CHAPTER XIX.
TREED BY A MOOSE.
"I told you so, boys," breathed the guide two hours later, with anoverwhelming sigh of regret, after he had given his most fetching callsin vain. "I told you so. There ain't anything bigger'n a buck-rabbittravelling. That tormented row we made scared every moose withinhearing."
Herb was standing on the ground, horn in hand, screened by the greatshadows of a clump of hemlocks; the three were perched upon brancheshigh above him, a safe post of observation if any moose had answered.
"You may as well light down now," he continued, turning his face up,though the boys were invisible; "I ain't a-going to try any more musicto-night. I guess we'll stretch ourselves for sleep early, to get readyfor a good day's work to-morrow. An eight-mile tramp will bring us tothe first heavy growth about the foot of Katahdin, and I'll promise youa sight of a moose there."
His companions dropped to earth; and the four sought the shelter oftheir tent, which had been pitched a few hundred yards from thecalling-place. Some dull embers smouldered before it; for Herb, evenwhile preparing supper, had kept the camp-fire very low, lest anywandering clouds of smoke should interfere with the success of hiscalling.
Now he heaped it high, throwing on without stint withered hemlock boughsand massive logs, which were soon wrapped in a sheet of flame, making anisle of light amid a surrounding sea of impenetrable darkness.
Many times during the night the watchful fellow arose to replenish thisfire, so that there might be no decrease in the flood of heat whichentered the tent, and kept his charges comfortable. Once, while he wasso engaged, the placid sleepers whom he had noiselessly quitted werearoused to terror--sudden, bewildering night-terror--by a gasping cryfrom his lips, followed by the leaping and rushing of some brute inflight, and by a screech which was one defiant note of unutterablesavagery.
"Good heavens! What's that?" said Cyrus.
"Is it--can it--could it be a panther?" stammered Dol.
"Get out!" answered Neal contemptuously. "The panthers have got out longago, so every one says."
"A lynx! A Canada lynx, boys, as sure as death and taxes!" panted HerbHeal, springing into the tent on the instant, with a burning brand inhis hand. "'Tain't any use your tumbling out, for you won't see him.He's away in the thick of the woods now."
Cyrus gurgled inarticulate disappointment. At the first two words he hadsprung to his legs, having never encountered a lynx.
"The brute must have been prowling round our tent," went on Herb, hisvoice thick from excitement. "He leaped past me just as I was stoopingto fix the fire, and startled me so that I guess I hollered. He gotabout half a dozen yards off, then turned and crouched as if he wasgoing to spring back. Luckily, the axe was lying by me, just where I hadtossed it down after chopping the last heap of logs. I caught it up,and flung it at him. It struck him on the side, and curled him up. Ithought he was badly hurt; but he jumped the next moment, screeched, andmade off. A pleasant scream he has; sounds kind o' cheerful at night,don't it?"
No one answered this sarcasm; and Herb flung himself again upon hisboughs, pulling his worn blanket round him, determined not to relinquishhis night's sleep because a lynx had visited his camp. The city fellowssensibly tried to follow his example; but again and again one of themwould shake himself, and rise stealthily, convinced that he heard theblood-curdling screech ringing through the silent night.
It was nearly morning before fatigue at last overmastered everysensation, and the three fell into an unbroken sleep, which lasted untilthe sun was high in the sky. When they awoke, their sense of smell wasthe first sense to be tickled. Fragrant odors of boiling coffee werefloating into the tent. One after another they scrambled up, threw ontheir coats, and hurried out to find their guide kneeling by thecamp-fire on the very spot from which he had hurled his axe at the lynxa few hours before. But now his right hand held a green stick, on whichhe was toasting some slices of pork into crisp, appetizing curls.
"'Morning, boys!" he said, as the trio appeared. "Hope your early risingwon't opset ye! If you want to dip your faces in the stream, do itquick, for these dodgers are cooked."
The "dodgers" were the familiar flapjacks. Herb set down his stick as hespoke to turn a batch of them, which were steaming on the frying-pan,tossing them high in air as he did so, with a dexterous turn of hiswrist.
The boys having performed hasty ablutions in the stream, devotedthemselves to their breakfast with a hearty will. There was littleleisure for discussing the midnight visit of the lynx, or for anythingbut the joys of satisfying hunger, and taking in nutrition for the day'stramp, as Herb was in a hurry to break camp, and start on for Katahdin.The morning was very calm; there seemed no chance of a wind springingup, so the evening would probably be a choice one for moose-calling.
In half an hour the band was again on the march, the business ofbreaking camp being a swift one. The tent was on Herb's shoulders; andnaught was left to mark the visit of man to the humming stream but abed of withering boughs on which the lynx might sleep to-night, and afew dying embers which the guide had thrashed out with his feet.
No halt was made until four o'clock in the afternoon. Then Herb Healcame to a standstill on the edge of a wide bog. It lay between him andwhat he called the "first heavy growth;" that is, the primeval forest,unthinned by axe of man, which at certain points clothes the foot ofKatahdin.
The great mountain, dwelling-place of Pamolah, cradle of the flyingThunder and flashing Lightning, which according to one Indian legend arethe swooping sons of the Mountain Spirit, now towered before thetravellers, its base only a mile distant.
"I've a good mind to make camp right here," said Herb, surveying the bogand then the firm earth on which he stood. "We may travel a longish waysfarther, and not strike such a fair camping-ground, unless we go on upthe side of the mountain to that old home-camp I was telling you about,which we built when we were trapping. I guess it's standing yet, and'twould be a snug shelter; but we'd have a hard pull to reach it thisevening. What d'ye say, boys?"
"I vote for pitching the tent right here," answered Cyrus.
The English boys were of the same mind, and the guide forthwithunstrapped his heavy pack-basket. As he hauled forth its contents, andstrewed them on the ground, the first article which made its appearancewas the moose-horn; it had been carefully stowed in on top. Dol snatchedit up as a dog might snatch a bone, and touched it with longing in everyfinger-tip.
"There's one bad thing about this place," grumbled Herb presently,surveying the landscape wherever his eye could travel, "there isn't apint of drinking-water to be seen. There may be pools here and there inthat bog; but, unless we want to keel over before morning, we'd betterlet 'em alone. Say! could a couple of you fellows take the camp-kettle,and cruise about a bit in search of a spring?"
"I volunteer for the job!" cried Dol instantly, with the light of somesudden idea shining like a sunburst in his face.
"You don't budge a step, old man, unless I go with you," said Cyrus."Not much! I don't want to patrol the forests like a lunatic for fivemortal hours in search of you, and then find you roasting your shins bysome other fellow's camp-fire. One little hide-and-seek game of thatkind was enough."
"Well! the fact that I did bring up by Doc's camp-fire shows that I amable to take care of myself. If I get into scrapes, I can wriggle out ofthem again," maintained the kid of the camp, with a brazen look, whilehis eyes showed flinty sparks, caused by the inspiring purpose hiddenbehind them, which had little to do with water-carrying.
"Why can't you both go without any more palaver?" suggested Herb, as hestarted away towards a belt of young firs to cut stakes for the tent."Cruise straight across the bog, mark your track by the bushes as you go'long, don't get into the woods at all, and 'twill be plain sailing. Iguess you'll strike a spring before very long."
Cyrus caught up the camp-kettle, and stepped out briskly over thespringy, spongy ground. Dol Farrar followed him. The two were half-wayacross the bog before the elder noticed that
the younger was carryingsomething. It was the moose-horn.
"If we run across any moose-signs, I'm going to try a call," said Dol,his strike-a-light eyes fairly blazing while he disclosed his purpose."You may laugh, Cy, and call me a greenhorn; but I bet you I'll get ananswer, at least if there's a bull-moose within two miles."
"That's pretty cheerful," retorted the Boston man; "especially asneither of us has brought a rifle. Mr. Moose may be at home, and giveyou an answer; but there's no telling what sort of temper he'll be in."
"I left my Winchester leaning against a tree on the camping-ground,"said the would-be caller regretfully. "But you know you wouldn't fire onhim, Cy, unless he came near making mince-meat of us. If he shouldcharge, we could make a dash for the nearest trees. Let's risk it if werun across any tracks!"
"And in the meantime, Herb will be wondering where we are, vowingvengeance on us, and waiting for the kettle while we're waiting for themoose," argued Garst. "It won't do, Chick. Give it up until later on. Weundertook the job of finding water, and we're bound to finish thatbusiness first."
"If I wait until later on, I may wait forever," was the boy's gloomyprotest. "Tonight, when Herb is there, Neal and you will just sit on me,and be afraid of my making a wrong sound, and spoiling the sport.
"And I _know_ we'll see moose-tracks before we get back to camp!" woundup the young pleader passionately. "I've been working up to it all day.I mean I've felt as if something--something fine--was going to happen,which would make a ripping story for the Manchester fellows when we gohome. Do let me have one chance, Cy,--one fair and honest chance!"
There was such a tremendous force of desire working through the Englishboy that it set his blood boiling, and every bit of him in motion. Hiseyes were afire, his eyelids shut and opened with their quick snap, hislips moved after he had finished speaking, his fingers twitched upon themoose-horn.
He was a picture of heart-eagerness which Cyrus could not resist, thoughhe shook with laughter.
"I'll take mighty good care that the next time I go to find water forthe camp-supper, I don't take a crank with me, who has gone mad onmoose-calling," he said. "See here! If we do come across moose-signs,I'll get under cover, and give you quarter of an hour to call and listenfor an answer--not a second longer. Now stop thinking about this fad,and keep your eyes open for a spring."
But, unfortunately, this seemed to be a thirsty and tantalizing land fortravellers. The soft sod under their feet oozed moisture; slimy,stagnant bog-pools appeared, but not a drop of pure, gushing water, towhich a parched man dare touch his lips.
They crossed the wide extent of bog, Cyrus breaking off stunted busheshere and there to mark his pilgrimage; they reached the densetimber-growth at the base of the mountain, longing for the sight of aspring as eagerly as ever pilgrims yearned to behold a healing well; buttheir search was unsuccessful.
Decidedly nonplussed, Dol all the time keeping one eye on the lookoutfor water and the other for moose-signs, they took counsel together, anddetermined to "cruise" to the right, skirting the foot of Katahdin,hoping to find a gurgling, rumbling mountain-torrent splashing down.Having travelled about half a mile in this new direction, with the giantwoods which they dared not enter rising like an emerald wall on the onehand, and the dreary bog-land on the other, they at last, when patiencewas failing, came to a change in the landscape.
The desired water was not in view yet; but the bog gave way to fairer,firmer ground, covered with waving grasses, studded with rising knolls,and having no timber growth, save stray clumps of birches and hemlocks,several hundred yards apart.
"Now, this is jolly!" exclaimed Dol. "This looks a little bit like anEnglish lawn, only I'm afraid it's not a likely place for moose-tracks.But I'm glad to be out of that beastly bog."
"Confusion to your moose-tracks," ejaculated Cyrus, half exasperated. "Iwish we could find a well. That would be more to the purpose. Listen,Dol, do you hear anything?"
"I hear--I hear--'pon my word! I _do_ hear the bubbling and tinkling ofwater somewhere! Where on earth is it? Oh! I know. It comes from thatknoll over there--the one with the bushes."
Dol Farrar, as he finished his jerky sentences, pointed to an eminencewhich was two or three hundred yards from where they stood, and a likedistance from the wall of forest.
"Well! It's about time we struck something at last," grumbled Garst."Catch me ever coming on a water pilgrimage again! I'll let Herb fillhis own kettle in future. Now, I believe that fellow could smell aspring."
"Just as I smelt this one!" exclaimed Dol triumphantly. "I told you'twas on the side of the knoll. And here it is!"
"Bravo, Chick! You've got good ears, if you are crazy upon one subject."
And so speaking, Cyrus, with a chuckle of joy, unslung the tindrinking-cup which hung at his belt, filled and refilled it, drinkinglong, inspiriting draughts before he prepared to fill the camp-kettle.
"The best water I ever tasted, Dol!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips."It's ice-cold. There's not much of it, but it has quality, if notquantity."
The long-sought well was, in truth, a tiny one. It came bubbling up,clear and pellucid, from the bowels of the earth, and showed itslaughing face amid a cluster of bushes--which all bent close to look atit lovingly--half-way up the knoll. A wee stream trickled down fromit,--dribble--dribble--a rivulet that had once been twice its presentsize, judging from the wide margin of spattered clay at each side.
Dol had been following his companion's example, and drinking joyfullybefore thinking of aught else. When the moment came for him tostraighten his back, and rise upon his legs, instead of this naturalproceeding, he suddenly crouched close to the ground, his breath comingin quick puffs, his eyes dilating, a froth of excitement on his lips.
"What on earth are you staring at?" asked Cyrus. "You look positivelycrazy."
For answer, the English boy shot up from his lowly posture, seized hiscompanion by the arm, making him drop the camp-kettle, which he was justfilling, and forced him to scan the soft clay by the rivulet.
"Look there--and there!" gurgled Dol, his voice sounding as if he wasbeing choked by suppressed hilarity. "I told you we'd find them, and youdidn't believe me! Aren't those moose-tracks? They're not deer-tracks,anyhow; they're too big. I may be a greenhorn, but I know that much."
"They _are_ moose-tracks," Cyrus answered slowly, almost unbelievingly,though the evidence was before him. "They certainly are moose-tracks,"he repeated, "and very recent ones too. A moose has been drinking here,perhaps not half an hour ago. He can't be far away."
Garst was now warming into excitement himself. His bass tones becameguttural and almost inarticulate, while he lowered them to prevent theirtravelling. On the reddish clay at his feet were foot-marks very likethe prints of a large mastiff. He studied them one by one, even tracingthe outline with his forefinger.
"Then I'm going to call," whispered Dol, his words tremulous andstifled. "Lie low, Cy! You promised you'd give me a fair chance; you'llhave to keep your word."
"I'll do it too," was the answering whisper. "But let's get higher up onthe knoll, behind those big bushes at the top. And listen, Dol, if amoose makes a noise anywhere near, we must scoot for the trees before hecomes out from cover. I've got to answer to your father for you."
It was an intense moment in Dol Farrar's life; sensation reached itshighest pitch, as he crouched low behind a prickly screen, put thebirch-bark horn to his mouth, and slowly breathed through it with thefull power of his young lungs, marvellously strengthened by the forestlife of past weeks.
There was a minute's interval while he removed it again, and drew in allthe air he could contain. Then a call rose upon the evening air, sotouching, so plaintive, with such a rising, quavering impatience as itsurged out towards the woods,--whither the boy-caller's face wasturned,--that Cyrus could scarcely suppress a "Bravo!"
The summons died away in a piteous grunt. A second time the call roseand fell. On the third repetition it broke off, as usual, in an abruptroar, which seemed to s
trike the tops of the giant trees, and boom amongthem.
A froth was on Dol Farrar's lips, his eyes were reddened, he puffed hardthrough spread nostrils, like a young horse which has been trying itsmettle for the first time, as he lowered that moose-horn, lifted hishead, and cocked his ears to listen.
Two soundless minutes passed. Dol, who, if he had mastered the hunter'scall, had certainly not mastered his patience, put the bark-trumpetagain to his lips, determined to try the effect of a surpassinglyexpressive grunt.
But he never executed this false movement, which would have given awaythe trick at once.
A bellow--a short, snorting, challenging bellow--burst the silence,coming from the very edge of the woods. It brought Cyrus to his feetwith a jump. It so startled the ambitious moose-caller, that, in risinghurriedly from his squatting position, he lost his balance, and rolledover and over to the bottom of the knoll, smashing the horn into ahundred pieces.
He picked himself up unhurt, but with a sensation as if all the bells inChristendom were doing a jumbled ringing in his head. And loud abovethis inward din he heard the sound, so well remembered, as of an axestriking repeatedly against a tree, the terrible chopping noises of abull-moose, not two hundred yards away.
No sooner had he scrambled to his legs, than Garst was at his side,gripping his arm, and forcing him forward at a headlong run.
"You've done it this time with a vengeance!" bawled the Bostonian. "He'scoming for us straight! And we without our rifles! The trees! The trees!It's our only chance!"
With the belling still in his head, and so bewildered by his terriblesuccess that he felt as if his senses were shooting off hither andthither like rockets, leaving him mad, Dol nevertheless ran as he hadnever run before, shoulder to shoulder with his comrade, dashing wildlyfor a clump of hemlocks over a hundred yards distant. Yet, for the lifeof him, he could not help glancing back once over his shoulder, to seethe creature which he had humbugged, luring it from its forest shelter,and which now pursued him.
The moose was charging after them full tilt, gaining rapidly too, hislong thin legs, enormous antlers, broad, upreared nose, and the greenglare in his starting eyes, making him look like some strange animal ofa former earth. Dol at last trembled with actual fear. He gave ashuddering leap, and forced his legs, which seemed threatened withparalysis, to wilder speed.
"Climb up that hemlock! Get as high as you can!" shrieked Cyrus,stopping to give him an upward shove as they reached the first friendlytrunk.
Dol obeyed. Gasping and wild-eyed, he dug his nails into the bark,clambering up somehow until he reached a forked branch about eight feetfrom the ground. Here strength failed. He could only cling dizzily,feeling that he hung between life and death.
The moose was now snorting like a war-horse beneath. The brute stood offfor a minute, then charged the hemlock furiously, and butted it withhis antlers till it shook to its roots, the sharp prongs of thoseterrible horns coming within half an inch of Dol's feet.
With a gurgle of horror the boy tried to reach a higher limb, andsucceeded; for at the same moment a timely shout encouraged him. Cyruswas bawling at the top of his voice from a tree ten feet distant:--
"Are you all right, Dol? Don't be scared. Hold on like grim death, andwe can laugh at the old termagant now."
"I'm--I'm all right," sang out Dol, though his voice shook, as did everytwig of his hemlock, which the moose was assaulting again. "But he'sfrantic to get at me."
"Never mind. He can't do it, you know. Only don't you go turning dizzyor losing your balance. Ha! you old spindle-legged monster, stand offfrom that tree. Take a turn at mine now, for a change. You can't shakeme down, if you butt till midnight."
Garst's last sentences were hurled at the moose. The Bostonian, havingreached a safe height, thrust his face out from his screen of branches,waving first an arm, and then a leg, at the besieging foe, hoping thatthe force of those battering antlers would be directed against hishemlock, so that his friend's nerves might get a chance to recover.
The ruse succeeded. The moose, reminded that there was a second enemy,charged the other tree; stood off for a minute to get breath, thencharged it again, snorting, bellowing, and knocking his jaws togetherwith a crunching, chopping noise.
"Ha! that's how he makes the row like a man with an axe--by hammeringhis jaws on each other. Well, well! but this is a regular picnic, Dol,"sang out Cyrus jubilantly, caring nothing for the shocks, and forgettingcamp, water, peril, everything, in his joy at getting a chance toleisurely study the creature he had come so far to visit.
"I owe you something for this, little man!" he carolled on in triumph,as he watched every wild movement of the moose. "This is a show we'llonly see once in our lives. It's worth a hundred dollars a performance.Butt and snort till you're tired, you 'Awful Jabberwock!'"--this to thebull-moose. "We've come hundreds of miles to see you, and the more youcarry on the better we'll be pleased."
Indeed, the wrathful king of forests seemed in no hurry to cut short hispantomime. He ramped and raged, tearing from one tree to another,expending paroxysms of force in vain attempts to overturn one or theother of them. The ground seemed to shake under his thundering hoofs.His eyes were full of green fire; his nostrils twitched; the blacktassel or "bell" hanging from his shaggy throat shook with every angrymovement; his muffle, the big overhanging upper lip, was spotted withfoam.
As he gulped, grunted, snorted, and roared, his uncouth, guttural noisesmade him seem more than ever like a curious creature of earth's earliestages.
"We came pretty near to being goners, Dol, I tell you!" carolled Cyrusagain from his high perch in the hemlock, carrying on a by-play with theenemy between each sentence. "How in the name of wonder did you managesuch a call? It would have moved the heart-strings of any moose. I waslying flat, you know, peeping through a little gap in the bushes, andyou had scarcely taken the horn from your mouth when I saw the oldfellow come stamping out of the woods. My! wasn't he a sight? He stoodfor a minute looking about for the fancied cow; then he bellowed, andstarted towards the knoll. I knew we had better run for our lives. Assoon as he saw us he gave chase."
"And 'the fancied cow' should go tumbling down the knoll like a rollingjackass, and smash that grand horn to bits!" lamented Dol, who now satserenely on his bough, with a firm clasp of the hemlock trunk, and areckless enjoyment of the situation which far surpassed his companion's.
Cyrus began to have an occasional twinge of uneasiness about thepossible length of the siege, after his first exuberance subsided; butthe younger boy, his short terror overcome, had no misgivings. Hecoquetted with the moose through a thick screen of foliage, shook thebranches at him, gibed and taunted him, enjoying the extra fury hearoused.
But suddenly the old bull, having kept up his wild movements for nearlyan hour, resolved on a change of tactics. He stood stock-still andlowered his head.
"Goodness! He has made up his mind to 'stick us out!'" gasped Cyrus.
"What's that?" said Dol.
"Don't you see? He's going to lay siege in good earnest--wait till we'reforced to come down. Here's a state of things! We can't roost in thesetrees all night."
The hemlocks were throwing ever-lengthening shadows on the grass. A sloweclipse was stealing over everything. The motionless moose became anuncouth black shape. Garst muttered uneasily. His fingers tingled forhis rifle--a very unusual thing with him. His eyes peered through thecreeping darkness in puzzled search for some suggestion, somepossibility of escape.
"If it were only myself!" he whispered, as if talking to his hemlock."If it were only myself, I wouldn't care a pin. 'Twould do me no greatharm to perch here for hours. But an English youngster, on his firstcamping-trip! Why, the chill of a forest night might ruin him. Hewouldn't howl or make a fuss, for both those Farrar boys have lots ofgrit, but he'd never get over it. Dol!" he wound up, raising his voiceto a sharp pitch. "Say, Dol, I'm going to try a shout for help. Herbmust be getting anxious about us by this time. If we could once make himhear, he could try some
trick to lure this old curmudgeon away, or creepup and shoot him. Something must be done."
Fetching a deep breath, Cyrus sent a distance-piercing "Coo-hoo!"ringing through the night-air. He followed it with another.
But, so far as he could hear, the hails fetched no answer, save from themoose-jailer. The brute was stirred into a fresh tantrum by the noise.He charged the hemlocks once more, butted and shook them like averitable demon.
When his paroxysm had subsided, and he stood off to get breath, Garsthailed again.
Glad sound! An answer this time! First, a shrill, long "Coo-hoo!" Next,Herb's voice was heard pealing from far away in the bog: "What's up,boys? Where in the world are you?"
"Here in the trees--treed by a bull-moose!" yelled Cyrus. "He's themaddest old monster you ever saw. Could you coax him off, or sneak upand shoot him? He means to keep us prisoners all night."
There was no wordy answer. But presently the treed heroes heard an odd,bird-like whistle. Dol thought it came from a feathered creature; hismore experienced companion guessed that the guide's lips gave it as asignal that he was coming, but that he didn't want to draw the moose'sattention in his direction just yet.
Such a quarter of an hour followed! With the fresh spurt of anger thebull-moose became more savage than ever. He grunted, tramped, andhooked the trees with his horns, so that the pair who were perched likenight-birds on the branches had to hold on for dear life, lest asurprising shock should dislodge them. Whenever the creature stood off,to gather more fury, they could have counted their heart-beats whilethey listened, breathlessly anxious to, know what action the approachingwoodsman would take.
Once Cyrus spoke.
"Dol Farrar," he said, "I guess this caps all the adventures that you orI have had up to date. No wonder you felt all day as if you were workingup to something. I'll believe in presentiments in future."
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when there was the sharp bang!bang! of a rifle not twenty yards distant. A bright sputter of fire cutthe darkness beneath the hemlocks.
The moose's blind rage threatened to be his own undoing. While he wasfighting an imaginary danger, ears and nostrils half-choked by fury,through the calm night Herb Heal, Winchester in hand, had creptnoiselessly on, till he reached the very trees which sheltered hisfriends.
Once, twice, three times the rifle snapped. The first shot missedaltogether. At the second, the moose rose upon his hind-legs, with asharp sound of fright and pain, quite unlike his former noises. Then hegave a quick jump.
"Great Governor's Ghost! he's gone;" yelled Cyrus, who had swung himselfdown a few feet, and was hanging by one arm, in his anxiety to see theresult of the firing. "You needn't shoot again, Herb! He's off! Let himgo!"
"I guess that second shot cut some hair from him, and drew blood too,"answered Herb, his deep voice giving the pair a queer sensation as theyheard it right beneath. "It was too dark to see plain, but I think hereared; and that's a sign that he was hurt, little or much. Don't dropdown for a minute, boys, till we see whether he has bolted for good."