CHAPTER IV
That night they heard the timber wolves for the first time, howlingmournfully a little way back in the woods. No doubt they had scentedthe fresh carcass of the deer, and probably there would have been novenison in the morning if they had not had the wisdom to carry thecarcass into the cabin. Peter opened the door quietly and slipped outwith a cocked rifle, but the wolves were too wary for him. Not one wasin sight, and the howling receded and grew fainter. But they heard itat intervals again during the night--a dismal and savage note, thatmade them feel like making the fire burn brighter.
"They must have followed the trail where we dragged the buck home,"said Maurice. "Good thing they didn't happen to strike it before wegot back."
"Oh, they'd hardly venture to attack three of us," replied Peter. "Ialmost wish they would. We could mow them down with our repeaters, andyou know there's a Government bounty of ten dollars a head on deadtimber wolves. We might make quite a pile, and besides the skins mustbe worth something."
"Might set some traps," Fred suggested.
"No use. The timber wolf is far too wise to get into any steel trap.That's why so few of them are killed. But say, boys, why couldn't wemanage to ambush 'em?"
"How?" Maurice demanded.
"Well, suppose I shot a couple of rabbits to-morrow night and wentthrough the woods dragging them after me, so as to make a blood trail.Any wolves that happened to cross it would certainly follow, and I'dlead them past a spot where you fellows would be ambushed, ready topump lead into them."
"Sounds all right," said Fred, "but suppose they overtook you beforeyou got to the ambush?"
"Oh, they wouldn't dare to attack me. They'd keep me in sight, stop ifI stopped, and turn if I turned, waiting for a chance to take me at adisadvantage. A shot would scatter them, anyway. The only troublewould be that they'd scatter so quick when you opened fire that youwouldn't be able to bag more than one or two. And I don't suppose thesame trick could be worked twice."
They discussed the matter all that evening and grew so enthusiasticover it that they determined to try it the next night. There was nohope now of diamonds, and the expedition had cost them nearly twohundred dollars. A few wolf bounties and pelts, together with the fursfound in the cabin, would cover this and perhaps leave a little profit.
It was cold and cloudy the next day, and they waited impatiently forevening. The moon would not rise till nearly midnight, and it wasnecessary to wait in order to have light enough for the proposedambush. They sallied out toward eleven o'clock, and shot threerabbits, which Peter attached to a deerskin thong. Selecting an openglade, Maurice and Fred established themselves in ambush under thethickets, while Peter started on a wide circle through the woods,trailing his bait, in the hope of attracting the wolves.
Fred and Maurice waited for more than two hours, nearly frozen,stamping and beating their arms, listening for the hunting cry of thewolf pack. At the end of that time Peter reappeared, tired anddisgusted. The wolves had failed to do their part, and had not pickedup the trail.
Still he was not discouraged, and insisted on trying it again the nextevening. This time Fred and Maurice stayed in the cabin to keep warm,listening intently. At the first, distant howl they were to rush outand ensconce themselves in a prearranged spot, a quarter of a mile upthe river, which Peter was to pass. They kept the two repeatingrifles, while Mac carried the double-barreled gun, loaded withbuckshot, which they had found in the cabin.
Half a mile from the shanty Peter shot a swamp hare that was nibbling aspruce trunk, and a little way farther he secured another. Thesecarcasses he tied together with a deerskin thong as before, and trailedthem in the wake of his snowshoes. This time he intended to make alonger circuit than on the preceding night.
He dragged this bait across a hardwood ridge and down into a greatcedar swamp on the other side. In hard weather all the wild life ofthe woods resorts to such places for shelter, and here the wolves wouldbe hunting if there was a pack in the neighborhood. But he found fewtracks and no sign at all of wolves.
After traveling slowly for two or three miles, Mac sat down on a log torest, and as the warmth of exercise died out, the cold nipped him tothe bone through the "four-point" blanket coat. He got up and movedon, intending to return in a long curve toward the cabin. He did notmuch care, after all, whether he started any wolves. It was too coldfor hunting that night.
The dry snow swished round his ankles at the fall of the long racquets.He still dragged the dead hares, which were now frozen almost as hardas wood, but not too hard to leave a scent.
He had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caughtsuddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp,sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tenseair. He knew well what it was. The pack had struck a trail--possiblyhis own, possibly that of a deer. He would very soon learn which.
Thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head tolisten. Again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack,far away, but still perceptibly nearer. He was just then in the midstof a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on toreach more open ground. As soon as he felt convinced that the pack wasfollowing him he intended to turn back toward the river.
He kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before heexpected it. He was still more than a mile above the point where theambush was to be set, and he paused on the shore and hearkened. Faraway through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell,much nearer now--so much so that he felt that he might as well make forthe ambush at once. He felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longedearnestly to see his companions.
He started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over hisshoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he wentdown with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp.
He had stepped on an airhole lightly crusted over with snow. He wentdown to his neck without touching bottom, and the black water surged upto his face. It was the gun that saved him; it caught across the hole,and he clung to it fiercely. As the current fortunately was not rapid,he was able to draw himself up and out upon the ice.
But he found himself unable to extricate his feet. The long-tailedsnowshoes had gone down point foremost, and now were crossed under theice, and refused to come up. He dared not cut them loose, for in thedeep snow he would have been helpless. Growing fainter at everymoment, he struggled in the deadly chill of the water for four or fiveminutes before at last he succeeded in bringing them up end first, asthey had gone down.
When he staggered back stiffly upon the snow the very life seemedwithdrawn from his bones. His heavy clothing had frozen into a coat ofmail almost as hard as iron plate. There was no sensation left in hislimbs, and he trembled with a numb shuddering.
Long forest training told him what must be done. He must have a fireat once. He would have to find a dry birch tree, or a splintered pinethat would light easily.
His benumbed brain clung to this idea, and he began to stumble towardshore, his snowshoes sheets of ice, and his clothes rattling as hewent. But with a hunter's instinct he stuck to his gun, tucking itunder his icy arm.
He could see no birch tree, and the bank was bordered with animpenetrable growth of alders. He dragged himself up the river, andeach step seemed to require a more and more intolerable exertion.
He could not feel his feet as he lifted and put them down; when he sawthem moving they looked like things independent of himself. He hadceased to feel cold. He no longer felt anything, except a deadlyweariness that was crushing him into the snow.
He went on, however, driven by the fighting instinct, till of a suddenhe saw it--the birch tree he was seeking, shining spectrally among theblack spruces by the river.
It was an old, half-dead tree, covered with great curls of bark thatwould flare up at the touch of a match. He had matches in awater-proof box, and he contrived to get them out of his frozen po
cket.He dropped the box half a dozen times in trying to open it, opened itat last with his teeth, and dropped it again, spilling the matches intothe snow.
Snow is as dry as sand at that temperature, however, and he scrapedthem up, and tried to strike one on the gun barrel. But he was unableto hold the bit of wood in his numbed fingers; there was absolutely nofeeling in his hands, and the match fell from his grasp at everyattempt. This is a familiar peril in the North Woods, where dozens ofmen have frozen to death with firewood and matches beside them, fromsheer inability to strike a light.
Mac beat his hands together without effect. He began to growindifferent; and as he fumbled again for the dropped match he fell atfull length into the snow.
A sense of pleasant relief overcame him, and he decided to rest therefor a few minutes. The snow was soft, and he had never before realizedhow warm it was. His shoulders were propped against the roots of thebirch, and with a hazy consciousness that game might be expected, hedragged his gun across his knees and cocked it. Then, with acomfortable sense of duty done, he closed his eyes.
Curious and delightful fancies began at once to flood his brain,fancies so vivid that he seemed not to lose consciousness at all. Howlong he lay there he never knew. But he grew alive at last to avise-like pressure on his left arm that seemed to have lasted foryears, and which was growing to excruciating pain.
He opened his eyes with a great effort. There were savage, hairy facesclose to his own, pouring out clouds of steaming breath into the frostyair. Something had him by the arm with such force that he almost feltthe bones cracking, and something was tugging at his leg.
The nervous shock aroused him as nothing else on earth could have done.A tingle of horrified animation rushed through his body. He was on thepoint of being torn to pieces by the wolf pack that had trailed him,and the powerful stimulus of the new peril called out the last reservesof strength.
He made a convulsive start. His frozen hand was on the trigger of theshotgun, and both barrels went off. At the sudden flash and report thehalf-dozen wolves bolted incontinently--all but one gray monster thatgot the full force of the buckshot and dropped in its tracks.
Macgregor staggered to his feet, full of terrible cramps and pains inevery muscle. But his head had cleared somewhat. He saw the dry birchtree and again tried to fumble for a match. Almost by sheer luck hesucceeded in striking it. The birch bark caught fire and flamedcrackling up the trunk. The dry trunk itself caught and burned like atorch.
Macgregor rubbed his face and hands savagely with snow. They hurtintensely, but he welcomed the pain, for it showed that they were notfrozen. He was beginning to feel a little more life when he heard thecreak and flap of snowshoes, and saw Fred and Maurice hurrying up theriver toward him.
"What's the matter?" they shouted, as soon as within hearing distance."We heard the shot. See any wolves?"
Mac tried to shout something in answer, but found that he could notspeak distinctly.
"I see you've bagged one," cried Fred, rushing up. "Why, man, you'recovered with ice! What's happened to you?"
"Been in the river," Peter managed to ejaculate. "Get my moccasinsoff, boys--rub feet with snow. Afraid--I'm going--to lose toes!"
With exclamations of sympathy the boys got his frozen outer clothingoff,--broke it off, in fact, from the caked ice,--removed his moccasinsand socks, and rubbed his feet with snow. Several of the toes hadwhitened, but they regained color after some minutes' rubbing, andbegan to hurt excruciatingly. Peter squirmed with the pain.
"But I don't mind it," he said. "Rub away, boys. I certainly thoughtI was going to lose part of my feet."
Perhaps the solid cake of ice that had instantly formed over his heavysocks and moccasins had actually protected them from freezing. At anyrate, he got off much more easily than he would have thought possible.The attack of the wolves had left little mark on him, either. He had afew light lacerations on his hands and face, but for the most part thebeasts seemed to have laid hold on him where the thick, ice-caked clothwas almost like armor plate. And no doubt the arrival of the pack hadsaved him from death by freezing.
Fred dragged up the carcass of the fallen wolf and skinned its head andears for the Government bounty. The rest of the pelt was so terriblytorn with buckshot as to be worthless.
"Your scheme didn't work, Mac," he remarked.
"It did work. It worked only too well," Macgregor protested. "It'sthe best scheme for catching wolves I ever heard of."
"You don't want to try it again, do you?"
"Well--that's a different thing!" he admitted. "No, I don't know thatI do. But if I hadn't gone through the ice we would probably havebagged nearly the whole pack."
After thorough snow friction Mac considered it safe to approach thefire by degrees. The ice thawed off his clothing, but left him wet tothe skin. It was certain that he ought to get back to the cabin anddry clothing as soon as possible, and he thought he would be able nowto travel. It was less than two miles.
It proved a painful two miles, but he reached the cabin at last, wherehis companions put him to bed in one of the bunks, covered him warmly,and dosed him with boiling tea. It was then growing close to threeo'clock in the morning.
Naturally they did not get up as early as usual for breakfast.Macgregor's feet were sore and somewhat swollen, but there was nolonger any danger of serious trouble. He had to remain in the cabinthat day and was unable to put on his moccasins, but he was much elatedat his luck in getting off so lightly. It was snowing and stormy,besides; none of the boys went out much, except for the endless task ofcutting firewood. They lounged about the cabin and discussed theproblems that perplexed them so much--whether Horace had reallydiscovered any diamonds, and what had become of him, and how andwhy--until the subject was utterly worn out. Maurice then made acheckerboard, and they played matches till they wearied of thisamusement also.
The next day they had to fall back on it again, however, for theweather was still stormy. During the afternoon it snowed heavily.Mac's feet were much better, and he wore his moccasins, but judged itunsafe to go out into the snow for another day. In the midst of thestorm Fred and Maurice cut down a couple of dead hemlocks, and choppedpart of them up for fuel. It was amazing to see what a quantity ofwood the rough fireplace consumed.
"If we had acres of diamond beds we couldn't afford such fires intown," Maurice remarked.
The next day the weather cleared, but turned bitterly cold. In theafternoon Maurice ventured out to look for game, and came back aboutfour o'clock with three spruce grouse and a frost-bitten nose. Theboys were all standing outside the cabin door, when Fred suddenlystarted.
Round the bend a sledge had just appeared on the river. It was drawnby six dogs, coming at a flagging trot through the deep snow; four menon snowshoes ran behind and beside it. For a moment the men seemed tohesitate as they caught sight of the hut. But they came on, turned upthe shore, and drove straight to the cabin at a gallop.
Three of the _voyageurs_ were plainly French Canadians, or possiblyFrench half-breeds, wiry, weather-beaten men, dark almost as Indians;the fourth was big and heavily built, and wore a red beard that was nowa mass of ice. All of them wore cartridge belts, and four rifles layon the packed sledge.
"_Bo' jou'_!" cried the dark-faced men, as they came within hailingdistance.
"_Bon jour_!" Maurice shouted back. He was the only one who knew anyFrench, and he knew but little. He was searching his memory for a fewmore words, when the red-bearded man came forward and nodded.
"Didn't know any one was living here this winter," he said. "Trapping?"
"Hunting a little," said Macgregor. "Unharness your dogs and comeinside. It's a cold day for the trail."
"You bet!" said one of the French, and they made no difficulty aboutaccepting the invitation. They rapidly unhitched the dogs, which hadsat down, snarling and snapping in their traces; then they unpacked thesledge and carried the dunnage inside the cabin.
T
hey were a wild-looking set. The French Canadians were probablywoodsmen, shanty-men or hunters, apparently good-natured and jovial,but rough and uncivilized. The Anglo-Saxon, who seemed to be theirleader, was more repellent, and when he took off his _capote_, herevealed a countenance of savage brutality, with small eyes, a cruelmouth, and a protuberant jaw, framed in masses of bricky red hair andbeard.
"I don't much like the looks of this crowd!" Maurice whispered inMacgregor's ear.
"Rough lot, but they'll be away in the morning," answered Peter.
In the North it is obligatory to be hospitable, and the boys preparedto feed and entertain the party as if they were the most welcomeguests. At the usual time they prepared supper. The four newcomersate enormously. During the meal the red-bearded man explained that hisname was Mitchell, that he was "going north with these breeds," as herather vaguely put it, and that they had run somewhat short ofprovisions.
Luckily, they had food for the dogs; one of the "breeds" presentlyproduced six frozen whitefish and carried them outside, where he gaveone to each dog with much dexterity. The fish were bolted in atwinkling, and the unhappy brutes began to look for a sheltered spotwhere they could sleep through the sub-Arctic night.
After supper the French, stuffed to repletion, lay back and engaged inan animated conversation in a dialect that seemed to be a mixture ofFrench, English, and Ojibwa. They laughed uproariously, and seemedthoroughly happy. But Mitchell said little, and continually examinedthe interior of the hut with keen, restless eyes.
The next morning the visitors showed no anxiety to be off. They fedthe dogs, lounged about, smoked, and stayed until dinner time. Afterdinner Mitchell announced that the dogs were tired, and would have torest that day.
It is very unusual to take a day off the trail for the sake of thedogs, but the boys made no objection, although secretly much annoyed.The presence of the strangers inspired them all with uneasiness.Besides, they could not continue their search or speak freely of it.
The next morning the strangers said nothing about moving on. They satabout the fire, and evading a suggestion that they help to cut wood,played cards nearly all day.
"What's the matter with them? Are they going to stay here all winter?"said Fred, in great irritation.
Certainly the dogs needed no more rest. They pervaded the place,trying to bolt into the warm cabin whenever the door was opened, andspending much time in leaping vainly but hopefully at the frozencarcass of the deer, swung high on a bough in the open air.
The prodigious appetites of the newcomers had not diminished in theleast, and the carcass was rapidly growing less. The boys thought thatat the least their guests might help replenish the larder, and the nextmorning Macgregor proposed that they all go after deer.
"No good to-day," said Mitchell gruffly. "Snow's coming. You boys goif you want to. We'll mind camp."
That was the last straw; there was no sign whatever of storm. Peterwent out of the cabin to consult with his friends.
"They think we're greenhorns from the city, and they're trying toimpose on us!" he said angrily. "If they don't make a move byto-morrow morning, I'll give them a pretty strong hint."
All the same, fresh meat had to be procured, and after dinner Macgregorand Maurice took the two rifles and went back to the deer yard to seeif the herd might not have returned. Fred stayed to watch, for theboys disliked to leave their guests alone.
The quartette were playing cards as usual, and Fred presently began tofeel lonely. After hanging about the hut for a time, he went out topass the time in cutting wood.
It was very cold, but he much preferred the outer air to the smokyatmosphere of the shack, and he soon grew warm in handling the axe. Hespent nearly the whole afternoon at this exercise, and it was afterfour o'clock when he finally reentered the cabin.
He opened the door rather quietly, and was astounded at what he saw.
The card game had been abandoned. The shanty was in a state ofconfusion and disorder. Blankets and bedding were strewn pell-mell;the contents of the dunnage sacks were tossed upon the floor.Everything movable in the place seemed to have been moved, and a greatpart of the moss chinking had been torn from one of the walls, as if ahurried and desperate search had been made for something.
And the object of the search had been found. The four men were benttogether over the table, watching intently, while Mitchell tooksomething from a small leather sack. They were all so feverishlyintent that Fred tiptoed up close behind them unobserved.
Mitchell was shaking out little lumps from the sack; each was wrappedin paper, and each, when he unwrapped it, was a small pebble thatflashed fire.
Fred's heart jumped, and he gasped. The diamonds! Horace had reallyfound them, then! The sack seemed to contain a large handful--it wasappalling to think what they might be worth! And then it flashed uponthe boy with increased certainty that his brother must be dead, forotherwise he would never have left them there.
Mitchell looked up and round at that instant. At his explosive oath,the Frenchmen wheeled like a flash. For a moment there was a deathlysilence, while the four men glared at the boy with scowling faces.Fred realized that not only the possession of the stones, but probablyhis life, hung on his presence of mind.
"Those things are my brother's, Mr. Mitchell," he said, with an outwardcoolness that astonished himself. "He hid them in this cabin. I don'tknow how you came to find them, but I'll ask you to hand them back."
His voice broke the spell of silence. One of the French said somethingin the ear of another, and then dropped quietly back toward the cornerwhere the men's four rifles stood together.
But Mitchell swept the pebbles together back into the bag. "Yourbrother's?" he said. "Why, I bought 'em myself from a gang of Ojibwasdown on Timagami. Rock crystals they call 'em, and I reckon to get tenor twelve dollars for 'em at Cochrane."
He spoke with such assurance that Fred was taken aback, and did notknow what to say. Then his eye fell on one of the scraps of paper inwhich a stone had been wrapped. He leaned forward and picked it up.
"Did you put this on it?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Look! It's mybrother's handwriting. 'October second, Nottaway River, near BurntLake,' it says. That's where he found it. And look at that!" Heswept his hand round the devastated cabin. "What did you tear theplace to pieces for if you weren't hunting for something?"
"They're mine, anyway," retorted the woodsman, slipping the preciousbag into his pocket. "Them papers was wrapped round 'em when I got'em."
"Impossible!" said Fred. "I tell you--"
"Shut up!" said Mitchell suddenly, with a snarl.
A sense of his peril cooled Fred's anger like an icy douche, and he wassilent. There was death in the four grim faces that regarded him. Hehad no doubt that the men would murder for a far less sum than thevalue of that sackful of precious stones.
For an instant he thought hard. He was entirely unarmed, and the men'srifles stood just behind them. He would have to wait forreinforcements. It was surely almost time for Maurice and Peter to beback, and they must be warned of the danger before they entered thecabin.
"All right," he said, with sudden mildness. "If you can prove that thestones are really yours, I'm satisfied. The sack looked like mybrother's, that's all."
Mitchell gave a contemptuous grin. The Canadians lighted their pipesagain.
Fred felt that they watched him closely, however. He lounged about thecabin with assumed nonchalance for a quarter of an hour, and thenventured to go out on the pretext of bringing in a fresh log for thefire. But once outdoors, he put on his snowshoes and rushed down thetrail to intercept his friends.