Black Bruin Part 2

"Here, Hecla," he called. "Come along. You may be of some help to me to-night."

Then tying a long piece of rope to the hound's collar, that she might not follow too fast, he said, "Here, Hecla, good dog," indicating the beast's track in the snow. "Sic, Si-c-c-c-c."

As the strong bear scent fumed into the old hound's nostrils, the hair rose upon her neck and she stood uncertain.

"Si-c-c-c-c," repeated the man sternly.

Reluctantly the hound took the trail, the man following close behind.

Across the mowing and into the pasture, and straight for the deep woods, the track led.

The man groaned as he thought of the hopelessness of his task;--to follow a full-grown bear into the deep woods at night, and recover safely from its clutches a little child.

This was his only hope, though, so setting his teeth, and remembering the pale face of his wife, the terror in her eyes, and his promise to bring their boy back safely, he kept on swiftly and bravely.

Fifteen minutes brought man and dog to the woods, and without hesitation they plunged into its depths. It was not so easy going here as it had been in the open. The rope was always getting tangled in the underbrush, and a stop every few minutes to unloose it had to be made.

Sometimes the man plunged up to his waist in the snow where it lay deep in some hollow. Sometimes it was a dead limb lying across his path that sent him sprawling. Occasionally the underbrush lashed his face and tore his skin. But these were little things. Somewhere in the interminable woods a great brute of a bear was perhaps at this very moment--he dared not finish the thought, he could only groan.

For half an hour they floundered forward, now slipping and sliding, and now falling, but always up and on again.

At last, when the man was almost winded, and his breath was coming in quick gasps, a faint, far-off cry floated down to him through the ghostly aisles of the naked wind-swept forest. At first it was so faint as to be almost unintelligible, but as they pressed on, it grew louder and clearer, until the man recognized the pitiful wailing of a baby.

"Thank G.o.d!" he gasped, "my boy is still alive."

By this time the old hound had fairly warmed up to the chase and was tugging on the rope and whining eagerly.

To let the dog go on now might frighten the bear and thus defeat the whole undertaking, so the man tied her to a sapling, and, bidding her keep quiet, crept cautiously forward.

A hundred feet farther on, the cries from the child grew louder. A moment more and he caught sight of the bear leaning up against a large beech, holding the baby in her strong arms.

To the agonized father's great surprise the bear's att.i.tude looked almost maternal; she seemed indeed to be trying in her brute way to soothe the infant. She caressed its face with her nose, and lapped it with her long, soft red tongue. If it had been one of her own cubs she could not have shown more concern.

So much the frantic father noted, while he stood irresolute, uncertain what to do next. The bear would have been an easy shot by daylight, if there had been no baby to consider. But there was that little bundle of humanity, the man's own flesh and blood, and a bullet in order to pierce the bear's heart must strike within a few inches of the baby's head. The task that King Gessler set William Tell, was child's play compared with this. To shoot might mean to kill his own child, and not to shoot might mean a still more terrible death for the infant.

The child's wails now grew louder and more frequent. The old bear became uneasy; in another moment she might flee farther into the woods, or worse than that, might silence the little one with a blow or a crunch of her powerful jaws.

The desperate man raised his gun. The fitful moonlight shimmered and danced upon the barrel, and the shadows from the tree-tops alternated with the dancing moonbeams. He could see the sight but dimly and, added to all this, was the thought that the gun was not a rifle, with an accurate bullet, but an old shotgun loaded with a Minie ball.

At first, his arms shook so that he could not hold the gun steady, but by a mighty effort he nerved himself. For a second the moon favored him; a moment the sight glinted just in front of the bear's left shoulder, frightfully close to his child's head, and then he pressed the trigger.

A bright flame leaped from the muzzle of the old gun; its roar resounded frightfully through the aisles of the naked woods, and its last echo was followed by the startled cry of the infant.

Dropping the gun in the snow, the man bounded forward, drawing a long knife from his belt as he ran. Four or five frantic bounds carried him to the foot of the beech, where the bear had stood when he fired.

There in the snow lay the enormous black form, and close beside it in a snowdrift, still nicely wrapped in its blanket, was the child, apparently without a scratch upon it.

CHAPTER III

A WILDERNESS BABY

When the young farmer beheld the great hulk of the black bear lying motionless at the foot of the beech, and saw his child lying unharmed in the snow, his eye, that had been so keen at the moment of peril, grew dim and his senses swam, like one upon a high pinnacle, about to fall.

But it was only for a second. His strong nerves soon restored him, and he stooped and picked up the baby, although he was so blinded with glad tears that he had to grope for the precious bundle.

What a miracle it was, he thought; only the watchful care of a special Providence could have steadied his hand for that desperate shot. The more he considered, the more miraculous it seemed, and with a heart welling up with praise and grat.i.tude, he silently thanked G.o.d for the deliverance, then woke the leafless forest with a glad, "Halloo."

This was intended for the old hound, and she at once responded with a quick succession of joyous barks.

The man had been a little uncertain of the direction home, as he had followed the trail feverishly, but the dog's greeting at once set him right. Shielding the baby in his arms, and picking out as good footing as he could in the uncertain light, he made all haste back to his faithful canine, whose whines and barks guided him from time to time.

"It's all right, Hecla, old girl, I've got him," he cried as soon as he came within speaking distance of the dog. The father's joy was so great that he had to impart it to some one.

He lost no time in untying the dog and with her as a guide they were able to follow the homeward trail through the darkest places in safety.

He must make all possible haste, for he remembered the look of mute agony in his wife's eyes, as she stood at the door watching his departure.

"Home, home, Hecla!" he cried, each time they plunged into deeper gloom than usual. "We must hurry."

But the good dog needed no urging. Out and in, unerringly, she led him, until the open pasture lot was reached.

Then with a glad bark she bounded over the stone wall and started across the fields at a pace that her master could not keep. He did not call her back, for he felt sure that she could impart the glad news to her mistress before his coming, and anything to relieve the suspense at home was desirable.

While the two had been floundering through the deep woods upon their seemingly hopeless quest, the grief-stricken mother had paced the kitchen floor, wringing her hands and moaning. Occasionally, as the moments dragged slowly by, she would go to the piazza and listen until it seemed that her ear-drums would burst with the intensity of her effort, but only the moaning of the wind, and the usual night sounds came to her ears.

At last, in one of these anxious periods of listening, she thought she detected the barking of old Hecla, but was not certain. Perhaps it was only the wind playing pranks upon her overwrought nerves, or the hooting of an owl.

She waited expectantly and a few seconds later, hearing the old hound's glad bark as she bounded over the wall between the pasture and the mowing, knew that John had sent her with a message for the mistress of Clover-hill Farm. There was something in the dog's bark that put hope into her heart, and she ran to meet her.

"Hecla, Hecla, old friend, what is it?" cried the mother, as the faithful canine, panting from the hard run, capered breathlessly about her mistress, wagging her tail and quivering with excitement.

"Can't you tell me, Hecla? Is my baby safe?"

For answer the dog gave several glad barks, and barking and capering, plainly invited her mistress to follow her and see that she brought good news.

The mother, whose arms seemed so empty, was only too glad to do this.

It had only been because of her husband's stern command and for fear that her presence might defeat the enterprise, that she had stayed at home at all.

With the trained sight of a woodsman, John saw them coming long before his wife saw him, and he hallooed to them at the top of his voice.

"It's all right, mother," he cried, "I've got little John."

A few seconds later he placed the baby in its mother's arms and sank down in the snow exhausted from his long, hard run.

When he had recovered his breath and had gasped out a few words of explanation, all hurried back to the farmhouse, the old dog leading the way.

In half an hour's time the cozy kitchen was righted. The door had been rehung and the accustomed warmth and good cheer had returned to the room, where the kettle hummed and the clock ticked just as though nothing had happened.