Around the Camp-fire

“‘A likely place enough for the murderin’ thief!’ exclaimed Mike.

“But we plunged ahead.

“The words had scarcely left his mouth when the snow seemed to rise thinly about us in a thousand spirals and swirls. A tremendous wind drove down the channel and smote us in the face, with a long, confused, yelping howl, which made my flesh creep with its resemblance to a cry of dogs. Our team trembled terribly and lay down.

“‘The gray dogs!’ came in a hoarse cry from Mike’s lips.

“And at the same moment there swept past us, in the heart of the whirlwind, a pack of wild, huddling, and leaping drifts, followed by a tall, bent, woman-like figure of snow-cloud, which seemed to stoop over and urge on their furious flight.

“The vision vanished, the shrill clamor died away over the open reaches of the lake, and shaking off my tremor, I cheered our dogs again to the road.

“But as for Mike, he was overwhelmed with horror. He would admit no doubt but that one of us must die before nightfall. And for my own part, I felt that our circumstances lent only too ugly a color to his fancy.

“A succession of fitful though not violent gusts confronted us through our whole course up this defile. The air was white with fine snow, and we made but meagre headway.

“It must have been about half a mile that we had covered since seeing the apparition, when we were startled by a sharp report just ahead of us; and instantly our dogs stopped short and fell into wild confusion.

“Springing to their heads, I found the great black-and-white leader in his death-struggle, bleeding upon the snow.

“‘Cut the traces!’ cried Mike.

“And though not comprehending his purpose, I stooped to do so.

“It was well for me I obeyed. As I stooped, a shot snapped behind us, and the shrill whimper of a bullet sang past my ear.

“At the same moment, the gust subsiding, I saw our first assailant step boldly out of cover just ahead of us, and raise his gun to shoulder for a second shot.

“But I had severed the traces; there was a sort of fierce hiss from Mike’s tongue, and with a yell, the whole team sprang forward to avenge their leader.

“The ruffian, realizing at once his peril, discharged his gun wildly, threw it down, and fled for his life.

“But he was too late! In briefer space, I think, than it takes to tell it, the pack was upon him. He was literally torn to pieces.

“With whip and gun-stock I threw myself upon the mad brutes, who presently, as if satisfied with their dreadful revenge, followed me back in submission to their places.

“As for the second scoundrel, he had taken swift warning, and vanished.

“The dogs themselves seemed cowed by what they had done; and for my own part, I was filled with horror.

“But no such weak sentimentality found the slightest favor with Mike. Rebuking me for having beaten them, he lavished praise and endearments upon the dogs.

“He reminded me, moreover, that they had saved the lives of both of us, or had, at the very least, saved myself from the necessity of taking blood upon my hands.

“Realizing this, I made hasty amends to the poor, shivering brutes, comforting them with a liberal feast of dried dogfish.

“My present feeling toward them, as I look back upon the episode, is one of unmitigated gratitude.

“The rest of our journey was accomplished without more than ordinary trouble.

“A good deal of my spare energy I wasted in the effort to overturn Mike’s faith, which stands still unshaken in the supernatural character of the Dogs of the Drift.

“With such terrible testimony in his favor I could hardly have expected much success for my arguments; for, as he concluded triumphantly, ‘if the spectral team came down that channel, as it plainly did, then the scoundrel lying in wait for us must have seen it, as well as we – and did not he meet his doom before nightfall?’”

“If that’s what you call a merry tale,” said Ranolf, “then the one I’m going to tell you of Newfoundland will make your eyes drop ‘weeping tears.’ It concerns the fate of —

‘BEN CHRISTIE’S BULL CARIBOU.’

“Ben Christie was first mate of the little coasting steamer Garnet, of the Newfoundland Coastal Service. Born in one of those narrow ‘out-harbors’ that wedge themselves in somehow between the cliffs and the gray sea, his eyes had been bent seaward from the beginning. Inland all was mystery to him – alluring mystery.

“He had never been out of sight of the sea, except when the fog was too thick for him to distinguish it as he leaned over the vessel’s rail. He had grown up with a codline in his hands, in his eyes the alternation of fog and flashing sunlight, in his ears the scream of the seafowl, and the shattering thunder of the surf upon the cliffs.

“Of his native island he knew little but the seaward faces of her rocky ramparts, over which he had often climbed to gather the eggs of puffin and gannet. Of towns he knew but the wharves and water-fronts of St. John’s and Halifax and Harbor Grace. But he was at home in his dory as it climbed the sullen purple-green slopes of the great waves on ‘the Banks,’ and he knew how to follow the seal, and triumph over the perils of the Floating Fields.

“One day in Halifax, in a little inn on Water Street, Ben Christie saw the stuffed and mounted head of a well-antlered bull caribou. It fired his fancy; and from that day forth to shoot a bull caribou became his consuming ambition.

“When he had been serving as mate of the Garnet for about two years, the boiler of that redoubtable craft refused to perform its functions, and she was laid up in St. John’s harbor for repairs.

“Christie’s opportunity had come. He furbished up his old muzzle-loading sealing-gun, long of barrel and huge of bore, and took passage on a little coasting-schooner bound for the West Shore and the mouth of the Codroy River.

“Arrived at the Codroy, he remained in the settlement for a few days, looking for a suitable comrade to go with him into the interior.

“When his errand became known, – which was right speedily, seeing that he could talk of nothing but bull caribou, – he found plenty of practised hunters ready to accompany him on his quest; but none of these were quite to his liking. They all knew too much. They seemed to him to be impressed with the idea that he did not know anything about caribou hunting, and they talked about ‘getting him the finest pair of horns on the barrens.’

“Now just what Ben wanted was to get those horns himself. He wanted to do the shooting himself, and the hunting himself; and he did not want any one around to patronize him, and deride his mistakes. Ben was off on a holiday, and he felt himself entitled to make mistakes if he wanted to.

“At length he met a harum-scarum little Irishman named Mike Slohan, who said he doted on hunting, but couldn’t hit anything smaller than a barn door, and wouldn’t know – to use his own phrase – ‘a spruce caribou from a bull pa’tridge.’

“Ben took him to his heart at once, and without delay the pair made ready for their expedition. Inextinguishable was the mirth of all the experienced hunters, and grievous were the mishaps they prophesied for our amateur Nimrods till at last Ben’s keen blue eyes began to flash dangerously, and they judged it prudent to check their jibes.

“Whatever Mike Slohan’s inefficiency as a hunter, he was as fearless as a grizzly, and he understood to its minutest detail the art of camping out with comfort. He armed himself only with a little muzzle-loading shotgun, but in other respects the two went well equipped.

“When Mike declared that all was ready, he and Ben embarked in a canoe they had hired in the settlement, and started gayly up the river.

“After ascending the main stream some fifty or sixty miles, they turned into a small tributary which flows into the Codroy from the northward. This stream ran between precipitous banks, often more than a hundred feet in height. Its deep and gloomy ravine was chiselled through a vast table-land without landmark or limit, scourged by every wind that blows.

“This inexpressibly bleak region Mike declared to be ‘the barrens,’ where they would find the caribou. Into its depths they penetrated till their way was barred by fierce rapids, at the foot of which they made their camp in a warm and windless cove.

“It was well on in the autumn, a season when the bull caribou are very pugnacious, whence it came that Ben Christie had not long to wait before finding himself face to face with the object of his desire.

“The first day’s hunting, however, was fruitless. Leaving the camp after a by no means early or hasty breakfast, Ben and Mike climbed the great wall of the ravine; and no sooner were they fairly out upon the level waste than they descried three caribou feeding about half a mile away. This to Ben seemed quite a matter of course; nevertheless, he was exhilarated at the sight, and set out in hot pursuit, followed by the laughing Mike. They made no secret of their approach, but advanced in plain view, as if they were driving cattle in a pasture. And the caribou, being in a pleasant humor and willing to avoid disturbance, discreetly withdrew.

“After pursuing them for three or four miles, Ben gave up the chase, much disappointed to find the animals so wild.

“When the hunters started to return to the river, they were astonished to find no sign of a river, or the course of one, anywhere in the landscape. Mike at once concluded that they were lost, but Ben was not troubled. He had the sun to steer by, and was amply satisfied.

“Indeed, he felt much at home on the barrens, where, as he said, ‘there was plenty of sea-room, and a chap could breathe free.’ He shaped his course confidently for the camp, and ‘fetched’ the river as unerringly as if it had been a port on the South Shore.

“The barrens, which cover so large a portion of the interior of Newfoundland, vary somewhat in character in different parts of the island.

“Where Ben and Mike were investigating them, they were covered with wide patches of a sturdy, stunted shrub called, locally, ‘skronnick.’

“This skronnick played a most important part in the experiences which presently befell the hunters. It grows about shoulder-high at its highest, and spreads out like a miniature banyan-tree. Its twisted stems are bare to a height of from two to three feet, and its top so densely matted as almost to shut out the light. The shrub is an evergreen, a remote cousin to the juniper, and its stems are wide enough apart for one to freely crawl about between them. When one is caught in a storm on the barrens, the skronnick patches make no mean shelter.

“Scattered thinly amid the skronnick stood bald, white-granite bowlders from two or three to ten or twelve feet high; and here and there lay deep pools, – cup-shaped hollows – filled to the brim with transparent, icy water.

“‘Arrah,’ said Mike, as they climbed down the ravine to the camp, ‘but it’s a quare counthry!’

“To Ben, however, all dry land was queer. So he hardly comprehended Mike’s remark.

“On the following day before they set out for the hunt a council of war was held. Said Ben, —

“‘You see, the critters won’t let us git nigh enough to fire at ’em afore they clear out; an’ then where are we?’

“‘Sure, an’ we’ll hide in the skronnick,’ replied Mike, ‘an’ shoot thim as they go by.’

“‘An’ maybe they won’t go by just to oblige us,’ suggested Ben. ‘I reckon we’ll hev to git down, so’s they can’t see us, an’ crawl up on ’em!”

“These tactics decided upon, the hunters mounted to the plain, enthusiastic and sanguine. Eagerly they scanned the bleak reaches. Not a caribou was there in sight. Ben’s face fell, and he heaved a mighty sigh of disappointment. But Mike was not so easily cast down.

“‘Come on,’ said he cheerily, ‘an’ we’ll find the bastes ’fore ye know where ye are.’

“With their guns over their shoulders, they picked their way through the skronnick for a couple of hundred yards, till suddenly, out from behind a bowlder, not twenty paces in front of them, stepped a huge bull caribou.

“The caribou was solitary, and in a very bad humor. He shook his spreading antlers and snorted ominously.

“‘You shoot! He’s yourn!’ shouted Mike in wild excitement, brandishing his gun at full cock over his head.

“Proudly Ben raised his long weapon to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. There was no marked result, however, as he had forgotten to cock the gun. Just as he hastily remedied this oversight, the caribou charged madly. Ben fired – and missed!

“‘He’ll kill ye! Dodge him in the skronnick,’ yelled Mike.

“And obediently Ben dived into the nearest patch.

“Acting upon a natural instinct, he scurried from side to side to throw his pursuer off the track.

“The caribou sprang furiously upon the bushes where Ben had disappeared, and trampled them with his knife-like front hoofs. Then he turned on Mike, who had been anxiously waiting for him to keep still and give him a fair shot.

“In desperation Mike fired, just grazing the animal’s flank, and then he darted, like a rabbit, under the skronnick bushes.

“When those deadly forehoofs came down on the place where he had vanished, the little Irishman was not there. Nimbly and noiselessly he put all the distance he could between himself and the spot where he heard his enemy tearing at the skronnick.

“Finding himself unpursued, Ben made haste to reload his gun.

“At the sound of Mike’s shot he thrust his head out of his hiding-place in time to see his comrade go under cover. Very deliberately Ben rammed the bullet home and put on the cap. Then, standing up to his full height, and taking aim at the caribou’s hind-quarters, which were towards him, he shouted, ‘Load up, Mike!’ and fired again.

“Unfortunately for the accuracy of Ben’s aim, the caribou had wheeled sharp round at the sound of his voice, and charged without an instant’s delay; so again the shot went wide. And again, with alacrity that did credit to his bulk, Ben scuttled under the skronnick.

“But this time the indignant bull, furious at being thus outwitted, bounded into the bush, and began thrusting about at random with horns and hoofs.

“More than once Ben narrowly escaped those terrible weapons, and his trepidation began to be mingled with fierce wrath at the idea of being ‘hustled ’round’ this way by a ‘critter.’

“He could get no chance to load up again, and he was on the point of stepping forth and attacking the animal with the butt of his gun. He felt as if he was battened under hatches in a sinking ship.

“Before he could put his purpose into effect, however, there was another shot from Mike. It evidently struck the animal somewhere, for he bellowed with rage as he bounded over the thickets to join battle with his other assailant.

“The Irishman had not waited to mark the result of his shot, but had plunged instantly out of sight, and betaken himself to a position well removed.

“The angry bull had no idea of his whereabouts, but thrashed around wildly, while the little Irishman chuckled in his sleeve.

“As soon as Ben once more got his gun loaded, he stuck his head up through the skronnick. He observed that in his wanderings beneath the scrub he had worked his way very nearly to the big granite bowlder before mentioned.

“He did not fire, for he was resolved not to waste his shot this time. Just as he made up his mind to try a rush for the bowlder, from the top of which he would be master of the situation, the caribou looked up, and caught sight of him again.

“The animal’s charge was so lightning-like in its rapidity that Ben could do nothing but dive once more beneath the kindly skronnick.

“As fast as he could, he worked his way toward the bowlder, but in his haste the movement of the bushes betrayed him. One of the razor-edged hoofs came down within a foot or two of his face, and he shrank back swiftly, making himself very small.

“His changed course brought him to the very brink of one of the deep pools already spoken of, and he almost fell into it. In turning aside from that obstacle, the shaking of the bushes again gave the bull a hint of his position. With a cough and a bellow the animal leaped to the spot, just missed Ben’s retiring feet, and plunged headlong into the pool.

“This seemed to Ben just his opportunity for gaining the rock. He sprang up and made a dash for it. But before he reached its foot, – and a glance told him that it was not to be scaled on that side, – the caribou had picked himself nimbly out of the water and was after him, his fury by no means dampened by the ducking.

“Grinding his teeth, Ben darted yet again beneath the scrub, but this time it was the closest shave he had had. The skronnick was thinner here, and he would hardly have succeeded in evading his antagonist for more than a minute, had not Mike come to the rescue. The Irishman rose up with a wild yell, discharged his gun right in the caribou’s face, missed with his customary facility, and dropped again into the skronnick.

“The foaming animal dashed away to hunt him; and Ben, creeping stealthily around the bowlder, found its accessible side, and scrambled to the summit as the caribou came bounding to its base.

“If the bowlder had been a very few feet lower, the adventure might have had a very different issue. But as it was, the height proved sufficient. Ben surveyed those spear-sharp prongs from his point of vantage, just three feet beyond reach of their vicious thrusts, and thought proudly how fine they would look mounted in the cabin of the Garnet.

“He was in no great hurry to end the performance, and he did not like to fire while the caribou was so close to the muzzle of the gun. But presently the animal paused and looked around for Mike.

“He turned, in fact, as if to go and hunt the little Irishman again, and Ben’s heart smote him for having even for a moment forgotten the peril in which his comrade yet remained. He took careful aim at a point close behind the caribou’s shoulder. At the report the animal sprang straight into the air, and fell back stone dead.

“Very triumphant, quite pardonably so, in fact, were Ben and Mike as they returned to the Codroy settlement with their spoils. They discreetly refrained from detailing at Codroy all the particulars of the hunt. But if the tourist, exploring the coasts of Newfoundland in the steamer Garnet, chances to remark upon the immense pair of caribou antlers which hang over the cabin door, he will hear the whole story from Ben Christie, who is endowed with an excellent sense of humor.”

When Ranolf ended he received unusual applause. Then I stepped, so to speak, into the breach. “I cannot hope,” said I, “to win the ears of this worshipful company with any such gentle humor as Ranolf has just achieved. But I have a good rousing adventure to tell you, with lots of blood though little thunder. The scene of it is not far from Newfoundland. Let this fact speak in its favor!”

“Fire away, Old Man!” said Queerman.

“I take for my narrative the simple title of —

‘LABRADOR WOLVES.’

said I.

“In early June, two years ago, my friend, Jack Rollings, of the Canada Geological Survey, was occupied in exploring parts of the Labrador coast, from the mouth of the Moisic River eastward. The following adventure, one of several that befell him in that wild region, has a peculiar interest from its possible connection with a throng of terrible legends, the scenes of which are laid along those shores.

“Ever since the Gulf of St. Lawrence became known to the fishing-fleets of Brittany and the Basque Provinces, its north-eastern coast has been peopled, by the vivid imaginations of the fishermen and sailors, with supernatural beings of various fashions, all agreeing, however, in the attributes of malignity and noisiness. Demons and griffins and monsters indescribable were supposed to haunt the bleak hills and dreadful ravines. Ships driven reluctantly inshore by stress of weather were wont to carry away strange tales of howlings and visions to freeze the marrow of the folks at home.

“The probable origin of those myths may be found in the fact that from time to time the coast has been ravaged by hordes of gigantic gray wolves, sweeping down from the unfathomed wilderness of the high interior plateau. One of these visitations was in 1873, when many of the coast dwellers, whose scanty settlements cling here and there in the lonely harbors, were torn to pieces on the shore, or shut up in their cabins till starvation stared them in the face. No great stretch of fancy is required to metamorphose a pack of ravening wolves into a yelling concourse of demons.

“What befell Jack Rollings I will tell in his own words.”

“Our schooner,” said Jack, “lay at anchor in a little landlocked bay where never a wind could get at her, and much of our exploration was done by means of short boat trips in one direction or the other. One morning Frank Jones and I made up our minds to take a day off, and try and kill a salmon or two.

“About five miles west of where we lay, there was a cove where, behind a low, rocky point, a little river came down out of the mountains. Half a mile above the head of tide the stream fell noisily over a shallow fall into a most enticing pool, and we calculated that we would be just in good time for the first run of the salmon.

“There was a stretch of shoals off the mouth of the stream, and no sheltered anchorage near; so we took the small boat for the trip, and a fresh breeze off the gulf blew us to our destination speedily. It was high tide when we arrived; and we hauled up the boat in the cove, under shelter of the point.

“Besides our rods, we had enough grub for a good lunch, and our top-coats in case it should blow up cold in the afternoon. Frank had brought his gun along, with a few cartridges loaded with number one and number two shot, in case he might want to shoot some big bird for his collection, which is already one of the best private collections in Ottawa.

“When we had put our rods together, we moved up along the wet edges of the beach, which glistened in the morning sun, and presently found ourselves at the basin where we expected our sport. Over the low, foaming barrier of the falls we saw a salmon make way in a flashing leap, and we knew we had struck both the right place and the right time.

“I need not tell you the particulars of the sport. You know what a Labrador salmon stream is when you happen to take it in a good humor. Enough to say, when we began to think of lunch it was about two o’clock; and we had six fish, ranging from ten to thirty-five pounds, lying in splendid array beneath a neighboring rock. As much of our spoils as we could carry at once we took down to the spot where the boat lay; and building a little fire of driftwood, we proceeded to fry some salmon collops for lunch.

“While enjoying our after-dinner smoke we observed that the wind had shifted a point or two to the east, and was blowing up half a gale.

“‘Great Scott!’ exclaimed Frank. ‘If we don’t get away from here right off, we’re going to be storm-stayed! This wind will raise a sea presently that we won’t be able to face. Let’s leave right off! I’ll drag the boat down to the water, while you go after the rest of those fish.’

“‘No, no!’ said I. ‘We’ll just stay where we are for the present. Don’t you see that the waves are already breaking into the cove too heavy for us? If you were round on the other side of the point now, you’d see what the water is, and you’d be glad enough you’re out of it, I can tell you! We’re all right here, and we may as well fish till toward sundown; and if the wind has not eased off by that time, we’ll just have to snug the boat up here, and foot it over the hills to the schooner. It’s not more than five or six miles anyway.’

“Frank strolled across the point for a look at the sea, and came back in agreement with my views. Then we returned to the pool, and whipped it assiduously till after five o’clock, but without a repetition of the morning’s success.

“Meanwhile the wind got fiercer and fiercer, so we went back to the boat and made a hearty supper as preparation for the rough tramp that lay before us. We took our time, and smoked at leisure, and cached our prizes, and resolved not to start till moonrise. By this time the tide was well out, and the cove had become an expanse of shingly flats, threaded by the shallow current of the stream, and fringed along its seaward edge with a line of angry surf.