up, without no dark corners left unexplored.”
“Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don’t know what kind o’ maggots is eatin’ his innards to make him so ornery. I’m bound to suppose he has ’em, or he wouldn’t act so dum like it. So I says, go slow and gentle before puttin’ a black brand on any feller; as my mother used to say, never say a bad thing till ye ask, ’Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?’ An’ I tell you, the older I git, the slower I jedge; when I wuz your age, I wuz a steel trap on a hair trigger, an’ cocksure. I tell you, there ain’t anythin’ wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, ’cept maybe a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Ye’ll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black as they kin look, that’s the sign of luck a-comin’ your way, pervidin’ ye hold steady, keep cool and kind; something happens every time to make it all easy. There’s always a way, an’ the stout heart will find it.”
“Ye may be very sure o’ this, boy, yer never licked till ye think ye air an’ if ye won’t think it, ye can’t be licked. It’s just the same as being sick. I seen a lot o’ doctorin’ in my day, and I’m forced to believe there ain’t any sick folks ’cept them that thinks they air sick.”
“The older I git, the more I’m bound to consider that most things is inside, anyhow, and what’s outside don’t count for much.”
“So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what’s inside, ye win over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to Hoag, ye mightn’t a meant it, but ye was bracin’ up the goodness in yerself, or bankin’ it up somewher’ on the trail ahead, where it was needed. And he was simply chawin’ his own leg off, when he done ye dirt. I ain’t much o’ a prattlin’ Christian, but I reckon as a cold-blooded, business proposition it pays to lend the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on gratitude. It’s scarcer’n snowballs in hell — which ain’t the point; but I take notice there ain’t any man’ll hate ye more’n the feller that knows he’s acted mean to ye. An’ there ain’t any feller more ready to fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum accident has hed the luck to help ye, even if he only done it to spite some one else — which ’minds me o’ McCarthy’s bull pup that saved the drowning kittens by mistake, and ever after was a fightin’ cat protector, whereby he lost the chief joy o’ his life, which had been cat- killin’. An’ the way they cured the cat o’ eatin’ squirrels was givin’ her a litter o’ squirrels to raise.”
“I tell ye there’s a lot o’ common-sense an’ kindness in the country, only it’s so dum slow to git around; while the cussedness and meanness always acts like they felt the hell fire sizzlin’ their hind-end whiskers, an’ knowed they had jest so many minutes to live an’ make a record. There’s where a man’s smart that fixes things so he kin hold out a long time, fer the good stuff in men’s minds is what lasts; and the feller what can stay with it hez proved hisself by stayin’. How’d ye happen to tie up with the Injun, Rolf?”
“Do ye want me to tell it long or short?” was the reply. “Wall, short, fer a start,” and Silas Sylvanne chuckled.
So Rolf gave a very brief account of his early life.
“Pretty good,” said the miller; “now let’s hear it long.”
And when he had finished, the miller said: “I’ve seen yer tried fer most everything that goes to make a man, Rolf, an’ I hev my own notion of the results. You ain’t goin’ to live ferever in them hills. When ye’ve hed yer fling an’ want a change, let me know.”
Early next day the two hunters paddled up the Moose River with a good canoe, an outfit of groceries, and a small supply of ready cash.
“Good-bye, lad, good-bye! Come back again and ye’ll find we improve on acquaintance; an’ don’t forget I’m buying fur,” was Si Sylvanne’s last word. And as they rounded the point, on the home way, Rolf turned in the canoe, faced Quonab, and said: “Ye see there are some good white men left;” but the Indian neither blinked, nor moved, nor made a sound.
Chapter 48. Rolf’s Lesson in Trailing
The return journey was hard paddling against strong waters, but otherwise uneventful. Once over any trail is enough to fix it in the memory of a woodman. They made no mistakes and their loads were light, so the portages were scarcely any loss of time, and in two days they were back at Hoag’s cabin.
Of this they took possession. First, they gathered all things of value, and that was little since the furs and bedding were gone, but there were a few traps and some dishes. The stuff was made in two packs; now it was an overland journey, so the canoe was hidden in a cedar thicket, a quarter of a mile inland. The two were about to shoulder the packs, Quonab was lighting his pipe for a start, when Rolf said:
“Say, Quonab! that fellow we saw at the Falls claimed to be Hoag’s partner. He may come on here and make trouble if we don’t head him off. Let’s burn her,” and he nodded toward the shanty.
“Ugh!” was the reply.
They gathered some dry brush and a lot of birch bark, piled them up against the wall inside, and threw plenty of firewood on this. With flint and steel Quonab made the vital spark, the birch bark sputtered, the dry, resinous logs were easily set ablaze, and soon great volumes of smoke rolled from the door, the window, and the chimney; and Skookum, standing afar, barked pleasantly aloud.
The hunters shouldered their packs and began the long, upward slope. In an hour they had reached a high, rocky ridge. Here they stopped to rest, and, far below them, marked with grim joy a twisted, leaning column of thick black smoke.
That night they camped in the woods and next day rejoiced to be back again at their own cabin, their own lake, their home.
Several times during the march they had seen fresh deer tracks, and now that the need of meat was felt, Rolf proposed a deer hunt.
Many deer die every winter; some are winter-killed; many are devoured by beasts of prey, or killed by hunters; their numbers are at low ebb in April, so that now one could not count on finding a deer by roaming at random. It was a case for trailing.
Any one can track a deer in the snow. It is not very hard to follow a deer in soft ground, when there are no other deer about. But it is very hard to take one deer trail and follow it over rocky ground and dead leaves, never losing it or changing off, when there are hundreds of deer tracks running in all directions.
Rolf’s eyes were better than Quonab’s, but experience counts for as much as eyes, and Quonab was leading. They picked out a big buck track that was fresh — no good hunter kills a doe at this season. They knew it for a buck, because of its size and the roundness of the toes.
Before long, Rolf said: “See, Quonab, I want to learn this business; let me do the trailing, and you set me right if I get off the line.”
Within a hundred yards, Quonab gave a grunt and shook his head. Rolf looked surprised, for he was on a good, fresh track.
Quonab said but one word, “Doe.”
Yes, a closer view showed the tracks to be a little narrower, a little closer together, and a little sharper than those he began with.
Back went Rolf to the last marks that he was sure of, and plainly read where the buck had turned aside. For a time, things went along smoothly, Quonab and Skookum following Rolf. The last was getting very familiar with that stub hoof on the left foot. At length they came to the “fumet” or “sign”; it was all in one pile. That meant the deer had stood, so was unalarmed; and warm; that meant but a few minutes ahead. Now, they must use every precaution for this was the crux of the hunt. Of this much only they were sure — the deer was within range now, and to get him they must see him before he saw them.
Skookum was leashed. Rolf was allowed to get well ahead, and crawling cautiously, a step at a time, he went, setting down his moccasined foot only after he had tried and selected a place. Once or twice he threw into the air a tuft of dry grass to make sure that the wind was right, and by slow degrees he reached the edge of a little opening.
Across this he peered long, without entering it. Then he made a sweep with his hand and pointed, to let Quonab know the buck had gone across and he himself must go around. But he lingered still and with his eyes swept the near woods. Then, dim gray among the gray twigs, he saw a slight movement, so slight it might have been made by the tail of a tomtit. But it fixed his attention, and out of this gray haze he slowly made out the outline
