A Daughter of the Forest

This was excellent advice and Adrian was tired. He decided to trust to the other lad’s common sense and larger experience, and having so decided, calmly stretched himself out upon the level bank of the stream and went to sleep.

Pierre’s temper rose still higher and after he had endured the sight of Adrian’s indolence as long as possible he stepped to the river and dipped a bucket of water. Then he returned and quietly dashed it over the drowsy lad. The effect was all that Pierre desired.

“What did you do that for?”

“Take this axe and get to work. I’ve chopped long enough. It’s my turn to rest. Or would be, only I’m after moose.”

Adrian realized that he had given cause for offense and laughed good-naturedly. His nap had rested him much more than his broken sleep of the night under the rocks, and the word “moose” had an inspiration all its own.

“I’ve cut the fire-wood. You get poles for the tent. I’ll get things ready for supper.”

Adrian laid his hand dramatically upon his stomach. “I’ve an inner conviction already that dinner precedes supper.”

“Cut, can’t you?”

“Cut, it is.”

In a few moments he had chopped down a few slender poles, and selecting two with forked branches he planted these upright on a little rise of the driest ground. Across the notches he laid a third pole, and over this he stretched their strip of sheeting. When this was pegged down at a convenient angle at the back and also secured at the ends, they had a very comfortable shelter from the dew and possible rain. The affair was open on one side and before this Pierre had heaped the wood for the fire when they should return after the day’s hunt. Together they cut and spread the spruce and hemlock boughs for their bed, arranging them in overlapping rows, with an added quantity for pillows. Wrapped in their blankets, for even at midsummer these were not amiss, they hoped to sleep luxuriously.

They stored their food in as safe a spot as possible, though Pierre said that nothing would molest it, unless it might be a hungry hedgehog, but Adrian preferred to take no risks. Then with knives freshly sharpened on the rocks, and the gun in hand, they cautiously stepped into the canoe and pushed off.

“One should not jump into a birch. Easiest thing in the world to split the bottom,” its owner had explained.

Adrian had no desire to do anything that would hinder their success, therefore submitted to his guide’s dictation with a meekness that would have amused Margot.

She would not have been amused by their undertaking nor its but half-anticipated results. After a long and difficult warping-up the rapids, in which Adrian’s skill at using the sharp-pointed pole that helped to keep the canoe off the rocks surprised Ricord, they reached a dead water, with low, rush-dotted banks.

“Get her into that cove yonder, and keep still. I’ve brought some bark and’ll make a horn.”

There, while they rested and listened, Pierre deftly rolled his strip of birch-bark into a horn of two feet in length, small at the mouth end but several inches wide at the other. He tied it with cedar thongs and putting it to his lips, uttered a call so like a cow-moose that Adrian wondered more and more.

“Hmm. I thought I was pretty smart, myself; but I’ll step down when you take the stand.”

“’Sh-h-h! Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe, if you can help it.”

Adrian became rigid, all his faculties merged in that one desire to lose no sound.

Again Pierre gave the moose-call, and – hark! what was that? An answering cry, a far-away crashing of boughs, the onrush of some big creature, hastening to its mate.

Noiselessly Pierre brought his gun into position, sighting one distant point from which he thought his prey would come. Adrian’s body dripped with a cold sweat, his hands trembled, specks floated before his staring eyes, every nerve was tense, and, as Margot would have said, he was a-thrill “with murder,” from head to foot! Oh! if the gun were his, and the shot!

Another call, another cry, and a magnificent head came into view. With horns erect and quivering nostrils the monarch of that wilderness came, seeking love, and faced his enemies.

“He’s within range – shoot!” whispered Adrian.

“Only anger him that way. ’Sh! When he turns – ”

“Bang! bang – bang!” in swift succession.

The great horns tossed, the noble head came round again, then bent, wavered and disappeared. The tragedy was over.

“I got him! I got him that time! Always shoot that way, never – ”

Pierre picked up his paddle and sent the canoe forward at a leap. When there came no responding movement from his companion he looked back over his shoulder. Adrian’s face had gone white and the eagerness of his eyes had given place to unspeakable regret.

“What’s the matter? Sick?”

“Yes. Why, it was murder! Margot was right.”

“Oh! shucks!”

Whereupon Pierre pulled the faster toward the body of his victim.

CHAPTER XIV

SHOOTING THE RAPIDS

Three months earlier, if anybody had told Adrian he would ever be guilty of such “squeamishness” he would have laughed in derision. Now, all unconsciously to himself, the influence of his summer at Peace Island was upon him and it came to him with the force of a revelation that God had created the wild creatures of His forests for something nobler than to become the prey of man.

“Oh! that grand fellow! his splendidly defiant, yet hopeless, facing of death! I wish we’d never met him!”

“Well, of all foolishness! I thought you wanted nothing but the chance at him yourself.”

“So I did. Before I saw him. What if it had been Madoc?”

“That’s different.”

“The same. Might have been twin brothers. Maybe they were.”

“Couldn’t have been. Paddle, won’t you?”

Adrian did so, but with a poor grace. He would now far rather have turned the canoe about toward camp, yet railed at himself for his sudden cowardice. He shrank from looking on the dead moose as only an hour before he had longed to do so.

They were soon at the spot where the animal had disappeared and pushing the boat upon the reedy shore, Pierre plunged forward through the marsh. Adrian did not follow, till a triumphant shout reached him. Then he felt in his pocket and, finding a pencil with a bit of paper, made his own way more slowly to the side of his comrade, who, wildly excited, was examining and measuring his quarry. On a broad leaved rush he had marked off a hand’s width and from this unit calculated that:

“He’s eight feet four from hoof to shoulder, and that betters the King by six inches. See. His horns spread nigh six feet. If he stood straight and held them up he’d be fifteen feet or nothing! They spread more’n six feet, and I tell you, he’s a beauty!”

“Yes. He’s all of that. But of what use is his beauty now?”

“Humph! Didn’t know you was a girl!”

Adrian did not answer. He was rapidly and skilfully sketching the prostrate animal, and studying it minutely. From his memory of it alive and the drawing he hoped to paint a tolerably lifelike portrait of the animal; and a fresh inspiration came to him. To those projected woodland pictures he would add glimpses of its wild denizens, and in such a way that the hearts of the beholders should be moved to pity, not to slaughter.

But, already that sharpened knife of Pierre’s was at work, defacing, mutilating.

“Why do that, man?”

“Why not? What ails you? What’d we hunt for?”

“We don’t need him for food. You cannot possibly carry those horns any distance on our trip, and you’re not apt to come back just this same way. Let him lie. You’ve done him all the harm you should. Come on. Is this like him?” And Adrian showed his drawing.

“Oh! it’s like enough. If you don’t relish my job – clear out. I can skin him alone.”

Adrian waited no second bidding, but strolled away to a distance and tried to think of other things than the butchering in progress. But at last Pierre whistled and he had to go back or else be left in the wilderness to fare alone as best he might. It was a ghastly sight. The great skin, splashed and wet with its owner’s blood, the dismembered antlers, the slashed off nose – which such as Pierre considered a precious tid-bit, the naked carcass and the butcher’s own uninviting state.

“I declare, I can never get into the same boat with you and all that horror. Do leave it here. Do wash yourself – there’s plenty of water, and let’s be gone.”

Pierre did not notice the appeal. Though the lust of killing had died out of his eyes the lust of greed remained. Already he was estimating the value of the hide, cured or uncured, and the price those antlers would bring could he once get them to the proper market.

“Why, I’ve heard that in some of the towns folks buy ’em to hang their hats on. Odd! Lend a hand.”

Reluctantly, Adrian did lift his portion of the heavy horns and helped carry them to the birch. He realized that the pluckiest way of putting this disagreeable spot behind him was by doing as he was asked. He was hopeless of influencing the other by any change in his own feelings and wisely kept silence.

But they hunted no more that day, nor did they make any further progress on their journey. Pierre busied himself in erecting a rude frame upon which he stretched the moose skin to dry. He also prepared the antlers and built a sort of hut, of saplings and bark, where he could store his trophies till his return trip.

“For I shall surely come back this same way. It’s good hunting ground and moose feed in herds. Small herds, course, but two, three make a fellow rich. Eh?”

Adrian said nothing. He occupied himself in what Pierre considered a silly fashion, sketching, studying “effects,” and carefully cutting big pieces of the birch-bark that he meant to use for “canvas.” To keep this flat during his travels was a rather difficult problem, but finally solved by cutting two slabs of cedar wood and placing the sheets of bark between these.

Whereupon, Pierre laughed and assured the weary chopper that he had had his trouble for his pains.

“What for you want to carry big lumber that way? Roll your bark. That’s all right. When you want to use it put it in water. Easy. Queer how little you know about things.”

“All right. I was silly, sure enough. But thanks for your teaching. Maybe, if you were in my city I might show you a thing or two.”

Both lads were glad, however, when night came, and having cooked themselves a good supper and replenished their fire, they slept as only such healthy lads can sleep; to wake at sunrise, ready for fresh adventures, and with the tragedy of the previous day partly forgotten even by Adrian. Then, after a hearty breakfast, they resumed their trip.

Nothing eventful occurred for some time after. No more moose appeared, and beyond winging a duck or two and fishing now and then, Pierre kept his hunting instincts down. In fact, he was just then too lazy to exert himself. He felt that he had labored beyond all reason during the past summer and needed a rest. Besides, were not his wages steadily going on? If Adrian was silly enough to paint and paint and paint – all day, this old tree and that mossy stump, he was not responsible for another man’s stupidity. Not he. The food was still holding out, so let things take their course.

Suddenly, however, Adrian realized that they were wasting time. He had made sketches on everything and anything he could find and had accumulated enough birch-bark to swamp the canoe, should they strike rough water; and far more than was comfortable for him to carry over any portage. So one morning he announced his intention of leaving the wilderness and getting back to civilization.

“All right. I go with you. Show me the town, then I’ll come back.”

“Well. As you please. Only I don’t propose to pay you any longer than will take us, now by the shortest road, to Donovan’s.”

“Time enough to borrow that trouble when you see it.”

But Pierre suggested that, as Adrian wished to learn everything possible about the woods, he should now take the guidance of affairs, and that whenever things went wrong he, Pierre, could point the way. He did this because, of late, he fancied that his young employer had taken a “too top-lofty” tone in addressing him; and, in truth, Adrian’s day-dreams of coming fame and his own genius were making him feel vastly superior to the rough woodsman.

They had paddled over dead water to a point where two streams touched it, and the question rose – which way?

“That!” said Adrian, with decision, pointing to the broader and more southern of the two.

“Good enough.”

For a moment the leader fancied there was a gleam of malice in his hireling’s eye, but he considered it beneath his notice and calmly turned the canoe into the thoroughfare he had chosen. It was wonderfully smooth and delightful paddling. In all their trip they had not found so level a stream, and it was nothing but enjoyment of the scenery that Adrian felt, until it seemed to him that they had been moving a long time without arriving anywhere. “Haven’t we?” he asked.

“Oh! we’ll get there soon, now.”

Presently things began to look familiar. There was one curiously shaped, lightning-riven pine, standing high above its fellows, that appeared like an old friend.

“Why, what’s this? Can there be two trees, exactly alike, within a half-day’s rowing? I’ve certainly sketched that old landmark from every side, and – Hello! yonder’s my group of white-birches or I’m blind. How queer!”

A few more sweeps and the remains of the camp they had that morning left were before them, and Pierre could no longer repress his glee.

“Good guide, you! Trust a know-it-all for making mistakes.”

“What does it mean?” demanded Adrian, angrily.

“Nothing. Only you picked out a run-about, a little branch of river, that wanders out of course and then comes home again. Begins and ends the same. Oh! you’re wise, you are.”

“Would the other lead us right?”

“Yes.”

“But it turns north. We’re bound south.”

“That’s no matter. Can’t a river turn, same as runabouts?”

“I give up. You guide. I’ll stick to my brush.”

This restored affairs to the ground which Pierre considered proper; and having paused long enough to eat a lunch, they set out afresh. The new track they followed ascended steadily, and it proved a difficult stream to get up; but the ascent was accomplished without accident and then the surface of the land altered. Again they reached a point where two branches met and Pierre explained that the waters of one ran due north, but the other bent gradually toward the south and in a little while descended through one of the most dangerous “rips” he had ever seen.

“Only saw them once, too. When I went as far as Donovan’s with the master, year before last.”

“Didn’t know he ever came so far from the island.”

“Why, he goes once every summer, or fall, as far as that New York of yours. Likely he’ll be going soon again.”

“He does? Queer he never mentioned it.”

“Maybe. I’ve a notion, though, that the things he don’t say are more important than what he does. Ever shoot a rip?”

“No. I’ve tried and failed. That’s how I happened to get lost and wandered to Dutton’s.”

“He’s the boss hand at it. Seems as if the danger fired him up. Makes him feel as I do when I hunt big game. He didn’t need my help, only fetched me along to take back some truck. That’s how he picked me out to show you. He knew I knew – ”

“And I wish I knew – lots of things!”

“One of ’em might be that round that next turn comes the first dip. Then, look out.”

The stream was descending very perceptibly; and they needed no paddling to keep them moving. But they did require to be incessantly on the watch to guard against the rocks which obstructed the current and which threatened the safety of their frail craft.

“You keep an eye on me and one on the channel. It’ll take a clear head to carry us through, and no fooling.”

Adrian did not answer. He had no thought for anything just then but the menace of those jagged points which seemed to reach toward them as if to destroy.

Nor did Pierre speak again. Far better even than his silent companion could he estimate the perils which beset them. Life itself was the price which they would pay for a moment’s carelessness; but a cool head, a clear eye, and a steady wrist – these meant safety and the proud record of a dangerous passage wisely made. A man who could shoot those rapids was a guide who might, indeed, some time demand the high wages at which Adrian had jeered.

Suddenly, the channel seemed barred by two opposing bowlders, whose points lapped each other. In reality, there was a way between them, by the shortest of curves and of but little more than the canoe’s width. Pierre saw and measured the distance skilfully, but he had not counted upon the opposing force of the water that rushed against them.

“Look – out! take – ”

Behind the right-hand rock seethed a mighty whirlpool where the river speeding downward was caught and tossed back upon itself, around and around, mad to escape yet bound by its own power.

Into this vortex the canoe was hurled; to be instantly overturned and dashed to pieces on the rock.

On its first circuit of the pool Adrian leaped and landed upon the slippery bowlder – breathless, but alive! His hand still clasped the pole he had been using to steer with, and Pierre – ? He had almost disappeared within the whirling water, that tossed him like a feather.

CHAPTER XV

SCIENCE AND SUPERSTITION

For an instant Adrian closed his eyes that he might not see the inevitable end. But – was it inevitable? At the logging camp he had heard of just such accidents as this and not all of them were fatal. The water in its whirling sometimes tossed that which it had caught outward to safety.

He flung himself prone and extended the pole. Pierre’s body was making another circuit of that horrible pit and when – if – should it – The drowning boy’s head was under the current, but his legs swung round upon its surface, faster and faster, as they drew nearer the centre.

Then – a marvel! The long pole was thrust under the invisible arms, which closed upon it as a vice.

“Hold! Hold! I’ll pull you out!”

But for the hard labor of the past few weeks Adrian’s muscles could not have stood the strain. Yet they did, and as he drew the nearly senseless Pierre upon the rock beside himself his soul went up in such glad thanksgiving as he had never known, or might know again. A life saved. That was worth all things.

For an hour they lay there, resting, recovering; then Pierre, himself, stood up to see what chance there was for a fuller deliverance. He was a very sober and altered Pierre, and his drenched clothing added to the forlornness of his appearance.

“Nothing left but – us. Came nigh bein’ only you. Say, Adrian, I shan’t forget it.”

“How are we going to get ashore?”

“’Tisn’t much harder’n Margot’s stepping-stones. Done them times enough.”

Again Adrian was grateful for his forest experience, but he asked with some anxiety:

“Suppose you are strong enough to do it?”

“Isn’t any supposin’ about it. Got to. Might as well died in the pool as starve on this rock.”

Adrian didn’t see that there was much better than starvation before them even if they did reach shore, but he kept his fear to himself. Besides, it was not probable that they had been saved from the flood to perish in the forest. They would better look at the bright side of the situation, if they hoped to find such.

“I can jump them.”

“So can I.”

“Don’t let go that pole. I mean to keep that as long as I live – ’less you want it yourself. If you do – ”

“No, Pierre, it belongs to you, and doubly now. Which should go first – you or I?”

“Draw lots. If that one falls in, the other must fish him out. Only we won’t try it on this side, by the pool.”

They carefully surveyed the crossing, almost as dangerous an affair as shooting the rapids had been. Yet, as Pierre had said, they “had to.”

Adrian picked a bit of floating weed that had swept within his reach and broke it into unequal portions. The shortest bit fell to him and with as cheerful a “here goes!” as he could muster he sprang for the next stone. He made it; more easily than he had hoped, and saw that his best chance lay in looking straight ahead to the next landing-point – and the next – never down at the swirling river.

“Landed! Come!”

Pierre was heavier but more practiced than his mate, and in a few seconds the two stood together on the shore, regarding the ruins of their boat and thinking of what they would not have for supper.

All at once Pierre’s eye brightened.

“Say! there’s been a camp here. Not so long ago, either. See that barrel in the brush? There’s an old birch shed yonder. Hurrah!”

They did not linger, though Adrian kept hoping that something from their lost outfit might be tossed outward toward them, even as Pierre had been; but nothing came in sight and he reached the dilapidated shed only a few feet behind the other.

“There’s a bed left still, but not such a soft one. And there’s pork in that barrel. Wonder the hedgehogs haven’t found it.”

But as Pierre thrust his nose into the depths of the cask he understood the reason of its safety.

“Whew! Even a porkypine wouldn’t touch that! Never mind. Reckon our boots’ll need greasing after that ducking, or mine will, and it’ll answer. Anything under the shed?”

“Don’t see anything. Wait. Yes, I do. A canvas bag hung up high. Must have been forgotten when the campers left, for they took everything else, clean sweep. Hurrah! It’s beans!”

“Good. Beans are good fodder for hungry cattle.”

“How can you eat such hard things? Should think they’d been resurrected from the Pyramids.”

“Well, I don’t know ‘Pyramids,’ but I do know beans, and how to cook them. Fall to. Let’s get a fire. I’m nearly frozen.”

“Fire? Can you make one?”

“I can try and – I’ve got to. When needs must, you know.”

Adrian hastily collected some dry twigs and decaying chips and heaped them in the sunniest place, but for this was promptly reprimanded by the shivering Pierre.

“Don’t you know anything at all? Wood won’t light, nor burn after ’tis lighted, in the sunshine. Stick up something to shade the stuff, whilst – ”

He illustrated what he did not further say, by carefully selecting some hard stones and briskly rubbing them together. A faint spark resulted and a thistle-down caught the spark. To the thistle-down he held a dried grass blade and another. By this small beginning they had soon a tiny blaze and very soon a comforting fire.

When they were partially dried and rested, said Pierre:

“Now, fetch on your beans. While they’re cooking, we’ll take account of what is left.”

Adrian brought the bag, refraining from any questions this time. He was wondering and watchful. Pierre’s misadventures were developing unsuspected resources and the spirits of both lads rose again to the normal.

“You’re so fond of splitting birch for pictures, split me some now for a bucket, while I sharpen this knife again. Lucky for me my pocket buttoned, else it would have gone to the bottom of that pool. Got yours?”

“Yes. I didn’t fall in, you know.”

“Then I don’t ask odds of anybody. I’d rather have a good axe, but when I can’t get my rather I take the next best thing.”

Adrian procured the strips of birch, which grows so plentifully to hand in all that woodland, and when Pierre had trimmed it into the desired shape he deftly rolled it and tied it with stout rootlets, and behold! there was a shapely sort of kettle, with a twig for a handle. But of what use it might be the city lad had yet to learn.

Pierre filled the affair with water and put into it a good handful of the beans. Then he fixed a crotched stick over his fire and hung the birch kettle upon it.

“Oh! don’t waste them. I know. I saw Angelique soak them, as they did at camp. I know, now. If we can’t cook them we can make them swell up in water, and starving men can exist on such food till they reach a settlement. Of course we’ll start as soon as you’re all right.”

“We’ll start when we’re ready. That’s after we’ve had something to eat and have made our new canoe. Never struck a spot where there was likelier birches. ’Twon’t be the first one I’ve built or seen built. Say. Seems as if that God that Margot is always saying takes care of folks must have had a hand in this. Doesn’t it?”