Around the Camp-fire

“Up with the banners on the height,Set every matin-bell astir!The tree-top choirs carouse in light;The dew’s on phlox and lavender,” —

till at last we pulled his hat down over his mouth, and made him go fishing with us. He declared he didn’t want to fish that day, so we took him to carry our captures.

This time we cut through the woods, and struck the river about half a mile below the outlet. The sparkling day had made us break bounds. At this point the Squatook River, after rushing in white-capped tumult down a gloomy channel, broadens fan-like out, and breaks over a low fall into a pool of quiet waters, out of which roars a strong rapid. The pool is wide and deep, and girt with great rocks. Over the black surface fleecy masses of froth were wheeling. How our hearts leaped at the sight! Behold us waist-deep around the margin of the pool, or braced upon the edge of the fall. The surface is lashed sometimes in three or four places at once by the struggles of the speckled prey against the slow, inexorable reel. Our excitement is intense, but quiet. Its only expression is the reel’s determined click, or its thrilling, swift rattle as the taut line cuts the water, and the rod bends and bends. A smallish fish has taken Sam’s “drop,” and is being reeled, half spent, across the basin. The “leader” trails out behind. There is a shining swirl beside it, – a strike; and stung by the check the very monarch of the pool flashes up, and darts like lightning down stream. But Sam’s fly is sticking in his jaw. Now, gallant fisherman, hold thine own! We forget our own rods. More than once Sam’s reel is almost empty. For twenty minutes the result is doubtful. Then, reluctantly, victory declares herself for the lithe rod and the skilful wrist. The larger of these two prizes which our lucky fisherman thus brought to land just tipped the beam at two and three-quarters pounds. The other was a light half-pounder.

That day after a hasty lunch we bade farewell to Camp de Squatook. The morning’s fishing had been so good that we resolved to keep its memory unblurred. A sudden desire seized us for “fresh fields and pastures new.” We struck tent, packed the canoes, and paddled out joyously from the landing. Through the whitefish barrier we slipped smoothly and swiftly onward down the racing current. Almost before we could realize it we were in the wild sluice above the fall. There was a clear channel at one side, and we raced through the big ripples with a shout and a cheer.

But alas for high spirits and heedlessness! Sam and Ranolf were in the rear canoe. They objected to this position; and just after running the shoot and clearing the basin, they tried to pass Magnus and me. We were in the strong and twisting current, however; and the first thing our rivals knew they were thrown upon a round-backed, weedy rock. Their canoe turned over gracefully, and discharged her whole burden into the stream.

Instantly the surface of the pool was diversified with floating paddles, poles, tent-pins, tin kettles, box-covers, etc., and Stranion and Queerman, Magnus and I, were busy capturing these estrays in the eddy below. The canoe was got ashore, righted, and found to be none the worse. Our heavy valuables, guns and the like, were lashed to the canoe, and hence got no worse than a wetting; but our axe and various spoons and forks were gone from our sight forever. The oatmeal was a part of our lading, and the tobacco as well. For this last we felt no anxiety, congratulating ourselves that it was in a waterproof tin. We did not at the time open this tin, as there was tobacco enough for a time in the other canoes. But the meal-bag was a slop. Henceforth we were to have no porridge, only beans, beans, beans, to go with our trout and canned knickknacks. And this meant nothing more nor less than dinner three times a day, instead of the old appetizing sequence of breakfast, dinner, and – dinner.

After a brief delay we continued our journey. An exciting afternoon it proved throughout, leaving us well tired at evening. Taking care to preserve a discreet distance between the canoes whenever the current grew threatening, we slipped on swiftly between ever-varying shores. Rounding a sharp turn we would see before us a long slope of angry water, with huddling waves and frequent rocks; and at the foot of the slope three or four great white “ripples” foaming and roaring in the sun. Then a brief season of stern restraint, strong checkings, strenuous thrustings, sudden bold dashes, and hair’s-breadth evasions – a plunge and a cheer, and, drenched from the crest of that last “ripple,” we would look back on the raging incline behind us. This sort of thing took place three times within two hours. We passed without stopping through Second Lake, and under the majestic front of Sugar Loaf Mountain, which is matchlessly reflected in the deep, still waters. The mountain towers from the water’s edge, its base in a cedar swamp, its lofty conical summit, which topples towards the lake as if it had received a mighty push from behind, veiled and softened with thick bushes and shrubbery.

Some time after sundown we reached the mouth of a tributary stream known as the Horton Branch. This was a famous trout water, and we determined to fish it thoroughly on the morrow. By the time we had the tent pitched, a few trout caught in the gathering dusk, and a mighty dinner cooked and eaten, our eyes were filled with sleep. We cared not for stories that night, but smoked brief pipes and then turned in.

In the morning after an early breakfast we poled up to the Big Jam, a distance of nearly six miles. The Big Jam is a sort of dam, formed of logs and tree-trunks and a long accumulation of débris. Just beneath it lies one of the finest trout pools I have ever fished – which is saying not a little. The poling up Horton Branch was delightful, – a stiffish current, but few rocks.

Arrived at the pool we made great haste to put our rods together, so tempting were the eddies. Never, surely, shall I forget that morning’s fishing. All the flies in our books seemed equally killing. Those Big Jam trout were insatiable. We soon grew hard to please, and made it a rule to return at once to its native element every fish that did not approach three-quarters of a pound. This had the proper effect of limiting our take to something near what we could at once consume. A few fine fish we packed in salt, in a sort of basket of birch-bark which Stranion ingeniously constructed. Toward noon the fish stopped rising. Then we lunched, and took a long siesta. In the afternoon the sport was brisk, but not equal to that of the morning. No doubt if we had stayed till sundown the morning’s experience would have been amply repeated; but we were not so greedy as to desire that. We left in high spirits at about five o’clock, and slipped merrily down to our camp on the main Squatook.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CAMP ON SQUATOOK RIVER

That night around the camp-fire stories were once more in demand. Stranion was first called upon, and he at once responded.

“I’ll call this story —

‘SAVED BY A SLIVER,’

and ask you to observe the neat alliteration,” said Stranion.

“In the autumn of 1887 I was hunting in those wildernesses about the headwaters of that famous salmon river, the south-west Miramichi. I had old Jake Christison with me, the best woodsman on the river; and I had also my inseparable companion and most faithful follower, Jeff, a large bull-terrier. Jeff was not a hunting-dog in any accepted sense of the word. He had no inherited instinct for the chase; but he had remarkable intelligence, unconquerable pluck, unquestioning obedience, and hence a certain fitness for any emergency that might arise. In the woods he always crept noiselessly at my heels, as unembarrassing and self-effacing as my shadow.

“One morning we set out from camp soon after breakfast to follow up some fresh caribou signs which Jake had just reported. We had gone but half a mile into the thickets when the woodsman discovered that he had left his hunting-knife by the camp-fire, where he had been using it to slice the breakfast bacon. To go without his hunting-knife could not for a moment be thought of; so he turned back hurriedly to get it, while I strolled on at a leisurely pace with Jeff at my heels.

“My way led me through a little wide ravine, in the centre of which lay the fragments of a giant pine, shattered years ago by lightning, and bleached by storm and sun. A portion of the trunk remained yet upright, – a tall splinter, or ‘sliver’ as the woodsmen call it, split from the rest of the trunk by some electric freak, and pointing like a stern white finger toward the spot of open sky above, whence the bolt had fallen. Saturated with resins, the sliver was practically incorruptible; and time had only served to harden its lance-like point and edge. A few feet beyond this blasted pine the woods grew thick, – a dusky confusion of great gnarled trunks and twisting limbs.

“As I sauntered up to the foot of that whitened trunk, Jeff suddenly thrust himself in front of me with a low, almost inaudible growl, and stood obstinately still, as if to bar my farther advance. Instantly my glance penetrated the thicket, and fell upon a huge panther crouching flat along a fallen tree of almost the same color as the brute’s hide. It was the panther’s cold green eyes indeed that so promptly revealed him to me. He was in the attitude to spring; and ordering Jeff ‘to heel,’ I sank on one knee, cocking my rifle and taking aim at the same time, for there was not a moment to lose.

“Even as I pulled the trigger the animal dashed upon me, in the very face of the flash. The suddenness of the assault of course upset my aim; but by good chance the ball went through the animal’s fore shoulder, breaking the bone. I was hurled backward into a hollow under the fallen fragments of the pine-tree, and I felt the panther’s teeth go through my left arm. Thrusting myself as far as possible beneath the shelter of the log, I reached for the long knife at my belt. Just as I got it out of its sheath, the panther, with an angry cry, dropped my arm, and turned half round, while keeping his place upon my prostrate body. My faithful Jeff had come to the rescue of his master, and had sunk his terrible teeth into the root of the panther’s tail.

“The snarling beast doubled back upon himself, and struggled to seize the dog between his jaws; but Jeff was too wary and active for this, and the panther would not leave his post of vantage on my body. He was a sagacious beast, and perceived that if he should let me up he would have two enemies to contend with instead of one. As for me, in my restricted position, I found myself unable to use my knife with any effect. I lay still, abiding my opportunity, and watching with intense but curiously impersonal interest the good fight my bull-terrier was making. I was not conscious of much pain in my arm, but the shock of the panther’s assault seemed in some way to have weakened my vital force. Presently the panther, finding it impossible to release himself from that deadly grip of Jeff’s, threw himself over on his back, curling himself up like a cat, and raked the dog severely with his dangerous hind claws. The change in our assailant’s position released my right arm, and at once I drove the knife into his side square to the hilt. I failed to touch a vital spot, but the wound diverted his attention; and Jeff, bleeding and furious, was enabled to secure a new hold. The panther was a splendid beast, and fought as I never before or since have seen a panther fight. Had it not been for my shot, which broke his fore shoulder, it would have gone hard with both Jeff and me. As it was, however, the panther found his work cut out for him, though I was so nearly helpless from my position that Jeff had to bear the brunt of the battle. The brave terrier was getting badly cut up. I could not see very well what went on, being at the bottom of the fight, and my breath nearly knocked out of me; but all of a sudden a rifle-shot rang in my ears, the smoke and flame filled my eyes, and the body of the panther stiffened out convulsively. The next moment old Jake was dragging me out from beneath, and anxiously inquiring about my damages.

“Reassuring him as to my condition, I sat down rather faintly on the trunk, while Jeff, at my feet, lay licking his scratches. The old woodsman leaned upon his empty rifle, contemplatively scanning our vanquished foe, and loudly praising Jeff. Suddenly he broke off in the midst of a sentence, and glanced up into the branches ahead of him.

“‘Great Jee-hoshaphat!’ he exclaimed in a startled voice, springing backward, and snatching for a fresh cartridge, while Jeff jumped to his feet with a wrathful snarl. In the same breath, before I could realize what was the matter, I heard the female panther, mate of him we had killed, utter her fearful scream of rage and pain. From a giant limb overhead her long tawny body flashed out into the sunlight, descending upon our devoted party like a yellow thunderbolt.

“Weak and dazed as I was, I shut my eyes with a sense of sick disgust and weariness, and a strange feeling of infinite suspense. There was a curious sound of tearing and scratching; but no shock came, and I opened my eyes in astonishment. There was Jake calmly slipping a cartridge into his rifle. There was Jeff standing just as I had seen him when I closed my eyes. It seemed hours, but it had been merely an eyewink – the fraction of a second. But where was the panther?

“My inward query was answered on the instant. A wild and indescribable screeching, spitting, and snarling arose, mixed with a sound of claws tearing desperately at the hard wood of the pine trunk. The panther was held aloft in the air, impaled on the sliver, around which she spun madly like a frightful wheel of tawny fire. Her efforts to free herself were tremendous, but there was no escape. The sliver was hard as steel and as inexorable. Suddenly Jeff sprang at the creature, but in his impetuosity missed his hold, and got a lightning blow from one of those great claws, almost laying his side open. The brave dog carries the marks of that wound to this day. His revenge was instantaneous; for his next leap gained its object, and his jaws fixed themselves securely in the panther’s haunches. The whole wild scene had thus far been like a dream to me, and the yellings and snarlings sounded far off and indistinct. The only reality seemed to me the still brown and green of the forest, the moveless tree-tops, the cheerful morning sun streaming down into the little glade, and the old woodsman standing in his contemplative attitude, watching the gyrating form of the panther. Then on a sudden my blood seemed to flow with a rush of new force, and a sense of reality came back to me. I jumped up, slipped a cartridge into my rifle, and with a timely bullet put the unhappy beast out of its pain.

“In order to release the panther’s body we had to cut down the sliver, the blood-stained top of which, with its point sharp and spear-like, as if fashioned by the hand of man, now hangs as a treasured relic upon my library wall. Right beneath, as a foot-rug to my writing-table, and a favorite napping-place for Jeff, is the panther-skin with two holes in it, where the sliver went through. The other skin I gave to old Jake as a memorial of the adventure; but it is probable he sold it at the earliest fair opportunity, for it was a comely and valuable skin.”

“Stranion,” said I when he concluded, “your Jeff is one of the dogs whom I am proud to have known. I have only met, in all my career, one better dog, and that was my brave old Dan, of blessed and many-scarred memory.”

“Bigger, not better, dog,” interrupted Stranion sternly.

“Well, we won’t argue over it. They were both of the same stock, anyway; and I fear we will not look upon their like again, eh, Stranion?”

“Now you are talking, O. M.,” responded Stranion warmly. “But tell us that great yarn about Dan’s battle!”

“No, not to-night,” was my answer. “It would seem like making rivals of Dan and Jeff, which they never were, but always sworn chums. Jeff is enough for one night. Dan shall be commemorated on another. Let Sam give us a bear story now.”

“All right,” said Sam. “Here’s one in which Stranion and I were both concerned. Note it down by the name of —

‘SKIDDED LANDING.’

“Three winters ago, as some of you will remember, Stranion and I took a month in the lumber-woods. It was drawing on toward spring. As we were both good snow-shoers, we managed to visit several widely scattered camps. At all we were received hospitably, with unlimited pork and beans, hot bread and tea; and at each we made a stay of several days.

“For our climax we selected that camp which promised us the most picturesque and exciting experiences at the breaking up of the ice. This was Evans’s Camp on Green River, where the logs were gathered in what is known as a ‘rough-and-tumble landing,’ – a form which entails much excitement and often grave peril to the axeman whose work is to cut the ‘brow’ loose.

“As it happened, however, the most stirring adventure that fell to our personal experience on that trip was one we encountered at Clarke’s Camp, on the Tobique, where we stayed but three days.

“This camp, but one of the many centres of operation of the great lumbering firm of Clarke & Co., was generally known as ‘Skidded Landing.’ And here let me explain the terms ‘brow,’ ‘drive,’ ‘rough-and-tumble landing,’ and ‘skidded landing.’

“In lumbermen’s parlance, the logs of the winter’s chopping, hauled and piled on the river-bank where they can conveniently be launched into the water upon the breaking up of the ice, are termed collectively ‘a brow of logs.’

“When once the logs have been got into the water, and, shepherded by the lumbermen with their pike-poles, are flocking wildly seaward on the swollen current, they and their guardians together constitute ‘the drive.’

“The task the lumbermen are now engaged upon is termed ‘stream driving;’ and laborious, perilous work it is, especially on those rivers which are much obstructed by rapids, rocks, and shoals. A brow of logs is a ‘landing’ when the logs are piled from the water’s edge. A landing may be either a ‘rough-and-tumble’ or a ‘skidded’ landing.

“The ‘rough-and-tumble,’ which good woodsmen generally regard as a shiftless affair, is made by driving a few heavy timbers into the mud at the water’s edge, at the foot of a sloping bank. These form a strong and lofty breastwork. Into the space behind are tumbled the logs helter-skelter from the top of the bank, as they are hauled from the woods. All through the winter the space keeps filling up, and by spring the strain on the sustaining piles is something tremendous.

“When the thaw comes and the river rises, and the ice goes out with a rush, then the accumulation of logs has to be set free. This is done by cutting away the most important of the sustaining timbers, whereupon the others snap, and the logs go roaring out in a terrific avalanche.

“It is easy to realize the perils of cutting out this kind of landing. If the landing has been unskilfully or carelessly located, the peril of the enterprise is greatly increased.

“The ‘skidded’ landing is a much more business-like affair. In this kind of structure the logs are placed systematically. First a layer of logs is deposited parallel with the river’s edge. Across these, at right angles, are laid a few light poles, technically termed skids. On these another layer of logs parallel to the water, and so on to the completion of the structure.

“With this species of landing, to release the logs is a very simple matter. There is nothing to do but quietly roll them off, layer by layer, into the stream, which snatches them and hurries them away.

“From this it will be seen why we did not elect to stay long at Skidded Landing. But while we were there something happened in this fashion.

“On the second day of our stay in the camp, it chanced that Stranion was lazy. When I set forth to examine some snares which I had set the night before, he chose to snooze in his bunk rather than accompany me. As events befell, he proved to have made the wiser choice.

“Of course I took my gun with me. I was thinking of small game exclusively, – during our wanderings, hitherto, we had seen nothing larger than a fox, – and both barrels were loaded with cartridges containing No. 4 shot. But with unaccountable thoughtlessness I neglected to take any heavier ammunition in my pocket; yet that was the only time on the trip that heavier ammunition was needed.

“I visited my snares, and found in one of them a rabbit. ‘The boys’ll appreciate a rabbit stew,’ thought I, as I hitched the frozen carcass to my belt. A little farther on I started another rabbit, which I shot, and hitched beside its fellow; and then I struck out blithely for camp. Before I had retraced my path many paces, I came face to face with an immense bear, which apparently had been dogging my steps.

“We halted and eyed each other sharply. I thought I detected a guilty uneasiness in the animal’s gaze, as if he were properly ashamed of himself for his ungentlemanly conduct. Presuming upon this, I spoke in an authoritative voice, and took one or two firm steps in advance. I expected the animal to step aside deferentially and let me pass, but I had forgotten that this was a hungry season for bears. The brute lumbered forward with alacrity, as if ferociously surprised at my readiness to furnish him a much-needed luncheon.

“In my trepidation I did not let him get near enough before I fired my solitary cartridge. Had I let him come to close quarters, the heavy bird-shot would have served the full purpose of a bullet. But no, I was in too much of a hurry. The charge had room to scatter before it reached my assailant; and the pellets only served to cut him up badly about the head without in the least interfering with his fighting capacity.

“With something between a grunt and a howl of pain and fury he dashed upon me; and I, dropping my cherished weapon in a panic, made a mighty bound to one side and darted toward the open river. I wanted free play for my snow-shoes, and no risk from hidden stumps.

“In the woods the snow was soft enough to give me some advantage over my pursuer. I gained on him when doing my utmost. But being gaunt from his long fast, and very light in proportion to his prodigious strength, his progress, with that awkward gallop of his, was terrifyingly rapid. Moreover, I had vividly before my mind’s eye the consciousness of what would be my instant fate should I trip on a buried stump or root, or plunge into some snow-veiled bush that would entangle my snow-shoes.

“Once out upon the river I breathed more freely. But the bear was hard upon my heels. Here the snow was more firmly packed, and he travelled faster. I ceased to increase the little distance between us. After two piercing yells for help, I saved my breath for the race before me.

“I was really not very far from the camp; but the trees and a high point intercepted my cries, and the wind blew them away, so they failed to reach Stranion’s ears. Nevertheless, it happened that Stranion grew restless about the time of my first meeting with the bear.

“He strolled down to the landing, which was perhaps three hundred yards from the camp, seated himself upon a spruce log, and began to dig off with his pocket-knife the perfumed amber-like globules of gum. He was engaged in this innocent if not engrossing occupation when he caught sight of me racing desperately around the jutting point immediately above the landing.

“At the sight of my terror he sprang to his feet, and was about to rush back to camp for his gun; but straightway the bear appeared, and so close behind me that he knew there was no time to get the weapon. The emergency was upon him. He knew something had to be done at once. Fortunately he was ready of resource. He dropped down, and crawled swiftly to the edge of the landing.

“The track I was following led along close under the front of the landing, then turned the corner sharply and ran straight up to the camp. The bear was now gaining on me. He was not more than thirty or forty feet behind. I was beginning to realize that he must catch me before I could reach the camp.

“Coming to this conclusion, I was just about to put forth all my remaining breath in one despairing shriek for help, then to turn and make what fight I could with my sheath-knife, which had already been used to cut away the dangling rabbits, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Stranion on the top of the logs. I took one look at his face and saw its look of readiness. He grinned encouragingly, but put his finger on his lips for silence.