XI
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
EVEN their first marten had not given the boys the degree of satisfaction they derived from the capture of the wolf pelts. They had experienced an adventure, too, that had impressed upon them the need of constant watchfulness, and it was agreed that in future each should carry his rifle, and be assured that it was always in serviceable condition.
“I’m thinkin’, now,” observed Andy, as he and David scraped the pelts, “that these must be th’ same wolves we heard the day we comes t’ Seal Lake. They’ve been ’bidin’ close by ever since, like as not.”
“It’s like as not they’re th’ same,” agreed David, “but they were never ’bidin’ so close all this while without showin’ themselves. They makes their hunt where there’s deer, and I’m thinkin’ there’s deer not far away.”
“Some deer’s meat would go fine,” suggested Andy.
“’Twould, now,” said David. “’Tis strange we’ve seen no deer footin’ anywhere th’ whole winter.”
“Maybe th’ deer are comin’ handy, and that’s what brings th’ wolves back,” said Andy.
“They’re like t’ be on th’ open meshes,” said David. “We may see signs of un tomorrow.”
“And if we does, we’ll have a deer hunt!” exclaimed Andy, expectantly.
“We will that!” declared David, “even if we are a day late gettin’ back t’ th’ Narrows tilt.”
The adventure of the evening occupied their conversation until the wolf pelts were scraped and hung to dry. Then David filled the stove with wood, and blowing out the candle they slipped into their sleeping bags.
“I’m wonderin’, now,” mused Andy, after they had lain a little while in silence, “what Pop will say when we tells him about th’ wolves.”
“He’ll say we did fine gettin’ three good skins,” said David proudly. “They’re all prime, and worth four dollars each, whatever.”
“’Tis a fine day’s hunt!” enthused Andy, adding: “But I wouldn’t want t’ be chased by un again!”
“Aye, ’twere a close call,” admitted David. “After this we’ll both carry our rifles, and we’ll be sure they’re workin’ all right.”
“And I’m thinkin’,” said Andy, “th’ Lard was on th’ lookout for us, and He made your rifle go off, Davy, just th’ right time.”
“Aye,” said David, “just th’ right time.”
“When I said my prayer,” continued Andy reverently, “I thanked th’ Lard for standin’ by us.”
“So did I,” admitted David, “and I thanked He for th’ three wolf skins and th’ two martens. They’re a big help toward payin’ for Jamie’s cure, and we gets un all in one day.”
“I wonders,” and Andy’s voice was filled with awe, “if Mother knows about un, and if she’s glad?”
“And I wonders, too!” said David, in subdued and reverential voice. “If she knows about un, she’s wonderful glad, Andy—and—I’m always thinkin, she does see us, Andy, and everything we does. She were tellin’ me once, Andy, before she dies, that when th’ Lard takes she away to be an angel, she’ll always keep close to us in spirit. She were sayin’ she always wants us to know she’s close by watchin’ us and helpin’ us, even if we can’t see her.”
“I’m thinkin’ then,” breathed Andy, looking about him in the darkness as though half expecting to see his mother’s form, “she might be right close to us now, and—maybe—she’s touchin’ us. Do you—do you think she is, Davy?”
“They’s—no knowin’,” said David in a half whisper, no less awed by the thought than was Andy. “I’m thinkin’ if th’ Lard lets th’ angels do what they wants t’ do, Mother’s right here now. Th’ Lard would never be denyin’ His angels, for He wants th’ angels t’ be happy, and Mother never’d be happy if she couldn’t be with us.”
The lads lay silent for a little, pondering upon the mystery of life beyond the grave. Before their fancy’s vision there arose a picture of the gentle mother who had been taken from them so long ago, and who had loved them so well.
“Davy,” whispered Andy presently, “you awake?”
“Yes,” answered David, “I’m wonderful wakeful.”
“I wish,” said Andy wistfully, “Mother’d come and put her hand on my forehead and kiss me good night, like she used to, so I’d feel her. I’m—wantin’ her wonderful bad—I’m lonesome for she—Davy.”
“Maybe she’s doin’ it, Andy,” said David. “Maybe she’s kissin’ us both, and touchin’ us and lovin’ us like she used to do. Maybe she is, Andy, and we don’t know it, because th’ touch of angels is so light we never could feel un.”
Perhaps she was. Who knows? Who can tell when loved ones beyond the grave come to caress us and minister to us, and to rejoice and sorrow with us? Our ears are not attuned to hear their dear voices, our eyes have not the power to see their glorious presence.
Never since coming into the wilderness had the isolation of the great solitudes impressed David and Andy so deeply as now. Their imagination was awake. In fancy they could see, reaching away into unmeasured miles on every side of the little tilt which sheltered them, the silent, white, unpeopled wilderness. There was no one to turn to for companionship. Even Indian Jake, sleeping soundly, doubtless, in some far distant camp, seemed no part of their world. The crackling fire in the stove accentuated the silence that surrounded them. An ill-fitting stove cover permitted flickering rays of light to escape from the stove, and dance in ghostly manner upon the ceiling. Weird shadows rose and fell in dark corners. There was small wonder that the two lads should be lonely, and heart hungry. It was quite natural that at such a time they should long for a mother’s gentle caress and loving sympathy.
All of us are Davids and Andys sometimes. God pity the man that forgets the tender love and ministry and willing sacrifice of his mother. God pity the man who grows too old to wish sometimes for his mother’s love and sympathy and steadfast faith in him when others lose their faith. What courage it would give him to fight the battles of life! So long as his mother’s memory lives green in a man’s heart, and he feels her dear spirit near him, he cannot stray far from the paths of rectitude.
But the day’s work had been hard, and David and Andy were weary. Presently their eyes closed, and they were lost in the sound and dreamless sleep of robust youth.
There is no dawdling in bed of mornings for the trapper. His day’s work must be done, and the hours of light in this far northern land are all too short. And so, as was their custom, David and Andy, in spite of their previous day’s excitement and hard work, were up and had a roaring fire in the stove a full hour before daybreak.
“I’m wonderful glad,” remarked David, as he came in with a kettle of water and placed it on the stove, “that we don’t have to haul the flat sled with us around th’ mesh today. Maybe we’ll have a chance t’ look for deer.”
“We’ll hurry over th’ trail, and get through settin’ up th’ traps early,” said Andy. “’Tis wonderful cozy here in th’ tilt, and if we don’t find deer signs ’twill be fine t’ get back early.”
“I’ll tell you, now, what we’ll do,” suggested David. “I’ll take th’ n’uth’ard side, and you th’ s’uth’ard side, and we’ll each go over half th’ trail instead of both travelin’ together over all of un, and we’ll get through in half th’ time. We’ll meet in th’ clump of spruce on th’ easterly side of th’ mesh, where we always stops t’ boil th’ kettle.”
“That’s a fine plan!” exclaimed Andy. “When we gets there t’ boil th’ kettle we’ll have all th’ traps set up, and if neither of us sees any deer footin’ we’ll know there’s none about. If there’s no deer about, we can come right back t’ th’ tilt.”
“I’m thinkin’, now, you hopes we’ll see no deer footin’,” grinned David, adding understandingly: “’Tis hard gettin’ started o’ mornings sometimes for me, too, and I’m thinkin’ how fine th’ tilt’ll be to get back to. But I never minds un after I gets started.”
“I don’t mind after it gets fair daylight,” asserted Andy.
As they talked Andy sliced some fat pork into the frying pan, while David stirred baking powder and salt into some flour, poured water into the mixture and proceeded to mix dough. When the pork was fried to their taste, which was far from crisp, Andy removed the slices one by one on the end of his sheath knife and placed them on a tin plate. A quantity of hot grease remained in the frying pan, and into this David laid a cake of dough which he had moulded as thin as possible, and just large enough to fit nicely into the pan.
Presently the cake, swollen to many times its original thickness, and deliciously browned, was removed. Another took its place to fry, while the boys turned to their simple, but satisfying, breakfast with amazing appetites.
When they had finished their meal David fried two additional cakes, which utilized the remaining dough. These, with some tea, a tin tea pail, two cups and a small tin box containing sugar, he dropped into a ruck sack, and the preliminaries for their day’s work were completed.
Then the two lads drew on their kersey and moleskin adikys, David slung the ruck sack upon his back, and, each bearing his rifle and a light ax, they passed out into the leaden-gray light of the winter morning.
Dawn was fading the stars, which glimmered faintly overhead. The crunch of their snowshoes was the only sound to break the silence. Rime hung in the air like a feathery veil, and the bushes, thick-coated with frost flakes, rose like white-clad ghosts along the trail.
The air was bitter cold. The boys caught their breath in short gasps as the first mouthfuls entered their lungs. David in the lead, and Andy following, neither spoke until at the end of five minutes’ brisk walking they emerged from the cover of the forest upon the edge of a wide, treeless marsh, where they were to part.
“I’ll be like t’ travel faster than you do, Andy,” said David, pausing, “and when I gets to th’ clump o’ spruce I’ll put a fire on and boil th’ kettle, and wait, and there’ll be a good fire when you gets there.”
“And if I gets there first, I’ll put a fire on,” said Andy, by way of a challenge.
“You’ll never beat me there,” laughed David. “Your legs are too short.”
“You’ll see, now,” and Andy swung off at a trot along the southerly side of the marsh, while David turned to the northerly course.
That portion of the trail which Andy was to follow skirted the edge of the marsh for a distance of nearly two miles. Then in a circuitous course it wound for some three miles through a scant forest of gnarled, stunted black spruce. Beyond this, and a mile across another marsh, was the thick spruce grove which had been designated as their meeting point, and where they were accustomed to halt to boil their kettle and eat a hasty luncheon on their weekly tour.
The other end of the trail, which David had chosen, was longer by a mile. Its entire distance, from the place where the boys separated, to the clump of spruce trees, lay over exposed marshes. On windy days, with no intervening shelter, this open stretch was always cold and disagreeable, and there was never a time when they were not glad to reach the friendly shelter of the trees. It was usual, in traveling together, as they always had heretofore, to attend the traps on this end of the trail in the forenoon, and those on the end which Andy was now following, in the afternoon.
Though Andy’s legs were short, they were hard and sinewy and he swung along at a remarkably good pace. Now and again he stopped to examine a trap; then, breaking into a trot to make up the time lost, he hastened to the next trap. Thus the two miles to the edge of the timber were quickly laid behind him, and he entered the forest just as the sun, rising timidly in the Southeast, cast its first slanting rays upon the frozen world.
Andy stood for a little in the edge of the trees to get his breath and to watch the glorious lighting of the wilderness. The bushes, thick-coated with tiny frost prisms flashing and scintillating in the light as though encrusted with marvelously brilliant gems, were afire with sparkling color. Even the rime in the air caught the fire, and the marsh became a great, transparent opal, of wonderfully dazzling beauty.
“’Tis a fine world t’ live in,” said Andy to himself. “’Twould be terrible t’ be blind and never see all th’ pretty sights. Th’ great doctor’ll cure Jamie, and then he’ll see un all again, too. We’ll work wonderful hard t’ get th’ money t’ pay for th’ cure. We’ll have t’ get un, whatever.”
Neither the fox traps on the marsh nor the marten traps in the woods yielded Andy any fur, but as he passed from the woods to the last stretch of marsh he comforted himself with the reflection:
“We can’t expect fur every day. Two martens and three wolves yesterday made a fine hunt for th’ week, even if we gets no more this trip. But Davy’s like t’ get something, and we’re like t’ get more before we reaches th’ Narrows tilt Friday.”
Then he hurried on, for he must needs make good his boast that he would reach the spruce grove before David. No smoke could he see rising above the trees as he approached. David at least had not yet lighted the fire. Andy was jubilant and in high spirits to find that David was not there ahead of him, and had not been there since their visit the previous week.
It was a matter of a few minutes’ work to light a fire, and presently Andy had a cozy blaze. Then he broke an armful of spruce boughs, for a seat, and kicking off his snowshoes, settled himself comfortably before the fire to await David’s appearance.
“If I had th’ kettle, now, I’d put un over,” said Andy. “But Davy’ll soon be here.”
An hour passed, and David did not appear. Andy had traveled at such good speed that he had reached the rendezvous a half hour before midday, but David should not have been long behind him. Another hour passed. A northeast breeze had sprung up, and the sky had become overcast. Andy observed uneasily that a storm was brewing. He donned his snowshoes, replenished the fire, and walked out a little way in the direction from which David should come, and to the outer edge of the trees. He stood very still, and listened, but there was no sound, and David was nowhere to be seen.
Andy reluctantly returned to the fire to wait. He was growing anxious and concerned. Surely David should have appeared before this unless—and Andy grew frightened at the thought—unless some accident had happened to him.
During the next half hour Andy’s concern became almost panic. He began to picture David attacked and destroyed by a pack of wolves! Or perhaps his rifle had been accidentally discharged, and injured or killed him! Andy had heard of such accidents more than once. Whatever the reason for David’s delay, it was serious. No ordinary thing would have prevented him from keeping his appointment.
Andy could stand the suspense no longer. He arose, slipped his feet into his snowshoes, and at a half run set out upon the trail in the direction from which David should have come.
XII
ALONE IN THE STORM-SWEPT FOREST
AS Andy ran he looked eagerly for signs of David. Snow had fallen during the preceding week, and fresh tracks would have been easily distinguishable. The accumulation of a single night’s rime would have sufficed for that. Therefore David could not have passed this way without leaving a boldly marked trail upon the snow, and in attending to the traps this was indeed the only route he could have taken.
In one of the traps a mile from the spruce grove was a handsome cross fox. Andy paused to kill it, and put it out of misery, then hurried on. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been elated at the capture of the fox, for it bore a valuable pelt. Now he scarcely gave it a thought, so great was his anxiety for David’s safety. In another trap was a dead rabbit, but he passed it without stopping.
Andy had followed the trail for upwards of three miles when, rounding a clump of willow brush he came suddenly upon David’s snowshoe tracks. An examination disclosed the fact that David had come to this point and then turned about and retraced his steps toward the tilt. This was peculiar, and Andy was perplexed, but a hundred yards farther on came the explanation, when he discovered the tracks of a band of caribou crossing the trail at right angles and leading in a northerly direction, with David’s tracks following them. The discovery lifted a load of anxiety from Andy’s heart. David was hunting caribou, and no doubt safe enough. There was no further cause for worry.
An examination of the trail disclosed the fact that there were seven caribou in the band. They had passed this way since early morning, for no rime had accumulated upon the tracks. David, upon encountering them had doubtless hurried on to summon Andy, but upon reconsideration had turned about to follow the caribou at once, rather than chance their escape through the delay that this would occasion. He had doubtless hoped to find them feeding near by. Indeed they could not have been far in advance of David.
With the relief of his anxiety for David’s safety, Andy felt keenly disappointed, if not resentful, that he had not been permitted to join David in the caribou hunt. This was an experience to which he had looked forward. It had been agreed that if signs of caribou were discovered they should hunt them together, and in his disappointment Andy felt quite sure that an hour’s delay would not have made much difference in the probabilities of success.
“Anyhow,” said he after a few minute’s indecision, “I’ll follow. If Davy’s killed un he’ll need me to help he, and if they’ve gone too far and he hasn’t killed un, I’ll meet he comin’ back.”
The trail made by David and the caribou led Andy in a winding course over the marsh for a distance of nearly two miles, and then plunged into the forest. The rising wind was shifting the snow in little rifts over the marsh, and before Andy entered the forest the first flakes of the threatened storm began to fall.
Under the shelter of the trees the snow was light and soft. Because of this traveling became more difficult, and Andy was forced to reduce his trot to a fast walk. For a time the trail continued to lead almost due north. Then it took a turn to the westward. At the point of the turn the caribou had stopped and circled about, and in taking their new course had traveled more rapidly. Something had evidently aroused their suspicions of lurking danger. The gait at which they had traveled, however, indicated that they were not yet thoroughly frightened, or else were uncertain of the direction in which the suspected danger lay.
“They got a smell of something that startled un,” observed Andy, “and ’tweren’t Davy. Th’ wind were wrong for that. They never could have smelled he with th’ wind this way.”
Snow was now falling heavily, but the trail was still plain enough. A half mile farther on the caribou tracks made another sharp turn, this time to the southward, turning about toward the marsh. There was no doubt now that they had been frightened. Their trail evidenced that here they had broken into a run.
“Whatever it were that scared un,” said Andy, “it scared un bad here, and they’ve gone where Davy could never catch up with un.”
Just beyond the place where the caribou had made the last turn, another trail came in from the north. Andy examined it carefully, and though the rapidly accumulating snow had now nearly hidden the distinguishing marks, he had no difficulty in recognizing the new trail as one made by wolves.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “’Twere wolves scared un! They didn’t get th’ scent rightly back there, but here they got un, and I hopes they’ll get away safe!”
A further examination disclosed the fact that David had stopped, too, and examined the tracks. He had doubtless concluded that continued pursuit of the caribou was useless, for his tracks, now nearly covered by the fresh snow, turned toward the marsh in a direction that would lead him back by a short cut to the point in the fur trail where he had left it to follow the caribou.
“He’s gone back to finish th’ last end of th’ trail,” said Andy. “He’ll be fearin’ something has happened t’ me when he don’t find me at th’ spruce trees. I’ll have t’ hurry.”
David’s tracks were becoming fainter and fainter with every step, and Andy had not gone far when the last trace of them was lost. He knew the general direction, however, that David would take, and was not greatly concerned or alarmed until he suddenly realized that darkness was settling. Until now he had lost all count of passing time.
He had also been too deeply engrossed in the caribou trail, and in overtaking David, to give consideration to the storm. Now, with the realization that night was falling, he also awoke to the fact that the wind had risen into a gale, and that with every moment the storm was gathering new strength. He could hear it roaring and lashing the tree tops overhead. A veritable Arctic blizzard was at hand.
In the cover of the thick spruce forest Andy was well protected from the wind, though even here snow fell so thickly that he could see but a few feet in any direction.
By the short cut Andy soon reached the edge of the timber, where trees gave way to the wide open space of the marsh. Here he was met by a smothering cloud of snow, and a blast of wind that carried him from his feet. He rose and tried again to face it, but was forced to turn about and seek the shelter of the trees.
The wind came over the marsh, now in short, petulant gusts, now in long, angry roars, sweeping before it swirling clouds of snow so dense that no living creature could stand before it. The storm was terrifying in its fury.
For a moment Andy was dazed and overcome by his encounter. Then came realization of his peril. To reach the tilt he must either cross the marsh or make a wide detour to the westward through the forest. The former was not possible, and if he attempted to make the detour darkness would certainly overtake him before he could attain half the distance. Impeded by the thick falling snow, any attempt to travel after night would certainly lead to disaster. He would probably lose his direction, and be overcome by exhaustion and the bitter, penetrating cold.
What was he to do? He was without other protection than the clothes he wore. There was no shelter nearer than the tilt. He had no food. He had eaten nothing since the early breakfast in the tilt, and his healthy young appetite was crying for satisfaction.
Andy was suddenly seized by panic, and he began to run, in a wild and frenzied hope that he might reach the tilt before darkness closed upon the wilderness. But he quickly became entangled in low hanging branches, and, sent sprawling in the snow, was brought to a sudden halt.
The shock returned him again to sane reasoning. Taking shelter under the thick overhanging limbs of a spruce tree, he stopped to think and plan. He could not run, and unless he ran he could not reach the tilt that night. He was marooned in the forest, that was plain. There was no course but to make the best of it until morning. It was also plain that he would perish with the cold unless he could devise some means of protection. The moment he ceased his exertions he felt a deadly numbness stealing over him.
“I must do something before dark, and I must have plenty o’ grit,” he presently said. “I must keep a stout heart like a man. Pop says there’s no fix so bad a man can’t find his way out of un if he uses his head and does his best, and prays th’ Lard to help he.”
And so Andy, in simple words and briefly, said a little prayer, and then he used his head and did his best to make the prayer come true.