CHAPTER IV
That night they heard the timber wolves for the first time, howling mournfully a little way back in the woods. No doubt they had scented the fresh carcass of the deer, and probably there would have been no venison in the morning if they had not had the wisdom to carry the carcass into the cabin. Peter opened the door quietly and slipped out with a cocked rifle, but the wolves were too wary for him. Not one was in sight, and the howling receded and grew fainter. But they heard it at intervals again during the night—a dismal and savage note, that made them feel like making the fire burn brighter.
"They must have followed the trail where we dragged the buck home," said Maurice. "Good thing they didn't happen to strike it before we got back."
"Oh, they'd hardly venture to attack three of us," replied Peter. "I almost wish they would. We could mow them down with our repeaters, and you know there's a Government bounty of ten dollars a head on dead timber wolves. We might make quite a pile, and besides the skins must be worth something."
"Might set some traps," Fred suggested.
"No use. The timber wolf is far too wise to get into any steel trap. That's why so few of them are killed. But say, boys, why couldn't we manage to ambush 'em?"
"How?" Maurice demanded.
"Well, suppose I shot a couple of rabbits to-morrow night and went through the woods dragging them after me, so as to make a blood trail. Any wolves that happened to cross it would certainly follow, and I'd lead them past a spot where you fellows would be ambushed, ready to pump lead into them."
"Sounds all right," said Fred, "but suppose they overtook you before you got to the ambush?"
"Oh, they wouldn't dare to attack me. They'd keep me in sight, stop if I stopped, and turn if I turned, waiting for a chance to take me at a disadvantage. A shot would scatter them, anyway. The only trouble would be that they'd scatter so quick when you opened fire that you wouldn't be able to bag more than one or two. And I don't suppose the same trick could be worked twice."
They discussed the matter all that evening and grew so enthusiastic over it that they determined to try it the next night. There was no hope now of diamonds, and the expedition had cost them nearly two hundred dollars. A few wolf bounties and pelts, together with the furs found in the cabin, would cover this and perhaps leave a little profit.
It was cold and cloudy the next day, and they waited impatiently for evening. The moon would not rise till nearly midnight, and it was necessary to wait in order to have light enough for the proposed ambush. They sallied out toward eleven o'clock, and shot three rabbits, which Peter attached to a deerskin thong. Selecting an open glade, Maurice and Fred established themselves in ambush under the thickets, while Peter started on a wide circle through the woods, trailing his bait, in the hope of attracting the wolves.
Fred and Maurice waited for more than two hours, nearly frozen, stamping and beating their arms, listening for the hunting cry of the wolf pack. At the end of that time Peter reappeared, tired and disgusted. The wolves had failed to do their part, and had not picked up the trail.
Still he was not discouraged, and insisted on trying it again the next evening. This time Fred and Maurice stayed in the cabin to keep warm, listening intently. At the first, distant howl they were to rush out and ensconce themselves in a prearranged spot, a quarter of a mile up the river, which Peter was to pass. They kept the two repeating rifles, while Mac carried the double-barreled gun, loaded with buckshot, which they had found in the cabin.
Half a mile from the shanty Peter shot a swamp hare that was nibbling a spruce trunk, and a little way farther he secured another. These carcasses he tied together with a deerskin thong as before, and trailed them in the wake of his snowshoes. This time he intended to make a longer circuit than on the preceding night.
He dragged this bait across a hardwood ridge and down into a great cedar swamp on the other side. In hard weather all the wild life of the woods resorts to such places for shelter, and here the wolves would be hunting if there was a pack in the neighborhood. But he found few tracks and no sign at all of wolves.
After traveling slowly for two or three miles, Mac sat down on a log to rest, and as the warmth of exercise died out, the cold nipped him to the bone through the "four-point" blanket coat. He got up and moved on, intending to return in a long curve toward the cabin. He did not much care, after all, whether he started any wolves. It was too cold for hunting that night.
The dry snow swished round his ankles at the fall of the long racquets. He still dragged the dead hares, which were now frozen almost as hard as wood, but not too hard to leave a scent.
He had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caught suddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp, sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tense air. He knew well what it was. The pack had struck a trail—possibly his own, possibly that of a deer. He would very soon learn which.
Thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head to listen. Again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack, far away, but still perceptibly nearer. He was just then in the midst of a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on to reach more open ground. As soon as he felt convinced that the pack was following him he intended to turn back toward the river.
He kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before he expected it. He was still more than a mile above the point where the ambush was to be set, and he paused on the shore and hearkened. Far away through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell, much nearer now—so much so that he felt that he might as well make for the ambush at once. He felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longed earnestly to see his companions.
He started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over his shoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he went down with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp.
He had stepped on an airhole lightly crusted over with snow. He went down to his neck without touching bottom, and the black water surged up to his face. It was the gun that saved him; it caught across the hole, and he clung to it fiercely. As the current fortunately was not rapid, he was able to draw himself up and out upon the ice.
But he found himself unable to extricate his feet. The long-tailed snowshoes had gone down point foremost, and now were crossed under the ice, and refused to come up. He dared not cut them loose, for in the deep snow he would have been helpless. Growing fainter at every moment, he struggled in the deadly chill of the water for four or five minutes before at last he succeeded in bringing them up end first, as they had gone down.
When he staggered back stiffly upon the snow the very life seemed withdrawn from his bones. His heavy clothing had frozen into a coat of mail almost as hard as iron plate. There was no sensation left in his limbs, and he trembled with a numb shuddering.
Long forest training told him what must be done. He must have a fire at once. He would have to find a dry birch tree, or a splintered pine that would light easily.
His benumbed brain clung to this idea, and he began to stumble toward shore, his snowshoes sheets of ice, and his clothes rattling as he went. But with a hunter's instinct he stuck to his gun, tucking it under his icy arm.
He could see no birch tree, and the bank was bordered with an impenetrable growth of alders. He dragged himself up the river, and each step seemed to require a more and more intolerable exertion.
He could not feel his feet as he lifted and put them down; when he saw them moving they looked like things independent of himself. He had ceased to feel cold. He no longer felt anything, except a deadly weariness that was crushing him into the snow.
He went on, however, driven by the fighting instinct, till of a sudden he saw it—the birch tree he was seeking, shining spectrally among the black spruces by the river.
It was an old, half-dead tree, covered with great curls of bark that would flare up at the touch of a match. He had matches in a water-proof box, and he contrived to get them out of his frozen pocket. He dropped the box half a dozen times in trying to open it, opened it at last with his teeth, and dropped it again, spilling the matches into the snow.
Snow is as dry as sand at that temperature, however, and he scraped them up, and tried to strike one on the gun barrel. But he was unable to hold the bit of wood in his numbed fingers; there was absolutely no feeling in his hands, and the match fell from his grasp at every attempt. This is a familiar peril in the North Woods, where dozens of men have frozen to death with firewood and matches beside them, from sheer inability to strike a light.
Mac beat his hands together without effect. He began to grow indifferent; and as he fumbled again for the dropped match he fell at full length into the snow.
A sense of pleasant relief overcame him, and he decided to rest there for a few minutes. The snow was soft, and he had never before realized how warm it was. His shoulders were propped against the roots of the birch, and with a hazy consciousness that game might be expected, he dragged his gun across his knees and cocked it. Then, with a comfortable sense of duty done, he closed his eyes.
Curious and delightful fancies began at once to flood his brain, fancies so vivid that he seemed not to lose consciousness at all. How long he lay there he never knew. But he grew alive at last to a vise-like pressure on his left arm that seemed to have lasted for years, and which was growing to excruciating pain.
He opened his eyes with a great effort. There were savage, hairy faces close to his own, pouring out clouds of steaming breath into the frosty air. Something had him by the arm with such force that he almost felt the bones cracking, and something was tugging at his leg.
The nervous shock aroused him as nothing else on earth could have done. A tingle of horrified animation rushed through his body. He was on the point of being torn to pieces by the wolf pack that had trailed him, and the powerful stimulus of the new peril called out the last reserves of strength.
He made a convulsive start. His frozen hand was on the trigger of the shotgun, and both barrels went off. At the sudden flash and report the half-dozen wolves bolted incontinently—all but one gray monster that got the full force of the buckshot and dropped in its tracks.
Macgregor staggered to his feet, full of terrible cramps and pains in every muscle. But his head had cleared somewhat. He saw the dry birch tree and again tried to fumble for a match. Almost by sheer luck he succeeded in striking it. The birch bark caught fire and flamed crackling up the trunk. The dry trunk itself caught and burned like a torch.
Macgregor rubbed his face and hands savagely with snow. They hurt intensely, but he welcomed the pain, for it showed that they were not frozen. He was beginning to feel a little more life when he heard the creak and flap of snowshoes, and saw Fred and Maurice hurrying up the river toward him.
"What's the matter?" they shouted, as soon as within hearing distance. "We heard the shot. See any wolves?"
Mac tried to shout something in answer, but found that he could not speak distinctly.
"I see you've bagged one," cried Fred, rushing up. "Why, man, you're covered with ice! What's happened to you?"
"Been in the river," Peter managed to ejaculate. "Get my moccasins off, boys—rub feet with snow. Afraid—I'm going—to lose toes!"
With exclamations of sympathy the boys got his frozen outer clothing off,—broke it off, in fact, from the caked ice,—removed his moccasins and socks, and rubbed his feet with snow. Several of the toes had whitened, but they regained color after some minutes' rubbing, and began to hurt excruciatingly. Peter squirmed with the pain.
"But I don't mind it," he said. "Rub away, boys. I certainly thought I was going to lose part of my feet."
Perhaps the solid cake of ice that had instantly formed over his heavy socks and moccasins had actually protected them from freezing. At any rate, he got off much more easily than he would have thought possible. The attack of the wolves had left little mark on him, either. He had a few light lacerations on his hands and face, but for the most part the beasts seemed to have laid hold on him where the thick, ice-caked cloth was almost like armor plate. And no doubt the arrival of the pack had saved him from death by freezing.
Fred dragged up the carcass of the fallen wolf and skinned its head and ears for the Government bounty. The rest of the pelt was so terribly torn with buckshot as to be worthless.
"Your scheme didn't work, Mac," he remarked.
"It did work. It worked only too well," Macgregor protested. "It's the best scheme for catching wolves I ever heard of."
"You don't want to try it again, do you?"
"Well—that's a different thing!" he admitted. "No, I don't know that I do. But if I hadn't gone through the ice we would probably have bagged nearly the whole pack."
After thorough snow friction Mac considered it safe to approach the fire by degrees. The ice thawed off his clothing, but left him wet to the skin. It was certain that he ought to get back to the cabin and dry clothing as soon as possible, and he thought he would be able now to travel. It was less than two miles.
It proved a painful two miles, but he reached the cabin at last, where his companions put him to bed in one of the bunks, covered him warmly, and dosed him with boiling tea. It was then growing close to three o'clock in the morning.
Naturally they did not get up as early as usual for breakfast. Macgregor's feet were sore and somewhat swollen, but there was no longer any danger of serious trouble. He had to remain in the cabin that day and was unable to put on his moccasins, but he was much elated at his luck in getting off so lightly. It was snowing and stormy, besides; none of the boys went out much, except for the endless task of cutting firewood. They lounged about the cabin and discussed the problems that perplexed them so much—whether Horace had really discovered any diamonds, and what had become of him, and how and why—until the subject was utterly worn out. Maurice then made a checkerboard, and they played matches till they wearied of this amusement also.
The next day they had to fall back on it again, however, for the weather was still stormy. During the afternoon it snowed heavily. Mac's feet were much better, and he wore his moccasins, but judged it unsafe to go out into the snow for another day. In the midst of the storm Fred and Maurice cut down a couple of dead hemlocks, and chopped part of them up for fuel. It was amazing to see what a quantity of wood the rough fireplace consumed.
"If we had acres of diamond beds we couldn't afford such fires in town," Maurice remarked.
The next day the weather cleared, but turned bitterly cold. In the afternoon Maurice ventured out to look for game, and came back about four o'clock with three spruce grouse and a frost-bitten nose. The boys were all standing outside the cabin door, when Fred suddenly started.
Round the bend a sledge had just appeared on the river. It was drawn by six dogs, coming at a flagging trot through the deep snow; four men on snowshoes ran behind and beside it. For a moment the men seemed to hesitate as they caught sight of the hut. But they came on, turned up the shore, and drove straight to the cabin at a gallop.
Three of the voyageurs were plainly French Canadians, or possibly French half-breeds, wiry, weather-beaten men, dark almost as Indians; the fourth was big and heavily built, and wore a red beard that was now a mass of ice. All of them wore cartridge belts, and four rifles lay on the packed sledge.
"Bo' jou'!" cried the dark-faced men, as they came within hailing distance.
"Bon jour!" Maurice shouted back. He was the only one who knew any French, and he knew but little. He was searching his memory for a few more words, when the red-bearded man came forward and nodded.
"Didn't know any one was living here this winter," he said. "Trapping?"
"Hunting a little," said Macgregor. "Unharness your dogs and come inside. It's a cold day for the trail."
"You bet!" said one of the French, and they made no difficulty about accepting the invitation. They rapidly unhitched the dogs, which had sat down, snarling and snapping in their traces; then they unpacked the sledge and carried the dunnage inside the cabin.
They were a wild-looking set. The French Canadians were probably woodsmen, shanty-men or hunters, apparently good-natured and jovial, but rough and uncivilized. The Anglo-Saxon, who seemed to be their leader, was more repellent, and when he took off his capote, he revealed a countenance of savage brutality, with small eyes, a cruel mouth, and a protuberant jaw, framed in masses of bricky red hair and beard.
"I don't much like the looks of this crowd!" Maurice whispered in Macgregor's ear.
"Rough lot, but they'll be away in the morning," answered Peter.
In the North it is obligatory to be hospitable, and the boys prepared to feed and entertain the party as if they were the most welcome guests. At the usual time they prepared supper. The four newcomers ate enormously. During the meal the red-bearded man explained that his name was Mitchell, that he was "going north with these breeds," as he rather vaguely put it, and that they had run somewhat short of provisions.
Luckily, they had food for the dogs; one of the "breeds" presently produced six frozen whitefish and carried them outside, where he gave one to each dog with much dexterity. The fish were bolted in a twinkling, and the unhappy brutes began to look for a sheltered spot where they could sleep through the sub-Arctic night.
After supper the French, stuffed to repletion, lay back and engaged in an animated conversation in a dialect that seemed to be a mixture of French, English, and Ojibwa. They laughed uproariously, and seemed thoroughly happy. But Mitchell said little, and continually examined the interior of the hut with keen, restless eyes.
The next morning the visitors showed no anxiety to be off. They fed the dogs, lounged about, smoked, and stayed until dinner time. After dinner Mitchell announced that the dogs were tired, and would have to rest that day.
It is very unusual to take a day off the trail for the sake of the dogs, but the boys made no objection, although secretly much annoyed. The presence of the strangers inspired them all with uneasiness. Besides, they could not continue their search or speak freely of it.
The next morning the strangers said nothing about moving on. They sat about the fire, and evading a suggestion that they help to cut wood, played cards nearly all day.
"What's the matter with them? Are they going to stay here all winter?" said Fred, in great irritation.
Certainly the dogs needed no more rest. They pervaded the place, trying to bolt into the warm cabin whenever the door was opened, and spending much time in leaping vainly but hopefully at the frozen carcass of the deer, swung high on a bough in the open air.
The prodigious appetites of the newcomers had not diminished in the least, and the carcass was rapidly growing less. The boys thought that at the least their guests might help replenish the larder, and the next morning Macgregor proposed that they all go after deer.
"No good to-day," said Mitchell gruffly. "Snow's coming. You boys go if you want to. We'll mind camp."
That was the last straw; there was no sign whatever of storm. Peter went out of the cabin to consult with his friends.
"They think we're greenhorns from the city, and they're trying to impose on us!" he said angrily. "If they don't make a move by to-morrow morning, I'll give them a pretty strong hint."
All the same, fresh meat had to be procured, and after dinner Macgregor and Maurice took the two rifles and went back to the deer yard to see if the herd might not have returned. Fred stayed to watch, for the boys disliked to leave their guests alone.
The quartette were playing cards as usual, and Fred presently began to feel lonely. After hanging about the hut for a time, he went out to pass the time in cutting wood.
It was very cold, but he much preferred the outer air to the smoky atmosphere of the shack, and he soon grew warm in handling the axe. He spent nearly the whole afternoon at this exercise, and it was after four o'clock when he finally reëntered the cabin.
He opened the door rather quietly, and was astounded at what he saw.
The card game had been abandoned. The shanty was in a state of confusion and disorder. Blankets and bedding were strewn pell-mell; the contents of the dunnage sacks were tossed upon the floor. Everything movable in the place seemed to have been moved, and a great part of the moss chinking had been torn from one of the walls, as if a hurried and desperate search had been made for something.
And the object of the search had been found. The four men were bent together over the table, watching intently, while Mitchell took something from a small leather sack. They were all so feverishly intent that Fred tiptoed up close behind them unobserved.
Mitchell was shaking out little lumps from the sack; each was wrapped in paper, and each, when he unwrapped it, was a small pebble that flashed fire.
Fred's heart jumped, and he gasped. The diamonds! Horace had really found them, then! The sack seemed to contain a large handful—it was appalling to think what they might be worth! And then it flashed upon the boy with increased certainty that his brother must be dead, for otherwise he would never have left them there.
Mitchell looked up and round at that instant. At his explosive oath, the Frenchmen wheeled like a flash. For a moment there was a deathly silence, while the four men glared at the boy with scowling faces. Fred realized that not only the possession of the stones, but probably his life, hung on his presence of mind.
"Those things are my brother's, Mr. Mitchell," he said, with an outward coolness that astonished himself. "He hid them in this cabin. I don't know how you came to find them, but I'll ask you to hand them back."
His voice broke the spell of silence. One of the French said something in the ear of another, and then dropped quietly back toward the corner where the men's four rifles stood together.
But Mitchell swept the pebbles together back into the bag. "Your brother's?" he said. "Why, I bought 'em myself from a gang of Ojibwas down on Timagami. Rock crystals they call 'em, and I reckon to get ten or twelve dollars for 'em at Cochrane."
He spoke with such assurance that Fred was taken aback, and did not know what to say. Then his eye fell on one of the scraps of paper in which a stone had been wrapped. He leaned forward and picked it up.
"Did you put this on it?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Look! It's my brother's handwriting. 'October second, Nottaway River, near Burnt Lake,' it says. That's where he found it. And look at that!" He swept his hand round the devastated cabin. "What did you tear the place to pieces for if you weren't hunting for something?"
"They're mine, anyway," retorted the woodsman, slipping the precious bag into his pocket. "Them papers was wrapped round 'em when I got 'em."
"Impossible!" said Fred. "I tell you—"
"Shut up!" said Mitchell suddenly, with a snarl.
A sense of his peril cooled Fred's anger like an icy douche, and he was silent. There was death in the four grim faces that regarded him. He had no doubt that the men would murder for a far less sum than the value of that sackful of precious stones.
For an instant he thought hard. He was entirely unarmed, and the men's rifles stood just behind them. He would have to wait for reinforcements. It was surely almost time for Maurice and Peter to be back, and they must be warned of the danger before they entered the cabin.
"All right," he said, with sudden mildness. "If you can prove that the stones are really yours, I'm satisfied. The sack looked like my brother's, that's all."
Mitchell gave a contemptuous grin. The Canadians lighted their pipes again.
Fred felt that they watched him closely, however. He lounged about the cabin with assumed nonchalance for a quarter of an hour, and then ventured to go out on the pretext of bringing in a fresh log for the fire. But once outdoors, he put on his snowshoes and rushed down the trail to intercept his friends.