Frank in the Woods Part 6

"No we won't--not if our ammunition holds out," answered Frank, pushing his gun through the branches of the tree. "I'm going to commence shooting them."

"That's a good plan; I did not think of that."

The report of Harry's gun followed his words, and feeling safe in his tree, he made a good shot, the largest of the wolves receiving the entire charge in his head. The boys continued to load and fire until the last wolf was killed, when they dropped down from the trees, and took a survey of their work. Nine wolves were lying dead on the snow, which was saturated with blood, and a tenth was endeavoring to crawl away on two legs. Brave immediately commenced a battle with him, but the wolf had plenty of fight left in him, and was killed only after a hard struggle.

"Now," said Frank, "let's follow up that white buck. I would give almost any thing to catch him alive. He is pretty well tired out, and can't run far."

"Lead on, then," said Harry; "but, if d.i.c.k was here, he would say it was no use. You know hunters are inclined to be superst.i.tious about such things."

The boys had often heard extravagant stories told about the incredible speed and tenacity of life possessed by white deer, and had heard old hunters say that it was impossible to kill or capture them. But Frank was not superst.i.tious. He could not see why a white deer should be so widely different from one of the ordinary color. At all events, he determined to make an attempt to capture the white buck--which would make a valuable addition to his museum. So, leaving the wolves where they had fallen, he led the way along the trail, which could be easily followed by the blood on the snow. They had run nearly a mile, when they discovered the white buck a short distance ahead of them, making his way slowly through the snow, and staggering as though he were scarcely able to keep his feet.

"There he is," exclaimed Frank, joyfully. "Catch him, Brave."

The dog was off in an instant, and although the buck made an effort to run, he was speedily overtaken, and pulled down without a show of resistance. The boys hurried forward to secure their captive, which struggled desperately as they approached. But at length Frank succeeded in fastening his belt around his neck. The buck staggered to his feet, and, after a few ineffectual attempts to escape, seemed to submit to his fate, and suffered himself to be led toward the cabin.

He was one of the most n.o.ble specimens of the common deer that the boys had ever seen. He stood nearly five feet high at the shoulders, and his head was crowned with antlers, which Frank had learned, from experience, would prove no mean weapons in a fight. He was evidently an "old settler," and had seen some stirring times during his life, for his body was almost covered with scars. They reached the camp without any mishap, and Harry brought from the cabin a long rope with which the captive was fastened to a tree. After a short struggle, during which the boys received some pretty severe scratches from the buck's sharp hoofs, his legs were rudely bandaged, and he was left to himself.

After a hastily-eaten dinner, the boys returned to the scene of their late fight with the wolves, to procure some of the skins, which Frank wished to mount in his museum. They got back to the cabin just before dark, and found d.i.c.k leaning on his long rifle, and closely examining the buck. Useless was seated at his side, and near him lay three otter-skins, which they had captured during the day.

"See here, youngsters," exclaimed the trapper, as the boys came up, "what's all this yere?"

"O, that's our day's work," replied Frank.

"Give us your hands, youngsters," continued d.i.c.k. "Shoot me if you hain't done somethin' that I tried all last winter to do an'

couldn't. If I shot at that buck onct, I shot at him twenty times. Do you see that scar on his flank? I made that. An' there's another on his neck. When I hit him there I thought I had him sure; for he war throwed in his tracks, an' when Useless come up to grab him, he war up an' off like a shot. If you war with some trappers I know, they would tell you to cut that rope an' let him get away from here as fast as he could travel. Some fellers think these yere white deer have got the Evil One in 'em."

"O, that's all nonsense," said Frank; "a white deer isn't a bit different from any other, only in the color."

"That's what I used to tell 'em," said d.i.c.k. "But this yere is my day's work," he added, lifting the otter-skins from the ground; "and a good one it is, too. But five mile back the woods are full of otter, an' a little further on is a beaver-dam--eight houses in it--forty beaver at the least kalkerlation."

As the trapper finished speaking, he shouldered his rifle and led the way into the cabin, where a fire was soon started, and some choice pieces of venison, which had been brought in by him were laid on the coals to broil. In a few moments, George and Archie entered, and the latter inquired:

"Who caught that white buck?"

Frank gave him the desired information, and also related their adventure with the wolves; when Archie continued:

"I'm glad you caught him, for you always wanted one for your museum.

We came near catching a black fox for you."

"A black fox!" repeated the trapper.

"Yes; the largest one I ever saw," said George. "He's black as a coal--hasn't got a white hair on him, except the very tip of his tail."

"I know him," answered the trapper. "Him an' Useless had more'n one race last winter. You found his trail down by that little creek that runs through that deep hollow."

"Yes," answered Archie.

"An' lost it up here in the woods but two mile back."

"Yes," said Archie again.

"An' that's the way you'll keep doin' as often as you chase him. You can't ketch him. He's an ole one in these parts, an' I guess he'll stay here till he dies a nat'ral death."

"No, I'll be shot if he does," said Archie, decidedly, as he deposited his gun on a couple of pegs in one corner of the cabin, and began to divest himself of his overcoat. "I've got a dog that was never fooled yet. There was a fox that used to live on Reynard's Island, a short distance from Lawrence, and he had been chased by all the best dogs in the country; but the first time he got Sport on his trail, he was a gone sucker. I'm going to start out early to-morrow and try that black fox again, and if I don't catch him the first day, I'll try him the next, and keep it up till I do succeed. I don't mean to leave these woods without him."

"Then you'd better send home for plenty of grub," said the trapper, "for you'll have to stay here all winter."

"Supper's ready," said Frank; and this announcement cut short the conversation.

CHAPTER VII.

A Midnight Attack.

After supper, the hunters stretched themselves out on their blankets around the fire; but the usual evening conversation was omitted. Their day's work had fatigued them all, and soon their regular breathing told that sleep had overpowered them.

About midnight Frank, who slept away from the fire, and almost against the door, was aroused by a slight noise outside the cabin, like the stealthy tread of some animal in the snow. He had begun to acquire something of a hunter's habits, and the noise, slight as it was, aroused him in an instant. The dogs had also heard it, for they stood looking at the door, with every hair sticking toward their heads, but without uttering a sound. Frank reached for his gun, which hung on some pegs just above his head, and at that moment he heard a sound resembling the "wheeze" of a glandered horse.

"Bars and buffaler!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, suddenly arousing from a sound sleep, and drawing his long hunting-knife, which he always carried in his belt; "there's a painter around here somewhere--I'm sartin I heered the sniff of one."

"I heard something," replied Frank, "but I didn't know what it was."

By this time all the inmates of the cabin were aroused, and there was a hurried reaching for guns, and a putting on of fresh caps.

"Lend me your rifle, d.i.c.k," said Frank, "and I'll shoot him. I have never killed a panther."

"Wal, don't be keerless, like you generally are," said the trapper, handing him the weapon. "Be keerful to shoot right between his eyes.

Hist--I'll be shot if the varmint ain't a pitchin' into the white buck--he are, that's sartin!"

As d.i.c.k spoke there was a violent rustling in the bushes, and a sound as of a heavy body falling on the snow. Then there was a slight struggle, and all was still again. Frank quickly threw open the door, and hunters and dogs all rushed out together. It was very dark; but Frank, who was in advance of his companions, could just distinguish a black object crouching in the snow near the tree where the white buck had been fastened. In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, and as the whip-like report resounded through the woods, the panther uttered a howl that sounded very much like the voice of a human being in distress, and, with one bound, disappeared in the bushes.

The quick-scented dogs found his trail in a twinkling. Guided by their barking, the hunters followed after them as rapidly as possible, in hopes that the dogs would soon overtake the panther and compel him to take to a tree. Running through a thick woods in a dark night is not a pleasant task; and the hunters made headway very slowly. But at length they came up with three of the dogs, which were standing at the foot of a large tree, barking furiously. Brave was nowhere to be seen.

"I shouldn't wonder if the varmint war up here," said the trapper, walking around the tree and peering upward into the darkness. "No he ain't, neither," he continued. "Useless, ye're fooled for onct in your life. You see, youngsters, where that big limb stretches out? Wal, the painter ran out on that, an' has got out of our way."

"I wonder where Brave is?" said Frank, anxiously.

"That ar is a hard thing to tell," answered the trapper. "The varmint may have chawed him up too, as well as the white buck."

"If he has," said Frank, bitterly, "I won't do any thing all the rest of my life but shoot panthers. Hold on! what's that?" he added, pointing through the trees.

"It looks mighty like somethin' comin' this way," said d.i.c.k. "Turn me into a mullen-stalk if I don't believe it's the painter! He's creepin'

along a'most on his belly."

In an instant four guns were leveled at the approaching object, and the boys were about to fire, when the trapper, who had thrown himself almost flat on the snow, to obtain a better view of the animal, heard a suppressed whine. Springing to his feet, he knocked up the weapons, and quietly said,

"I guess I wouldn't shoot, boys. That's the dog comin back. I shouldn't wonder if he had been follerin' the painter all alone by himself."