
Полная версия
Grit A-Plenty
Snow was now falling heavily, but the trail was still plain enough. A half mile farther on the caribou tracks made another sharp turn, this time to the southward, turning about toward the marsh. There was no doubt now that they had been frightened. Their trail evidenced that here they had broken into a run.
“Whatever it were that scared un,” said Andy, “it scared un bad here, and they’ve gone where Davy could never catch up with un.”
Just beyond the place where the caribou had made the last turn, another trail came in from the north. Andy examined it carefully, and though the rapidly accumulating snow had now nearly hidden the distinguishing marks, he had no difficulty in recognizing the new trail as one made by wolves.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “’Twere wolves scared un! They didn’t get th’ scent rightly back there, but here they got un, and I hopes they’ll get away safe!”
A further examination disclosed the fact that David had stopped, too, and examined the tracks. He had doubtless concluded that continued pursuit of the caribou was useless, for his tracks, now nearly covered by the fresh snow, turned toward the marsh in a direction that would lead him back by a short cut to the point in the fur trail where he had left it to follow the caribou.
“He’s gone back to finish th’ last end of th’ trail,” said Andy. “He’ll be fearin’ something has happened t’ me when he don’t find me at th’ spruce trees. I’ll have t’ hurry.”
David’s tracks were becoming fainter and fainter with every step, and Andy had not gone far when the last trace of them was lost. He knew the general direction, however, that David would take, and was not greatly concerned or alarmed until he suddenly realized that darkness was settling. Until now he had lost all count of passing time.
He had also been too deeply engrossed in the caribou trail, and in overtaking David, to give consideration to the storm. Now, with the realization that night was falling, he also awoke to the fact that the wind had risen into a gale, and that with every moment the storm was gathering new strength. He could hear it roaring and lashing the tree tops overhead. A veritable Arctic blizzard was at hand.
In the cover of the thick spruce forest Andy was well protected from the wind, though even here snow fell so thickly that he could see but a few feet in any direction.
By the short cut Andy soon reached the edge of the timber, where trees gave way to the wide open space of the marsh. Here he was met by a smothering cloud of snow, and a blast of wind that carried him from his feet. He rose and tried again to face it, but was forced to turn about and seek the shelter of the trees.
The wind came over the marsh, now in short, petulant gusts, now in long, angry roars, sweeping before it swirling clouds of snow so dense that no living creature could stand before it. The storm was terrifying in its fury.
For a moment Andy was dazed and overcome by his encounter. Then came realization of his peril. To reach the tilt he must either cross the marsh or make a wide detour to the westward through the forest. The former was not possible, and if he attempted to make the detour darkness would certainly overtake him before he could attain half the distance. Impeded by the thick falling snow, any attempt to travel after night would certainly lead to disaster. He would probably lose his direction, and be overcome by exhaustion and the bitter, penetrating cold.
What was he to do? He was without other protection than the clothes he wore. There was no shelter nearer than the tilt. He had no food. He had eaten nothing since the early breakfast in the tilt, and his healthy young appetite was crying for satisfaction.
Andy was suddenly seized by panic, and he began to run, in a wild and frenzied hope that he might reach the tilt before darkness closed upon the wilderness. But he quickly became entangled in low hanging branches, and, sent sprawling in the snow, was brought to a sudden halt.
The shock returned him again to sane reasoning. Taking shelter under the thick overhanging limbs of a spruce tree, he stopped to think and plan. He could not run, and unless he ran he could not reach the tilt that night. He was marooned in the forest, that was plain. There was no course but to make the best of it until morning. It was also plain that he would perish with the cold unless he could devise some means of protection. The moment he ceased his exertions he felt a deadly numbness stealing over him.
“I must do something before dark, and I must have plenty o’ grit,” he presently said. “I must keep a stout heart like a man. Pop says there’s no fix so bad a man can’t find his way out of un if he uses his head and does his best, and prays th’ Lard to help he.”
And so Andy, in simple words and briefly, said a little prayer, and then he used his head and did his best to make the prayer come true.
XIII
A NIGHT IN THE OPEN
THERE was no time to be lost. The long northern twilight was already waning. Hastened by the storm, darkness would come early.
“The Injuns get caught out this way often enough, when they’re huntin’,” said Andy, by way of self-comfort. “They finds a way to make out. They just gets a place in th’ lee, where th’ wind can’t strike un, and puts on a good fire. That’s all they ever does. But,” he continued doubtfully, “they’re used to un, and I never stopped out without a tent, whatever.”
Bivouacking in a blizzard, with a thirty-degrees-below temperature and no blankets or other protection, was an emergency Andy had never before been called upon to meet. Now he turned to it uncertainly.
Reconnoitering he discovered, near at hand, a large fallen tree, partly covered by the snow. Close to the butt of the fallen tree stood a big, thickly foliaged spruce tree, the outer ends of its branches bending so low that the tips were enveloped by the deep snow.
“’Twill make a shelter, whatever!” exclaimed Andy, encouraged. “A little fixin’, and maybe ’twon’t be so bad, in under the branches. They’ll make a cover from the snow.”
With his ax he at once cut off the limbs of the spruce tree on the side next the fallen trunk. This made an opening that would serve as a door. Under the arching branches was a circular space, thatched above by foliage. Removing one of his snowshoes, and utilizing it as a shovel, he cleared the space of snow. Then donning his snowshoes again he cut several branches, which he thatched upon the overhanging limbs of the tree, thus increasing the protection of his cover from fresh drift. This done, he banked snow high against the branches around the entire circle, save at the opening facing the fallen tree.
Now breaking a quantity of boughs and arranging them as a floor for his improvised shelter, he made a comfortable bed.
The next consideration was wood, and fortunately there was no lack of this. Everywhere about, as is usual in primordial forests, were dead trees, that would burn readily. Andy selected three that were perhaps six inches thick at the butt, and not too large for him to handle easily. These he felled with his ax, trimmed off the branches, and cutting the logs into convenient lengths for burning, piled them at one side of the entrance to his shelter. He now chopped into small firewood a quantity of the branches, adding them to his reserve supply of fuel.
Again using a snowshoe as a shovel, he cleared the snow from the butt of the fallen tree, which he had decided should be the back log of his fire. This done, he split a quantity of small kindling wood. He now secured a handful of the long, hairy moss that hangs close to the limbs and trunks of spruce trees in the northern forest, and using it as tinder quickly lighted his fire against the back log. Leaning over it to protect it from falling snow until the carefully placed kindling wood was well ablaze, he added pieces of smaller branches, and finally sticks of the larger wood. Then, with a sigh of relief, Andy drew back under the cover of his shelter to test the efficiency of his efforts.
Almost immediately a genial warmth began to pervade the interior of the cave beneath the tree. The fire crackled and blazed cheerfully. The thick thatching of boughs proved an excellent protection from the snow and such wind as penetrated the depths of the forest. The success of the experiment was assured.
It was quite dark now, but Andy, for the present at least, was safe and comfortable enough. Quick planning, energetic action, and instinctive resourcefulness, had saved him from the terrible blizzard that was sweeping over the marsh and lashing through the tops of the forest trees with growing fury.
Andy sat lax and limp for a little while. He had worked with almost frenzied exertion. Now he felt like one who had but just, and barely, escaped a great peril. Presently he drew off his outer adiky, shook the snow from it, and drawing it on again proceeded to arrange himself comfortably.
“’Tis almost as snug as the tilt,” he said presently. “Pop were right when he says there’s no fix too big to get out of, if you goes about un right. If I’d kept scared, and hadn’t tried, I’d perished, and now I’m safe whilst I ’bides here. If I only had something t’ eat!”
Comfort is comparative. What might be a severe hardship under some circumstances might become the height of luxury and comfort under others. Andy’s retreat appealed to him now, after his battle with the storm, as most luxurious and comfortable. The wind howling and shrieking through the treetops brought to the lad’s ears a constant reminder of what might have been his fate, and served to add to the snugness of the shelter and cozy cheerfulness of the fire.
Now that he was safe from the storm for the time being, his thoughts turned to David. He did not know how far David was in advance of him. He had no doubt he had hurried on to the spruce grove, and not finding him there had set out for the tilt, but he could never have reached it before the storm broke.
This thought rendered Andy miserable. His imagination pictured David stark and frozen out on the storm beaten marsh. His misery grew almost to anguish until, in his better judgment, he reasoned that, like himself, David must have taken refuge in the forest, and that David knew better than he how to protect himself. Then he remembered Doctor Joe’s song, and accompanied by the roar of wind overhead, sang in a subdued voice:
“The worst of my foes are worries and woes,And all about troubles that never come true.And all about troubles that never come true.”This comforted him, and when he had finished he said, decisively:
“There’s no use worrying about something that I don’t know has happened, and the most of th’ things we worries about never does happen. I’ll just think that Davy’s safe and sound in the tilt, or snug and safe somewhere in the green woods. And like as not, too, he’s worryin’ about me.”
With this determination Andy replenished the fire, and, with his feet toward it, stretched out upon the boughs to sleep. “The Lard took care o’ Davy and me last evenin’ when th’ wolves chased us,” he mused. “They were close t’ gettin’ us but th’ Lard made Davy’s rifle shoot th’ right time. I’m thinkin’ now He didn’t just save us t’ leave Davy t’ perish in th’ snow. He’ll take care o’ Davy whatever.”
This was the logic of his simple faith. It soothed him and quieted his fears. Weary enough he was, for the day’s work had been hard and trying and presently he slept. Several times during the night he was awakened by the cold, when the fire burned low, and each time he huddled close to the blaze until his half congealed blood was warmed and the camp regained its comfort. Then he would lie down again to fall asleep with the shriek and roar of wind in his ears.
Finally he awoke to find that the wind had lost much of its force, and looking upward through the treetops he saw the glimmer of a star. The cold had grown more intense. His feet and hands were numb. He piled some of the small branch wood upon the coals and as it burst into flame added some of the larger sticks.
“It must be comin’ mornin’, and th’ storm’s about blown over,” he said thankfully, listening for the wind, when he sat down again. “I’m thinkin’, now, ’twill soon be clear of shiftin’ snow on th’ mesh, and soon as I’m warmed I’ll see how ’tis, whatever.”
Despite his resolution not to worry, Andy was far from satisfied of David’s safety. Now as he sat by the fire he began again to picture David lying out on the marsh somewhere, stark and dead. The longer Andy permitted his mind to dwell upon the possibility of such a tragedy having taken place, the more probable it seemed. The snow-clad forest had never been so grim and silent. A foreboding of some horrible tragedy was in his heart. He could restrain himself no longer.
The numbness was hardly yet out of his hands and feet when he hurriedly arose, put on his snowshoes, shouldered his rifle, and picking up his ax, rushed out into the dim-lit forest to grope his way through trees to the marsh.
Fitful gusts of wind were still blowing over the marsh, driving the snow in little swirling clouds. Light clouds lay in patches against the sky, and between them the stars shone with cold, metallic brilliance.
Andy could see clearly enough here. The wind was in his back, and taking a short cut, that would reduce the distance by nearly half, he swung out at a trot toward the tilt. He would look there first, and if David were not in the tilt he would follow the trail back to the spruce grove.
XIV
A MAN’S GAME
BY the short cut over the marsh it was not far to the tilt. At the end of a half hour’s steady running Andy reached the woods that bordered the western side of the marsh. It was here, at the edge of the forest, that he and David had parted the previous morning.
The storm had obliterated every trace of their snowshoe tracks, but Andy stooped to hastily search, in the dim starlight, for some recent sign of David’s passing. There was no sign, and in feverish anxiety to reach the tilt he tried to run, but in the shadows of the trees he collided with overhanging limbs, and was compelled to pick his way more slowly. Presently his sharp eyes made out, through an opening, the stovepipe, rising above the drift which marked the position of the tilt.
It was now that silent, dark hour just before dawn. Andy was sure that if David was there he would be up, preparing to set out with the first hint of light. If he were up he would have a fire in the stove, and smoke would be issuing from the pipe. Between hope and fear Andy’s heart almost stopped beating. He peered intently, but could see no smoke. He hurried on, and a few steps farther the stovepipe was thrown out in silhouette against the sky, and rising from it was a thin curl. There was fire in the stove! David was there!
“Davy! Davy! Davy!” Andy shouted, half sobbing, with the break of the nervous strain.
The door of the tilt opened, and David, bareheaded and wildly excited, came rushing out.
“Oh, Andy! Andy! Is you safe?” he cried, passing his arm around Andy’s shoulder in a depth of affection and passionate relief, and drawing Andy into the warm tilt, while Andy made a brave effort to restrain his tears.
“Oh, Davy!” broke in Andy, half crying with joy. “I were fearin’ for you so! I were thinkin’ of you out there—in th’ mesh—dead! And oh, Davy, I were—afraid—afraid for you!”
“And I were afraid for you, Andy!” choked David. “I were never doubtin’ you were lost and perished! I couldn’t sleep for thinkin’ of un, and I couldn’t go to look for you with th’ drift and darkness! I just had t’ ’bide here till day broke! I tries and tries t’ go, but th’ drift drove me back, and I knows I’ll have t’ wait for day.”
While Andy removed his outer garments and David prepared breakfast, Andy described his experiences, and how he had made his shelter.
“Doctor Joe’s song helped me a wonderful lot,” said he. “It’s turned out t’ be a true song, too. We were both safe, and there wasn’t anything for either of us t’ worry about after all. And, Davy, I kept my grit, now, didn’t I?”
“That you did!” declared David admiringly. “Even Indian Jake or Pop couldn’t have fixed out a better place t’ ’bide till th’ storm passed.”
“Davy,” said Andy reverently, “I’m thinkin’ th’ Lard were lookin’ out for us, now, weren’t he, Davy? And—Davy—maybe Mother was lookin’ out for us, too!”
“Aye,” said David, “th’ Lard were lookin’ out for us, and I’m not doubtin’ Mother was near, and helpin’ us, too.”
While they ate their breakfast David told of his own experiences.
“After I runs on th’ deer footin’ crossin’ th’ path,” he explained, “I sets right out t’ get you, Andy. But all at once I thinks that, th’ footin’ being fresh, th’ deer is like as not ’bidin’ right handy, and if I loses time goin’ for you I might miss un. So I turns back and goes after un.”
“I sees where they makes a turn and gets scared, but I weren’t thinkin’ o’ wolves, and I keeps hurryin’ on. I must have been right handy to un when I hears a wolf howl, and right after that I comes t’ th’ place where th’ deer turned down toward th’ mesh again and th’ wolf tracks came in. Then I knows they’re gone, and there’s no use keepin’ after un.
“I turns down then by a short cut t’ th’ next trap beyond where I leaves th’ trail t’ turn into th’ green woods. Snow were just beginnin’ t’ spit as I comes out on th’ mesh.”
“It were just beginnin’ t’ spit,” broke in Andy, “as I goes in th’ woods.”
“You must have turned into th’ woods t’ th’ westward of where I comes out, and that’s why I didn’t see you,” suggested David.
“When I gets t’ our trail I sees your footin’ comin’ this way. Th’ snow wasn’t enough yet t’ cover un, so I could tell ’twas fresh footin’. I says t’ myself, ‘Andy’s got hungry and tired waitin’ for me, and he’s gone back t’ th’ tilt. He’s tended th’ traps t’ th’ east’ard, and I’ll take a short cut.”
“I didn’t hurry, and before I gets out of th’ mesh snow was comin’ thick and th’ wind was rising, and it was gettin’ pretty nasty on th’ mesh.
“When I gets t’ th’ tilt and finds you’re not here I’m thinkin’ you’ve just been a bit slow, and that you’ll be along soon.
“So I puts a fire on and boils th’ kettle. When th’ kettle boils and you don’t come, I puts on my ’diky and goes out t’ th’ mesh t’ look. I never saw th’ wind rise th’ way she had in that little while. It took me off my feet and sent me flat when I tries t’ face un. Then I knows I can’t go on th’ mesh t’ look for you, and I knows you can’t stay there and live.
“I was scared! I tries four or five times t’ get out t’ look for you, Andy, but I has t’ give un up.”
“I’m thinkin’ you couldn’t go far in that drift!” exclaimed Andy. “I tried un too, and she knocked me flat.”
“Well,” concluded David, “that was all I could do, except t’ pray th’ Lard t’ spare your life, Andy. I had t’ ’bide here, and ’twas th’ hardest night I ever spent, waitin’ here alone for day t’ come so’s I could look for you, and sore afraid for you, Andy. ’Twas your grit, b’y, that pulled you through.”
“And I tries,” said Andy, “t’ keep a stout heart like a man’s, but at th’ end, when I was most t’ th’ tilt, I had t’—give in.”
“You kept a wonderful stout heart, Andy,” David declared admiringly. “I’d have given up before you did, I knows. I’m doubtin’ I ever could have made th’ fine shelter you made, too.”
While the storm had probably not covered the marten traps, perched as they were upon high stumps, and under cover of the woods, the exposed fox traps on the marsh were doubtless all clogged by drift, and would be ineffective unless cleared. The cross fox, too, which Andy had killed and left in the trap, must be secured. It was deemed advisable, therefore, to attend to these duties at once.
It was full daylight when the boys set out upon their day’s work. The wind had settled now into a cold, cutting breeze, which was disagreeable enough but which did not interfere with rapid walking. They scanned the marsh for signs of the caribou but no evidences were found. With wolves on their trail the caribou had doubtless fled the country, and with them, immediate prospects of fresh venison.
“’Twere too bad we missed un,” David deplored. “I was almost to un, I knows, when th’ wolves started in. I wish we could get some deer’s meat.”
With every day the wilderness was becoming more naked and stern and repellant. In the forest the snow had risen until it reached and enveloped the lower limbs of the trees. Ravines were nearly filled with snow. Willow brush, forming barriers around the marshes, were now quite hidden by great drifts, and rose in mighty ramparts of snow. The business of following the fur trails was growing more difficult with every round of the traps. But the depths of winter had not yet been reached. In the weeks to come the grip of Arctic cold was to tighten still harder and harder upon the bleak wilderness and the living things that occupied it. The two lads had a man’s game to play, and they were to have need enough of all the grit they possessed.
XV
A DAY ON THE ICE
SAVE on rare occasions Indian Jake was silent, and it seemed to the boys sullen. He had told them little of his success on the trail, or whether or not his hunt was good. But when they appeared at the Narrows tilt and told of their adventures with the wolves and with the storm, his stoic Indian reserve vanished for the evening. He asked many questions. He appeared deeply concerned and wished to know of their daily experiences, and details of the furs they had accumulated in the other tilts.
“You’re making a fine hunt,” he complimented. “As fine a hunt as your father could have made.”
“We’ve got a fine lot o’ fur,” admitted David, with just pride, “but we been hopin’ for a silver fox.”
“That isn’t strange,” and the half-breed smiled, in his peculiar way. “Every hunter is looking for a silver fox all the time, but not many get ’em.”
“If we don’t get un,” said David, “Andy and me have made a good hunt anyhow, and we won’t be complainin’ about un.”
“That we have,” seconded Andy.
“A fine hunt,” agreed Indian Jake.
“How have you been doin’, Jake?” asked David “You never say much about un.”
“Not so bad,” admitted Indian Jake.
“Have you got much fur?” persisted David.
“Oh, I’ve got some. I been thinkin’,” suggested Indian Jake, turning the subject, as he always did, from himself to the boys, “that you lads better bring all your furs from the other tilts down here to the Narrows tilt.”
“Maybe ’twould be a good plan,” David agreed.
“Yes,” continued Indian Jake, “and then you’ll have it all together.”
“’Twill make a fine showin’ when we has un all together,” enthused David.
“Yes,” said Indian Jake, “and we can go over it together and see what it’s worth.”
“We’ll fetch un all down here next trip,” agreed David. “I’d like t’ see un all laid out together.”
“And every trip you’d better bring down what you catch,” suggested Indian Jake. “It’s better to keep all your fur in one place.”
“Aye,” said David, “I’m thinkin’ ’tis better.”
“And will you be bringin’ all your fur here too?” asked Andy.
“No,” answered Indian Jake, “it’s better to keep ’em separate. If I had mine here we might be gettin’ ’em mixed, and we wouldn’t know which was which. I’ll keep mine up to my first tilt.”
“I’m thinkin’ we’d know all our fur,” persisted Andy. “I don’t see how we’d be like t’ get un mixed.”
“There’s no tellin’ but we would, though,” persisted Indian Jake.
“Davy and I knows our fur,” insisted Andy. “We’ve looked at un so many times, and counted out th’ price they’ll be like t’ bring, we’d know un anywhere.”
“We’ll be gettin’ more fur,” David explained, “and we may not be able t’ tell all til’ new fur like we do that we got now.”
“No,” said Indian Jake, “nobody can remember all the fur he gets. I can’t tell all mine so I’d know ’em, if they were with others.”
“Davy and I could tell ours,” again insisted Andy; “th’ new uns just like th’ old uns, no matter how many we gets.”
“We won’t mix ’em,” and Indian Jake spoke with finality. “I’ll leave mine up at my first tilt.”
“Aye, that will be best, Andy,” said David. “Jake’s right about un. Then we’ll just have ours here, and we’ll know all we has here is ours, and Jake’ll have his separate, and know all he has is his.”
Thus the argument ended. No further reference was made to the matter until several weeks later, when David and Andy recalled it vividly, and the earnestness with which Indian Jake had urged his point.