CHAPTER IX A SHOT IN THE DUSK

Day breaks in the great forest in a hushed solemnity, as if all nature bowed in silent worship. The very leaves hang motionless. The voices of the night are stilled. The prowlers in the dark have slunk back to their lairs. The furred and feathered folk who people the mighty woodland through all the hours of light have not yet awakened. The peace of the perfect stillness is at once a benediction and a prayer.

It was at just this hour that Walter awoke. There was no sound save the heavy breathing of Big Jim. For a few minutes he lay peering out through a break in the bark wall of the shack. Swiftly the gray light threaded the forest aisles. A rosy flush touched the top of a giant pine and instantly, as if this were a signal, a white-throated sparrow softly fluted its exquisite song from a thicket close [137] by the camp. Another more distant took up the song, and another and another until the woods rang with the joyous matins. A red squirrel chirred sharply and his claws rattled on the bark of the roof as he scampered across. A rabbit thumped twice close at hand. Cautiously raising himself on one elbow Walter discovered the little gray-coated fellow peering with timid curiosity into the opposite lean-to.

As if this were the morning alarm Big Jim yawned, then sprang from his blankets. Brer Rabbit dived headlong for the underbrush, but the guide’s quick eyes caught the flash of bunny’s white tail, and he laughed good-naturedly.

“Why didn’t you invite him t’ breakfast, son?” he inquired.

Walter grinned as he crawled out of his blankets. “Felt too bashful on such short acquaintance,” he replied.

“Prob’ly them’s his feelin’s, too,” said the guide, producing two rough towels from the depths of his pack basket. “Now fer a wash and then breakfast.”

There was a sharp nip to the air that made [138] Walter shiver at the thought of what the water must be like. He dreaded that first plunge, but he said nothing, and followed Big Jim’s lead down to the lake. To his surprise he found the water warmer than the air, as if the heavy blanket of mist in which the lake was still shrouded was indeed a coverlid provided to hold fast the warmth absorbed from the sun of yesterday. A brisk swim followed by an equally brisk rub-down banished all thoughts of chill, and just as the first low-flung rays of the rising sun burned a hole through the slowly rising vapor they started back for camp and breakfast.

“You start th’ fire while I rastle round th’ grub,” said the guide, as he once more dug down into the pack. “How will flapjacks and th’ rest o’ them trout hit yer fer a lining fer yer stomach, pard?”

While the guide prepared the batter Walter showed how well he had learned his lesson in fire building the night before. Between the two big bed-logs he placed two fairly good-sized sticks about a foot apart. Dry twigs and splinters were laid loosely across, and on these at one side some strips of birch bark. [139] Two more sticks were now laid across the twigs at right angles, then another layer of small sticks. The next layer of larger sticks was laid at right angles to the former. So the pile was built up, log-cabin fashion, good-sized split hard wood being used for the upper layers.

Touching a match to the birch bark he had the satisfaction of seeing the whole mass leap into flame in less than a minute because, built in this way, air had immediate circulation to the whole mass, free access of air being essential to a brisk fire. Then again the whole would burn down together to live coals, the object to be obtained for successful cooking.

In the meantime Big Jim had stirred up the flapjack batter and gone in quest of the trout, which had been left in a pail hung on the stub of a dead branch of a pine near by. He returned with a look of chagrin on his good-natured face.

“Reckon, pard, thet we’ve had more visitors than thet leetle cottontail we ketched a glimpse o’ this mornin’. If yer ain’t no ways pertic’lar you an’ me will have bacon stid o’ trout with them flapjacks. Ought t’ known [140] thet if leetle ole Mr. Mink really wanted them fish he wouldn’t mind takin’ th’ trouble t’ shin up a tree. If I’d hung thet pail by a wire as I’d ought t’ hev, Mr. Mink wouldn’t hev th’ laugh on us now.”

Walter laughed at the rueful face of the guide. “How do you know it was a mink?” he asked.

“’Cause thar’s no other critter in these here woods likes fish well enough t’ use his wits thet way t’ git ’em. Besides, he wasn’t pertic’lar ’bout coverin’ up his tracks. Left ’em ’round most promiscus and insultin’. Say, son,” he added, his face brightening with a sudden thought, “you take thet tin dipper and hit th’ trail past th’ big pine over yonder. Keep a-goin’ till yer strike a patch o’ old burned-over ground. Yesterday I see a lot o’ early blueberries over thar. Pick th’ dipper full and I’ll give yer somethin’ t’ tickle yer ribs so thet yer’ll fergit all about them trout.”

Walter took the dipper and following the trail shortly reached the burned land. Sure enough, there were the berries, so plentiful that it took but a short time to fill the dipper. Before he reached camp he smelt the bacon [141] and his mouth watered. A pot of steaming cocoa hung from one of the pot-hooks, and a plate of crisp bacon rested on one end of the fore-log where it would keep warm.

Big Jim took the dipper with a grin of satisfaction and stirred the berries into his kettle of batter. Then into the sizzling hot frying-pan, well greased with bacon fat, he poured enough batter to cover the bottom, and placed it over the glowing coals before which he squatted, watching the bubbling cake with a critical eye. Suddenly he lifted the pan, and with a dextrous twist of the wrist, so deftly executed that Walter did not see how the trick was done, the flapjack was sent into the air, where it turned over and was caught in the pan, brown side up as it came down. It was returned to the fire all in the one motion and two minutes later, buttered and sugared, was on its way to “line Walter’s ribs.”

“Well, pard, how do yer like ’em?” inquired the cook, sending another spinning over to Walter’s plate.

“They’re just the best ever!” exclaimed the boy enthusiastically. “I’m going to teach cook to make ’em when I get home. Wish [142] dad could have one of these right now. Say, Jim, it’s my turn to fry now.”

The guide tossed one more to begin on while Walter was frying the next, and then turned the frying-pan over to the amateur cook. Big Jim’s eyes twinkled as the boy reached for a knife with which to turn the cake. His big hand closed over the knife first.

“Nobody can be a side pardner o’ mine who has t’ take a knife t’ turn a flapjack,” he drawled, “and, son, I kind o’ think I’d like you fer a side pardner. Thet bein’ so, up she goes!”

Walter grinned sheepishly and gave the frying-pan an awkward toss. The required twist of the wrist was wholly lacking and, instead of turning a graceful somersault in the air, the cake shot out at an angle and landed soft side down on the very spot the guide had occupied a second before. That worthy, with wisdom born of experience, had shifted his base at the first motion of the frying-pan, and was now rolling on the ground in huge glee, his infectious laugh rolling through the camp.

Walter, his face crimson with more than [143] the heat of the fire, bit his lips in chagrin which he could not hide, but being blessed with a strong sense of humor he joined in the laugh and straightway prepared to try again. This time, under a running fire of comment and advice from Big Jim, who solemnly assured him that in his humble opinion “the landscape ain’t really a-needin’ blueberry frescoes t’ improve its beauty,” he succeeded in sending the cake into the air within catching distance of the pan, but it lacked the impetus to send it high enough to turn completely over, and fell back in the pan in a shapeless mass.

Big Jim cast an appraising eye at the batter kettle and, evidently considering that his chances of a square meal were in jeopardy, reached for the pan and gave Walter a practical demonstration. Holding the pan slanting in front of and away from him he gave it a couple of preliminary easy flaps to get the swing, then flipped boldly and sharply. It seemed the easiest thing in the world, and in fact it is when you know how. Returning the pan to Walter he had the latter go through the motions several times until he was satisfied. [144] Then he bade him pour in the batter and go ahead.

Slowly at first, then faster the bubbles broke to the surface. Presently the edges stiffened and with a little shake Walter felt that the cake was loose and free in the pan. Getting the preliminary swing he gave the pan a sharp upward flip and a second later the cake was back over the fire, brown side up.

The guide nodded approvingly. “Reckon yer goin’ t’ be a sure enough woodsman,” he said. “Nobody what can’t toss a flapjack has any business t’ think he’s th’ real thing in th’ woods.”

Breakfast finished it fell to Walter to wash the dishes while the guide went out to look for deer signs. Cleanliness is next to godliness in camp as well as at home, and hot water is as necessary to wash dishes in the one place as in the other. Walter had finished his work and was hanging the towel to dry when he heard a queer noise behind him. Turning, he was just in time to see a bird about the size of a blue jay, but gray and white in color, making off with the cake of soap which he had left on a log.

[145] Flying to the nearest tree it started to sample its queer breakfast. But one taste was enough. With a harsh scream, which was a ludicrous blending of disappointment, disgust and rage, it dropped the soap and vigorously wiped its bill on the branch on which it was sitting. Then scolding and protesting in a harsh, discordant voice, it flew to the next tree, stopping long enough to give the bill another thorough wiping on a convenient branch, only to repeat the performance on the next tree, and so on until it disappeared in the depths of the forest.

Walter laughed heartily, disgust was so clearly manifest in every motion of the bird and the torrent of invective being poured out was so very plainly aimed at him personally as the author of its discomfiture. The boy had never seen a bird of this species before, but he recognized it at once from its markings, the fine silky plumage and certain unmistakable characteristics in general appearance and actions, as a member of the jay family. It was, in fact, the Canada Jay, Perisoreus canadensis, first cousin to the blue jay, and a resident the year through of the north [146] woods, where it is often called the moosebird.

Big Jim returned just in time to witness the last of the performance.

“Whisky Jack seems t’ think yer ain’t been usin’ him just right, son,” said he. “What yer been doin’ t’ rile him up so?”

Walter told him the incident of the soap, and the guide chuckled with enjoyment. “Serves th’ old thief right,” said he. “Why, I’ve had one of them fellers sit on my tent just waitin’ fer me t’ go out so’s he could go inside an’ steal somethin’. He’ll swipe a meal out of yer plate while yer back’s turned. Just th’ same, it’s kind o’ sociable t’ have him neighborly if yer happen t’ be all alone in th’ deep woods fifty miles from nowhar, ’specially in winter.”

“Where did he get the name of Whisky Jack?” asked Walter.

“Don’t know, son, unless it comes from an Indian name I heered a half breed in a Canada lumber camp use once. He called one o’ these jays thet hed got caught tryin’ t’ steal th’ bait from a mink trap he had set a ‘whis-kee-shaw-neesh.’ When yer say it quick it [147] sounds something like ‘Whisky John,’ an’ I reckon maybe thet’s where th’ trappers and lumbermen got th’ name ‘Whisky Jack.’ Anyhow, thet’s what they all call him. Ever see one before?”

“No,” replied Walter, “but I knew it was a Canada Jay as soon as I saw it. You see I had read all about it in a bird book,” slyly putting just the least emphasis on the word book.

Big Jim grunted and then abruptly changed the subject. “Been a-lookin’ fer signs o’ Mr. Peaked Toes, an’ they ain’t none too plentiful. If it was two months later I should say this country hed been hunted hard. I wonder now——” he paused abruptly to gaze into the fireplace with an air of deep abstraction.

“What do you wonder?” asked Walter when the silence became oppressive.

Big Jim reached for his pipe. “I wonder,” said he slowly as with his fingers he deftly transferred a hot coal from the embers to the bowl of his pipe, “I wonder if some o’ them sneakin’ low-lived poachers ain’t been a-killin’ deer out o’ season right round these here parts. Durant’s lumber camp has been [148] havin’ a right smart lot o’ fresh ‘veal’ all summer, an’ some one’s been supplyin’ it. You an’ me will have a look around on th’ ridges this morning—take a kind o’ census, mebbe. This afternoon we’ll have another try at th’ trout t’ make up fer those Mr. Mink had fer breakfast.”

While the guide exchanged his heavy boots for a pair of moccasins Walter slipped on a pair of sneaks, for he realized that this was to be a still hunt, the highest form of sportsmanship, a matching of human skill against the marvelous senses of the most alert and timid of all the animals that live in the forest. It was to be his first deer hunt, for the jacking expedition of the night before could hardly be dignified by the name of hunt, the advantage lying so wholly with the hunters. Now, however, the advantage would be reversed, lying wholly with the hunted, with ears trained to detect the smallest sound, suspicious of the mere rustle of a leaf, and with nostrils so acutely sensitive that they would read a dozen messages in the faintest breeze.

It was still early and Big Jim at once led the way to the foot of a series of low ridges [149] above a swamp that flanked one side of the pond, explaining as they went that deer are night feeders, coming down to the lowlands at dusk and spending the night in the swamps, and along the watercourses. “’Bout now they’ll be workin’ back t’ higher ground, till along ’bout ten o’clock they’ll be well up on th’ hardwood ridges where they’ll lay up fer th’ day, snoozin’ behind a windfall or thick clump o’ evergreens. Then ’long ’bout four o’clock they’ll git movin’ agin, an’ pretty quick begin t’ work back t’ low ground and a drink,” said the guide.

“Now, pard,” he continued, “yer watch them feet o’ yourn, and put ’em down ’sif this here ground was made o’ egg-shells. Look out fer twigs and dead sticks. Snap one o’ ’em and it’s good-bye Mr. Peaked Toes! When I stop jest you stop, freeze in yer tracks, till I move on agin. Guess yer larned yer lesson yesterday ’bout sudden movin’.”

By this time they were skirting the foot of one of the ridges and Big Jim moved forward slowly, his keen eyes searching the ground for signs, and sharply scanning the thickets. It was wonderful to the boy a few feet behind [150] to note how without any apparent attention to where he was stepping each foot was planted surely and firmly without the rustle of so much as a leaf. It seemed as if the big moccasins were endowed with an intelligence of their own, and picked their way among the scattered litter of dead sticks without attention from the man whose huge form and heavy weight they bore so lightly.

Walter himself found that it required every bit of concentration of which he was capable to watch his path and at the same time keep an eye on his companion that he might be prepared to “freeze” should the latter stop suddenly. It was a nervous strain that rapidly became fatiguing in the extreme. He could not relax for an instant to look about him, lest in an unguarded moment there should be a fateful snap underfoot. He wondered if it could be possible that he would ever acquire that seemingly instinctive art of still walking which is inborn in the Indian and has become almost a sixth sense in the trained woodsman.

It was a relief when Big Jim suddenly stopped and pointed to a bit of soft ground [151] just ahead of them. There, clearly defined, were the V shaped imprints of sharp-edged little cloven hoofs. The guide studied them a moment.

“Doe crossed here within five minutes,” he whispered.

“How do you know?” asked Walter, imitating the guide’s guarded whisper.

“Know it’s a doe by th’ size.” He stooped and pointed to a slight film of moisture on the edge of one of the prints and even as he did so a tiny particle of wet soil loosened and fell. Had more than five minutes elapsed the edges would have slightly dried out, and Walter was enough of a scout to realize this and understand the significance of what he saw. The guide scanned the side hill to the right.

“Watch that old windfall,” he whispered.

Walter looked in the direction indicated and studied the tangle of fallen timber a hundred yards away, but for the life of him he could make out nothing that in any way resembled an animal. A slow smile dawned on the good-natured, sun-browned face watching him. Then slowly Big Jim stooped and [152] picked up a good-sized stick, which he broke in his hands with a sharp snap.

Instantly there was a startled whistle, followed by a sudden crash at one end of the fall, and Walter caught a glimpse of two slim reddish-brown legs and a white “flag” ridiculously like a magnified edition of the little bunch of cotton which had been his last glimpse of Brer Rabbit early that morning. There were two or three diminishing crashes beyond the windfall and then all was still.

Walter turned to look at the guide, whose mouth was broadly stretched in a hearty but noiseless laugh. “Did you see her all the time?” he whispered.

Big Jim nodded. “Sure,” he replied. “Yer see, son, yer was lookin’ fer somethin’ thet wasn’t thar—Mrs. Lightfoot right out on full dress parade like yer’ve seen ’em in a park, mebbe, and o’ course yer didn’t see her. Now I was lookin’ fer jest a leetle patch o’ red, which couldn’t nohow be leaves at this season o’ year, and I see it right away. Yer most generally see what you’re lookin’ fer—if it’s thar. In the woods th’ thing is t’ know what t’ look fer.”

[153] His face clouded suddenly as he continued. “I don’t nohow like th’ way she dusted out. If it was th’ huntin’ season I wouldn’t think nothin’ o’ it. But it ain’t, and she ought not t’ hev run more’n a couple o’ hundred yards afore she got so blamed curious thet she’d hev stopped and then come a-sneakin’ back t’ see what had given her thet sudden attack o’ heart disease. She was sure scared, and she’s been worse scared quite lately.”

They resumed their tramp in the same cautious manner as before, finding several old tracks and two or three fresh ones, to none of which Big Jim gave more than a moment’s attention. Then they ran across a trail which, from the size of the prints, Walter knew must have been made by a big buck. The guide wet a finger and carefully tested the direction of the wind, which was so faint as not to be perceptible to the dry skin. Satisfied that the trail led directly into the wind he started to follow it, explaining as they went along that had the trail led down wind it would have been useless to waste time following it, for the game would have scented them long before they were near it.

[154] The course now led up to higher ground and only such trained eyes as the guide’s could have picked it out. As they approached the top of the ridge Big Jim suddenly left the trail and made a wide détour to the left, then circled back to the top of the ridge, along which he led the way with the utmost caution, stopping at every step to study the landscape in front and below. Finally in the shelter of a young hemlock he stopped and nodded for Walter to join him.

“Look in thet thicket o’ young hemlocks a couple o’ hundred yards down from th’ top o’ the ridge,” he whispered.

Walter looked as directed, but for a few minutes could make out nothing unusual. Then he recalled his lesson earlier in the day and looked for a “patch o’ red.” Almost at once he saw it, low down under the hemlocks, and by looking intently soon made out the form of the buck lying down in unsuspicious contentment.

“Foxy old Mr. Peaked Toes has been clear up on top o’ th’ ridge an’ then doubled back and laid down whar he can watch his back [155] track,” whispered the guide. “But we’ve fooled him this time.”

For a few minutes they watched him. Then the hush of the great forest was abruptly broken by the alarm notes of a crow, so close at hand that Walter instinctively looked up, expecting to see the black mischief maker above their heads. But no bird was to be seen, and a glance at Big Jim’s grinning face told him that the crow was none other than the guide himself.

When his glance once more returned to the buck it was to behold a lordly animal standing with his magnificent head, crowned with ten point antlers still in the velvet, thrown up, his sensitive nostrils testing the wind for trace of possible danger. For a few minutes he stood motionless, ears forward to catch the least sound, big soft eyes searching the hillside, delicate nostrils expanded and a-quiver in the effort to read some warning in the air. So the king stood, suspicious but not alarmed, a royal animal in the full vigor of maturity.

Satisfied that ears and eyes and nose could detect no danger, but still suspicious, he suddenly bounded behind the hemlocks, clearing [156] a fallen tree with a leap which was a marvel of lightness. The thicket shut him from their view, but presently Big Jim called Walter’s attention to a slight movement of bushes far up along on the ridge.

“He’s making a sneak t’ high ground whar he can have a better look around. Then he’ll make a big circle t’ try the wind from all quarters. Did yer notice that scar on his shoulder? He’s been burned thar by a bullet or had an ugly tear in a scrap with another buck. Son, you’ve seen th’ King o’ Lonesome Pond. I’ve tried fer him for th’ last three years in th’ open season, but th’ old rascal knows as well as I do when th’ huntin’ season begins and he’s too smart fer me. No walkin’ up on him then like we did to-day! I’d like t’ get him and yet—well, fact is I’d hate t’ see him dead. He sure is a king! Now fer camp an’ lunch an’ then a try fer them trout. Son, yer’ll make a still hunter one o’ these days, and, son, don’t yer never fergit thet still huntin’ is th’ only real sportin’, square deal way o’ huntin’ deer.”

These few words of approval from his companion amply rewarded the boy for his long [157] effort to “keep his feet in the way they should go” and now as they tramped rapidly toward camp he felt within him for the first time the sense of mastery and self-reliance which is ever the woodsman’s best reward.

In the afternoon fishing Walter failed to equal his record catch of the day before, but nevertheless landed some handsome trout, and they soon had all they could use. After an early supper the guide led the way to a deer run only a short distance from camp, where, he said, the animals were in the habit of coming down to drink. Here at one side in a position to command an unobstructed view of a part of the run Walter set up his camera, masking it with branches broken from the surrounding trees. A flash was arranged to be exploded by an electric spark from two dry cells which had been brought along for the purpose. A stout thread was fastened across the run in such a way that an animal passing up or down must strike it and the adjustment was such that the least pull would make the necessary contact and set off the flash.

“Thar’s a couple o’ other runs close by, and [158] it’s all a chance whether a deer will take this partic’lar run, but I think th’ chance is good,” said the guide.

Back at camp the guide put out the fire lest the smell of smoke should alarm the game. Then they sat down to wait, Big Jim whiling away the time with stories of hunting and adventure which set the boy’s pulses to faster beating. Swiftly the shadows crept through the woods and dusk settled over the landscape. Through the tree tops Walter caught the gleam of the first star.

“Ought not t’ be long now ’fore thar’s somethin’ doin’,” said the guide.

Almost with the words the report of a rifle rang out from the lake in the direction of the run where the camera was set, and rolled in heavy echoes along the mountain. Big Jim was on his feet in an instant, his face contorted with rage, while he shook a brawny fist in the direction of the shot.

“You hound, I’d wring yer blasted neck fer two cents!” he muttered. Then he turned to Walter and shook his head sorrowfully as he said, “It ain’t a mite o’ use t’-night, son. Thet shot hit th’ narves o’ every deer within two [159] miles o’ here. Might as well go bring in th’ camera. I been sartin all day thet some such mischief as this was afoot. We didn’t see half th’ number o’ deer we’d ought to this mornin’ and them was so skeery thet I suspicioned they was bein’ hunted right along. Guess when we git back t’ Woodcraft we’ll hev t’ notify th’ game warden and do a little still huntin’ fer bigger game than Peaked Toes. Reckon I could guess who th’ feller is, but I ain’t got no proof, not a mite. If yer was t’ leave thet picter box out all night yer might ketch one ’long just ’fore daybreak,” he added as an afterthought.

Walter agreed to this, and they set about preparing for the night, when both were startled by a distant flare of light.

“The flash!” cried Walter joyously. “You guessed wrong that time, you old croaker!”

Big Jim’s face was a study. “Reckon I did, pard,” he drawled. “Must be one deer round these parts what is plumb foolish in her head. Well, we’ll go bring in th’ camera.”

In a few minutes they reached the run. Sure enough the thread was broken and the [160] flash sprung. Walter at once slipped in the slide, and gathering up the apparatus they returned to camp, the boy in high spirits, but Big Jim in unwonted soberness.