Harper's Round Table, June 4, 1895 Part 4

"Dear Nell," father said. "This is for a bit of a welcome and surprise, to make you feel quite contented and easy about us all.

Did you think the mother and I didn't notice your conscience-stricken little face, and know just how troubled you were? But we took a notion to make it a real surprise to you--that Aunt Dolly is coming to help Mahala out. There, now, open your eyes wide, my dear, and shut all the windows and squeal! Aunt Dolly's coming, as sure as you live. She has given up her boarder and rented her little nest, and is this blessed minute on her way usward. So you will not worry about us any more, for Aunt Dolly's a host in herself, and _almost_ as good as our Helen (the Arabs would scalp me!), only, if you please, I'll swap her for Helen when the year's up!"

Helen forgot to shut the windows, but she squealed. A great weight of care slipped off her shoulders on to Aunt Dolly's.

"She won't forget the patch or the clothes-pins or _any_thing!" she exclaimed. "Aunt Dolly's remember is miles, miles long!"

Downstairs a door opened, and through it was wafted up to Helen a low, sweet strain of music, that grew, second by second, fuller and deeper, till it seemed to embody all her own glad feelings, and to bear up on its wings beautiful, prophetic hints of the joy that was on its way to her.

SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.

BY KIRK MUNROE.

CHAPTER XXVII.

LOST IN THE FOREST.

It was not difficult to find the Fox River, for it was the first stream flowing into the Pelly on the right, and as the ice in the latter river was much smoother than it had been on the Yukon, our sledge travellers turned into it on the second day after leaving Harper's.

"Now," said Phil, "we must keep a sharp lookout for Cree Jim's cabin; for as no one seems to know exactly where it is located, we may find it anywhere between here and the head of the stream. At any rate, we can't afford to miss it."

They did miss it, though, and after camping one night on the river, reached its head in a lake that they knew must be the Fox. Although the day was but half spent, Phil decided to camp at that point.

"You and I, Serge," he said, "must go back down the river, one on each side, making long detours away from it, in hopes of finding either the cabin or some trail leading to it. At the same time we must keep a sharp lookout for game. Anything from a bear to a rabbit would be acceptable now, for if we don't replenish our stock of meat pretty soon we shall lose our dogs."

"All right," replied Serge. "Only, Phil, do be careful and not get lost."

"Never you fear on that score," laughed the young leader. "I'll look out for myself; but see that you do the same."

So the two lads set forth, leaving Jalap Coombs to prepare camp and boil the oatmeal porridge, which, mixed with a small quant.i.ty of fish, now formed the dogs' daily meal.

Phil plunged directly into the forest, deciding to start out with one of the detours that he had planned. Once within shelter of the trees, he found the snow so deep that but for his snow-shoes he could have made no progress. By their aid he was able to push forward at a fair rate of speed, which he determined to maintain, on as straight a line as possible, until within half an hour of sunset. Then he would bend to the left until he reached the river, which he was certain could not be very far away, and which he could follow back to camp even in the dark.

So for several hours he plodded st.u.r.dily forward, keeping a sharp lookout for any trail of man or beast, and making as little noise as possible in the hope of surprising something worthy of a shot. All at once the surprise came from the other side; for, with a rush from behind a clump of young hemlocks, a huge brown animal, with great palmated horns, crossed his path only a few rods ahead, and dashed away at right angles, flinging the snow to both sides like a rotary railroad plough.

Rapid as were his movements, Phil got in one flying shot just as he disappeared.

"It was a moose!" thought the excited lad; "biggest one I ever saw. And I hit him!" he cried aloud, a minute later, as he examined the broad trail left by the flying beast. "Hit him hard, too," he added, as, noting blood stains on the snow, and forgetful of everything else, he set forth in hot pursuit of his stricken game. "He can't hold that pace long, wounded, and through snow as deep as this," he reflected, "and I shouldn't be surprised if I found him at bay inside of a mile. Oh, if I can only get him, it will settle the food question for the rest of the trip!"

So, with high hopes, and with all his hunting instincts fully aroused, Phil followed that blood-stained trail, not only for one mile, but for several more, though without catching another glimpse of the flying moose. Nor could he discover any sign of slackened speed or diminished strength on the part of his huge quarry. The strides were just as long as at first, and the snow was flung just as far on either side of the trail. But for the crimson stains betokening a steady loss of blood Phil would long since have given up the chase. They encouraged him to keep on. "For surely," he said to himself, "no animal, not even a moose can stand a drain like that forever."

All at once he stopped short and gazed about him with startled glances.

The trail was growing dim; stealthy shadows were creeping through the forest. The day was spent and night was at hand. "Now I _am_ in for it?"

he cried, bitterly. "Here I am miles from camp without an idea of its direction or that of the river. My only guide to either is the trail by which I have just come, and I should lose that in the darkness before I had gone half a mile. The only thing to do is make a hungry camp, and make it quick, too, before the light is wholly gone."

Thus deciding, Phil left the trail and hastened towards a bunch of dead timber that stood a short distance to one side. He sc.r.a.ped the snow from a prostrate log, and then, using one of his snow-shoes as a shovel, dug out a small s.p.a.ce down to the ground beside it. A little pile of dry twigs and bark and a few sticks of larger wood were hastily collected and heaped against the log. When he got his fire well started he would gather more. Now to whittle a handful of shavings, and then for a blaze.

Oh, how good it would seem! How it would drive away the horrid loneliness, push back the encroaching shadows, and replace the deadly chill of the on-coming night with its own genial warmth! It could not furnish food, of course, and he must endure long hours of hunger, but even that could be borne with its cheery aid.

And now to light it. Phil had a match-safe in one of his inner pockets, where he always carried it for just such emergencies as this, and at length, after a struggle with his close-fitting parka, he drew it forth.

As he opened it and gazed into its empty interior a chill penetrated his very marrow.

"What a fool I am! what a miserable careless fool!" he cried, in tones of despair. "I knew it was empty two days ago and meant to refill it.

But I didn't, and now I must suffer the consequences. What shall I do?

What shall I do? A night in this place without a fire will drive me crazy, even if I don't freeze to death before morning."

As Phil gazed about him in a very agony of apprehension his glance rested on his rifle leaning against a tree, and a ray of hope entered his heart. There was fire if he could only capture and control it. How was it that wrecked sailors, and lost hunters, and all sorts of people always managed to obtain fire from a gun, or rather from a pistol, which was practically the same thing? He tried to recall what he had read of such experiences. Oh yes! It was by flashing powder in the pan. But his gun hadn't any pan. He had never seen one that had, unless it was Kurilla's flintlock. Of course, now he remembered, it did have a place into which the Indian used to pour a little powder every time he wanted to fire his old blunderbuss. How Phil wished his Winchester were a flintlock musket just at that moment. But it wasn't, and it didn't have any pan, and loose powder was not used in connection with it. But there was plenty of powder encased in its metallic cartridges if only he could get at it, and could contrive some plan for adapting it to his purpose.

All these ideas pa.s.sed like a flash, and Phil had hardly thought of powder before he was examining one of his cartridges, and trying to dig the bullet out of its metal sh.e.l.l with the point of his knife. But it was held too tightly, and he only p.r.i.c.ked his fingers.

Then another plan came into his mind. He laid his rifle on the ground.

Over its stock he spread a square of cotton cloth, such as he and Serge were accustomed to tear from the great piece provided among their stores whenever they needed clean handkerchiefs. On the cloth Phil laid a cartridge, that he held in position with the sharp edge of his knife blade, placed so that it would cut just at the base of the bullet. Then he struck the back of the blade a smart blow with a billet of wood, and the job was done. He had got at the powder.

He poured out two-thirds of the precious mixture, and rubbed it well into one side of the cloth, which he doubled twice and used against the log. Then, after stopping the open end of the sh.e.l.l with a tiny wad of lint to keep the remainder of the powder from running out, he inserted it in the chamber of his rifle. Aiming it at the cloth, with the muzzle about one foot away, and trembling with cold, or excitement, or anxiety, or with all three, he pulled the trigger.

The report that followed was hardly as loud as that of a small fire-cracker, but the success of the scheme was instant. The little flame poured from the muzzle of the rifle into that powder-impregnated square of cotton cloth ignited it at once. A moment later it was nestled amid the bundle of twigs and shavings, while Phil, on hands and knees, was puffing at it like a pair of bellows.

In two minutes more his fire was a certainty, the black shadows were already beginning to retreat before its cheery attack, and Phil Ryder's spirits had jumped from zero almost to the figure that represents light-heartedness.

Throwing off his fur parka, that he might the better appreciate its warmth later, and seizing a snow-shoe, he cleared the whole s.p.a.ce between the first log and another that lay a few yards beyond. Into this opening he dragged all the logs and dead branches he could find, working with such energy that at the end of an hour he had a fine large pile, and was in a glow from the exercise. Now he built another fire against the further log, and piled his spare wood so that it was beyond reach of either flame.

He next spread a few spruce and hemlock boughs on the ground between the two fires, selected a medium-sized chunk of wood for a pillow, donned his parka, drew its great hood over his head, and, with his rifle by his side, lay down on a much warmer and more comfortable couch than he had dared antic.i.p.ate a couple of hours before.

Phil meant to keep awake so as to tend his fires, but instead of so doing he fell asleep within an hour, and slept soundly right through the night. When he at length awoke and sat up, he was chilled and stiff with cold, for the fires were very nearly extinguished by a fall of snow that had sifted down through the forest while he slept. As the poor lad discovered this, he became filled with terror, for he knew that the back trail was obliterated, and that all hope of regaining camp by its means was cut off. Now he was indeed lost. As he gazed hopeless and bewildered about him he caught sight of something that he at first took to be a dog sitting only a few yards away, and regarding him hungrily. He spoke to it and the animal started to sneak away. Then he saw that it was a wolf, and hastened its movements with a rifle shot.

As it was not yet light enough to commence his search for the river, or for some stream that would lead him to it, he began to throw wood on the fires that he might at least get warm before starting. While thus engaged he was startled by a cry apparently in the voice of a child that rang dolefully through the silent forest. Again he heard it, plaintive and long-drawn, and this time nearer than before. It was so weird a cry to be heard in that place and at that time that he shuddered as he listened for its repet.i.tion. Its very humanness added to its terror. At its third utterance Phil seized his rifle, c.o.c.ked it, and faced the direction of the sound, expecting in another moment to be confronted by the tawny form of a mountain-lion.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

PHIL a.s.sUMES A RESPONSIBILITY.

Phil had never met nor even seen a mountain-lion, but he had often heard that its cry sometimes imitates that of a child so closely as to deceive the most expert of hunters. He had heard too of its ferocity, its boldness in attacking human beings, and its terrible strength. In some respects it is even more to be feared than that monarch of the North American wilderness the grizzly bear, for the former, belonging to the cat family, is a famous tree-climber, which the latter is not.

These thoughts, together with all the stories he had ever read of mountain-lions, flashed through the lad's mind in the few minutes that elapsed between the first and third of those terrible cries. Before it could utter another the fearful beast would be upon him, and with tense muscles he braced himself for the coming conflict. He would not have a chance for more than one shot. If it failed him, all would be lost.

The sound of the third wailing cry had hardly died away when, with a gasp half of relief that the suspense was ended, half of dread, Phil caught a momentary glimpse of a brown furry object moving through the trees. It would next appear from behind yonder clump of bushes. The rifle was slowly lifted, a deliberate sight was taken along its shining barrel, and then, as the furry object appeared at the precise point where it was expected, the forest echoed with its ringing shot. But the bullet had not been allowed to fulfil its fatal mission. One blessed instant had been granted, even as the trigger was pressed, in which to give the barrel a slight upward jerk, and deflect the leaden messenger from its deadly course.

The rifle fell from Phil's nerveless hand, as weak and faint he leaned against a friendly tree trunk. As he stood there, staring with still unbelieving eyes, a little fur-clad child, not more than four years old, walking on the tiniest of snow-shoes, came close to him, smiled trustfully up in his face, and, holding out a small mittened hand, said:

[Ill.u.s.tration: "COME, MAN. COME WIF NEL-TE. MAMMA SAY COME."]

"Come, man. Come wif Nel-te. Mamma say come."

If Phil had been nearly paralyzed with horror to discover, as his eye glanced along the levelled rifle-barrel, that he was aiming at a human being, he was almost equally staggered at hearing the fur-clad atom who called himself Nel-te, address him in English. How could it be? Who was he? How came he there, alone in that vast wilderness of trackless forest, ice, and snow? Where had the child spent the night just pa.s.sed, that had been so filled with terrors to him? How had he lived through it? Where was his mother?

All these questions and more he asked the child, as he sat on a log, and, drawing the little one to him, gazed at him as though he were unreal, and might at any moment vanish as mysteriously as he had come.