneasy.

“Yes, that’s a fact,” Frank admitted; “but once in a while there seems to be a raid from Quebec Province, or New Brunswick, and from different sections reports come in of packs being seen. There’s a bounty on wolf scalps up here; but not much money is paid out for them – that is, for animals killed in a wild state.”

“In what other way could they be killed, Frank?” demanded Bluff, thinking that perhaps he had one on the other just then.

Frank, however, smiled at him, as he explained:

“It happened that they once discovered a wolf ranch in a secluded part of the State. A smart chap was actually breeding the animals for the sake of the skins and the bounty that the State allowed him. Of course, they put a stop to his business. But that reminds me I didn’t think to tell you about the fur farms we have up here.”

“That sounds interesting!” Jerry declared.

“Of course you mean where they raise all sorts of fur-bearing animals for the sake of their pelts?” Bluff suggested.

“Yes; and they say that good money is made at the business, too,” he was told. “One man I knew had a fox farm. He had managed to get hold of a few black foxes, and told me that if they bred true his everlasting fortune was made; because, as we know, the skin of a good black fox is worth all the way from five hundred to two thousand dollars.”

“How about skunks – I understand there are farms where they raise them by the thousand?” Bluff ventured, with an upturning of the nose.

“I’m told they pay good dividends,” Frank explained, “but can’t say from my own observation, because I’ve never dared to visit one. But you must remember that a polecat is only dangerous when frightened. They say that if you treat them gently they get to know you and are not to be feared any more than so many puppies.”

“Excuse me from trying to follow that occupation,” chuckled Jerry; “but I wonder if that really was a genuine wolf, or a snow owl hooting?”

“Let’s go outside and listen, because I want to know,” suggested Will, into whose eyes an eager glow had crept, as he remembered he had a camera trap baited with some fresh venison and that if there were hungry wolves around he stood a chance of obtaining a remarkable picture.

They clapped on caps and sweaters, and all went outside. The night was fairly dark, and still. Overhead a million stars shone and the soft breeze sighed itself to sleep among the pines.

“There it goes again!” exclaimed Bluff suddenly.

“And it sure is a wolf – eh, Frank?” Jerry cried.

“Oh, I hope so!” Will was heard to say, at which the others were surprised until Frank guessed the reason.

“You’re thinking of that flashlight trap, are you, Will, and hoping to catch bigger game than you set it for? Well, if any of those hungry chaps come smelling around in this direction I wouldn’t be surprised if you did. They can find a piece of fresh meat that’s half a mile away.”

“Just like those buzzards down in Florida could discover where there was any dead animal, and would come flying from every direction,” Bluff remarked.

They soon grew tired of staying out in the cold, and listening to the occasional mournful sound that all had decided came from the throat of a gray pilgrim from Canada.

Now and then it seemed closer; and Bluff even declared that he could distinguish several different grades of howls.

“Must be a pack of the rascals!” he ventured to say. “Who knows but some of us may run up against the bunch while we’re around here? I’d like nothing better, take it from me, than to knock over a few of the measly things. They’re a mean lot and without a single redeeming quality, like a fox.”

Once more returning to the warm cabin, they sat around until finally Frank drove them all to their bunks.

“I’ll never be able to get you out at a decent hour in the morning,” he told them, “if you keep on sitting here, blinking at the fire, and yawning every little while.”

If the wolves came closer to the cabin during the night, no one seemed to be aware of the fact. At least, their howling certainly did not keep a single boy from enjoying his customary sleep.

Will hurried out as soon as he was dressed. Frank knew what he meant to do, and stopped him long enough to advise him to carry his gun along.

“You never know what you may meet when you least expect it,” was the burden of his warning. “And when there’s an ugly bobcat ready to jump on your back or fight for the game that’s in your trap, you’ll wish you’d been wise enough to come prepared.”

“I guess you’re right about that,” Will admitted, as he returned for his weapon. He knew what wolves were like, and the possibility of meeting one in the big timber gave him a panicky feeling.

Shortly afterward he came hurrying in, breathless and excited. Although none of the others had heard so much as a shot, the first thing they thought was that Will must have run up against a thrilling adventure of some kind.

“Did anything tackle you?” demanded Jerry, showing immediate interest.

“Was it a wolf or a wildcat; and did you shoot him?” asked Bluff.

Frank said nothing. He saw how the other was carrying his camera under his arm, and could give a good guess as to the cause of his excitement.

“Nothing tackled me!” exclaimed the picture taker indignantly. “I was only going to tell you that the trap was sprung and my flashlight must have worked.”

“But of course you don’t know whether it was a muskrat, a fox, a mink, or perhaps a prowling ’coon that grabbed your bait,” Bluff commented.

“I’ll know after I’ve had a chance to develop the film,” he was told. “You know I have single ones that fit in frames, so they act like glass plates; only there’s no weight, and no danger of breaking them when you tumble.”

“Was the bait gone?” pursued Bluff.

“Yes, the string was broken across the middle; and it was a good strong cord,” Will informed him.