CHAPTER XIII
A LION'S LEAP
A cool breeze was blowing down from the mountains, and although the sun was warm it was not uncomfortably hot. Here and there little wisps of smoke drifted from points on the mountainside where some old log was still smouldering, but the fire as a whole seemed to have been extinguished by the rain. Away down to the south the mountainsides were all black, and from the border of the burned country great tongues of the same dark color here and there stretched out into the green timber that clothed the unburned mountainside, showing where the onrushing flames had scorched the tops of the pine trees; but to the north of this the timber was still brightly green.
Before Jack had gone far, the valley grew narrower and the hills on either side higher. On his side of the stream the bluffs now drew closer to the willows, and were occasionally broken down into Bad Land shapes, where no grass grew and where the clay was deeply guttered by the rain.
In the ravines, which at short intervals broke through these steeper bluffs, grew huge old cottonwoods, not very tall, but thick, and with gnarled, twisted branches. Evidently at some seasons of the year great quantities of water passed down through these ravines, for their beds were deeply washed.
In the valley and on the hillsides Jack saw many antelope, but there was meat enough in camp to last them for a day or two, and it hardly seemed to him worth while to kill anything. "At least," he thought, "if I do fire a shot, I will wait until I have started back toward the camp, so that I can carry the meat with me as I go in."
As he went on he kept watching the willows to his left, thinking that at any time a white-tail deer might appear among them, and he kept an equally good lookout on the bluffs and up the ravines to his right, where there was always a possibility of seeing a black tail or even a mountain sheep.
He was standing looking up one of these ravines, watching a doe antelope that had been feeding there, which, having seen him, was trotting off further up the ravine, when, without the slightest warning, as the doe was passing under the branches of a huge old cottonwood that grew on the border of the watercourse, something yellow sprang out from the branches of the tree, and descending on the doe, struck her to the ground. Although she was a long way off, Jack could hear her bawl in fright, and he instantly saw that a panther had been resting among the branches of this tree, and had sprung at the doe as she passed by.
The doe and the panther were in plain sight as he stood there, but dropping to the ground he crept swiftly to a little coulée which led down to the bottom of the ravine, and running down this, he started up the ravine as fast as he could. The watercourse was narrow, its sides steep, and its bottom entirely dry. The big cottonwood from which the panther had leaped was the first one in the ravine, and by watching its branches he could tell when it would be necessary for him to begin to go cautiously in order to creep up and get a shot at the great cat. For the most part, the bed of the ravine was covered with sand, over which he could run noiselessly, but every little while he came to a bed of drift pebbles, and here he felt obliged to go more slowly. Presently the towering crown of the great cottonwood came in sight again, now not more than seventy-five yards distant, and Jack began to look for a place where he could climb up the steep banks of the ravine to get a shot. In a moment more a little side wash gave him the opportunity that he sought, and clambering up four or five feet of broken-down clay, he found himself in a coulée, which furnished an easy way to the level ground above. Taking advantage of another little side wash that came in, he presently found himself on the level ground where the cottonwood stood, and looking through the sage brush, he tried to catch a glimpse of the panther. For a moment or two he could see nothing of it, but then something white caught his eye, and raising his head a little higher, he saw the white breast and belly of the doe, and the panther stretched out beside her with his teeth apparently fixed in her neck.
The panther's eyes were half closed, almost as if it were asleep, and it was paying no attention to its surroundings. This time Jack thought that he could try to make a close shot, and resting his elbow on his knee, he sighted carefully for the panther's head, and pulled the trigger. The animal did not move, but when the smoke cleared away and Jack looked again he saw that the beast's head was turned a little to one side, and that its cheek was resting on the doe's neck. He felt pretty confident that his ball had gone where he wished it to, and taking two or three loose cartridges in his right hand, he rose to his knees and took a long stare at the panther. Still it did not move, and when, after a slow approach, he had come close to it, he could see just over its eye a little red spot, and circling round to the other side, he saw a larger bleeding hole from which the ball had emerged.
When he pulled the panther away from the doe and turned her over to look at her, he saw that the cat must have leaped short, for on her hips were marks of four deep scratches where the sharp claws of one paw had sunk into the antelope's skin, and then on her left side at the shoulder were the marks of the other paw. Except for that the doe was unhurt, save where the panther had bitten her throat. Jack made up his mind that he would take a part of the doe to camp, as well as the panther's skin.
It took him some time to skin the cat, and then rolling up the hide, and cutting off the hams and saddle of the doe, he put both on his back and went down the ravine to the valley. It seemed to him that the weather had grown much warmer, but he forgot that he had been first running and then working hard.
When he reached the valley, he was undecided whether to go back to camp at once or to keep on a little further up the stream and see if there was anything more worth seeing, but when he looked at the sun he saw that there were yet three or four hours before its setting, and he determined to continue his walk; so he went down to the edge of the willows and among them hid his meat and his panther hide, and then kept on slowly up the stream.
A mile or two further on he came to a place where the willows ceased, and the stream bending toward the side up which he was traveling had been dammed and spread out in a pond which reached almost across the valley, and on his side came almost up to the bluffs.
It was not a new dam, for along the borders of the pond grew tall rushes, almost as high as his head. He entered them to see if he could get to the water's edge and look out over the pond, but hardly had he stepped among them when, almost from under his feet, a duck sprang up and flapped away through the reeds, as if unable to fly. Jack knew, of course, that he had startled the duck from her nest, and that her pretense of being wounded was only a ruse to draw him away from her precious eggs, and looking down on the spot from which she had sprung he saw something white, and pushing aside the reeds with his hand, saw a mass of pale gray down and feathers, and when he had parted this with his fingers, he saw beneath it half a dozen smooth, cream-colored eggs.
He left the nest undisturbed and tried to peer through the reeds to get a look at the duck, which was now swimming about in the water calling excitedly. Presently he got a good glimpse of it and saw that it was a female shoveler duck. A few steps further toward the water's edge he found the ground so soft and miry that he could go no further, and drawing back, he walked toward the bluff through the rushes, and before he had gone far had found three more duck's nests. This seemed to be a great breeding place. A little further on the rushes ended, and as he stepped out of them he startled from the shore, just above the water's edge, a multitude of birds, some of which flew away low over the water, half flying and half running over it, while others swam away, sunk almost below the surface, and after they had gone a little further, disappeared entirely. Jack knew, of course, that the first of these were coots or mud hens, and the others were grebes, and he knew also that somewhere close by would be found their nests. After looking around a little bit he saw in the edges of the rushes, and seemingly floating on the water, little bunches of grass or other vegetation, which he thought must be nests, and as he wanted to see what was in them he looked around to find how he could get out to them. The mud was so deep that he dared not wade to them, for he remembered the narrow escape that he had two or three years ago when he had been caught in the quicksands of the Musselshell River, and had been saved from drowning only by the timely arrival of Hugh.
Then he began to look about to see if he could not find a long stick or pole which he could throw on the mud, and on it could wade out to the nests, but nothing of the sort was near. Then it occurred to him that if he went very carefully through the reeds and bent them down to step on, they might keep him from sinking deep into the mud and might support him until he got out to the nests. At all events this was worth trying, though he determined to be very cautious about it. He stripped off his clothes, except his shirt and hat, and then going down through the reeds, bent them over, and stepping on them as he went, and every now and then resting his foot on a bunch of the roots, he managed to get out to the nearest nests. They were loosely built of dead stems of the rushes, roughly piled together and apparently floating on the water, but anchored to the bottom by two or three green stems that grew up through the nest. The eggs were nearly oval, a little bigger than a pigeon's egg, and all of a soiled white color, and lying apparently in the water. These Jack decided must be the nests of the grebes, for he remembered that the eggs of the coots are spotted, and besides, would be larger than these eggs.
His footing was so uncertain that he was satisfied with the inspection of two or three of the nests, and then made his way quickly to shore. It took him a long time to get rid of the mud that he had picked up in his journey, but at last he got dressed and kept on around the pond. As he reached a point close to the bluffs where he could see the whole width of the pond, he was astonished to see the great number of birds that were living on it. A few of them were ducks, but the most were smaller birds, coots, grebes, phalaropes, and sandpipers. All of them seemed to be in companies, and Jack concluded that the birds that he could see were probably the males, whose mates were scattered about near at hand, sitting on their nests. Near a little point of tall wire grass which extended out into the pond, Jack saw a pretty sight, a family of little Carolina rails, such as he had often heard his uncle talk about. The mother walked deliberately about the soft mud, bobbing her head and from time to time jerking her absurdly small tail, while following her in single file were nine tiny black objects not much larger, it seemed to him, than bumble bees, black and downy, evidently her newly hatched chicks. Now and then the mother would run hurriedly in one direction or another and catch something in her bill, and then would utter a call which brought the little ones close about her. Then, seemingly she would drop her prey on the ground, and the little ones would scramble for it.
Jack lay on the ground for some little time watching this pretty sight, and then suddenly he noticed that the sun was beginning to get low, and realized that it was time for him to start for camp. He hurried back as fast as he could, and before long found his meat and his panther's skin undisturbed, and putting them on his back, went on, reaching camp just before sundown.
Hugh had supper cooked and was sitting by the fire, smoking.
"Well, son," he said, "I didn't know but what maybe you had got lost. I see that you've been busy. What's that you've got—a piece of antelope meat and a lion?"
"That's what, Hugh," said Jack. "I tell you, I've had a great time this afternoon. A whole lot of fun, and a lion's skin."
"Well," said Hugh, "you surely have had a good time. I expect I'd have been glad to have gone with you if I had known you were going to see a lion. How did you get him?"
So, while they were eating supper, Jack told Hugh the story of the killing of the lion, and then talked with him at great length about the sights he had seen on the beaver pond.
"Yes," said Hugh, "there are sure lots of birds on all these ponds, and as we were saying only the other day, they breed here and nothing much disturbs them."
"But, Hugh," asked Jack, "why don't the wolves and the coyotes make it their business to hunt around these ponds and catch the old ducks and eat their eggs, too? I should think that a family of coyotes could easily enough clean out all the birds on a pond."
"Well," replied Hugh, "that's something that I've often thought about, and I don't know why they don't do it. Once in a long time, of course, you will find a duck's nest or a nest of a sage hen where the old bird has been caught and the eggs eaten, but that is something that you don't often see. I suppose, perhaps, one reason is that the birds are always on the lookout, and if they see or hear an animal they fly off, pretending to be injured, and the animal chases them, just as I remember I once saw you chase an old grouse that led you away from her young ones. Still, all I can say is that I don't know why it is that more nesting birds are not destroyed by wolves, coyotes, foxes, badgers, and skunks."
"Now, some of those nests that I found, nests that belonged, I think, to the grebes, were floating out in the water and a little way from the shore," said Jack. "I can understand how they would be safe, because an animal would have to go through deep mud and water to get them; but why the ducks' nests, that are built on the shore, and often up on the high land and at a little distance from the water, are not all of them robbed by these animals, I don't see."
"No," said Hugh, "that's a puzzler, I'll confess. You remember how plenty the birds are about some of those little, shallow lakes we passed up in the northern country. There'd be quite a flock of geese and a great lot of ducks and all sorts of wading birds, big and little, living on them all summer, and when autumn came, the water would be nearly covered with the birds, showing, as it seems to me, that the breeding birds had all had pretty good luck in raising their young."
"Well, anyhow, Hugh, it was mighty good fun going around the edge of the lake there, and seeing all these birds, and one of the funniest sights I saw was a little mother rail and nine little chickens, each one of them hardly bigger than the end of your finger."
"What is this bird you call a rail, son?" asked Hugh. "I reckon I don't know it by that name."
"Why," replied Jack, "it's a pretty small bird that lives in the tall grass on the edge of the water. It's sort of greenish brown above, with some white marks, has long legs, a little bit of a tail, a short bill, and a body not much bigger than that of a blackbird."
"Why," said Hugh, after a moment's thought, "that must be one of those sacred birds that the Blackfeet Medicine Lodge women put on their sacred bonnets. You mean a little, short-winged bird, don't you, that when you see it, 'most always runs into the grass instead of flying away, and if you do make it fly, it flies very slowly for a short way and then drops down into the grass again?"
"Yes, Hugh," Jack answered; "that's the very bird. Back East they shoot them, and they're splendid eating."
"Well," said Hugh, "there isn't more than a mouthful of flesh on each one of them. I reckon it would take a good many to make a meal for me."
"That's so," said Jack; "they're pretty small, but they're awful good. The way people shoot them is like this. The birds in the autumn come down from the north and live in the tall grass and reeds along the edge of the bays and rivers. They pick up their food among the grass and on the muddy flats, but when the tide rises they are forced up from the ground, and walk among the reeds and grass on the floating vegetation. When the tide gets up nearly to the top, the gunners start out in flat-bottomed boats, two men to a boat. The shooter stands in the bow, and in the stern is a man with a long pole, who shoves the boat through the grass, and as it goes along it disturbs the rails, which have to get up and fly a little way to get out of the boat's road. When they rise out of the grass the gunner shoots at them. In old times they say that there used to be thousands of these rail in the marshes, and sometimes a man would get from a hundred to a hundred and fifty in a tide, that is, in two to three hours. As soon as the tide gets low enough so that the boat can no longer shove easily over the mud flats and through the grass, the rail can run faster than the boat can go, and the shooting is over."
"Well," said Hugh, "that seems to me mighty queer—killing these little bits of birds just for the fun of it. It must cost a man quite a lot to do shooting of that kind."
"Yes," said Jack. "Of course men do it for amusement, and not for what they make out of it. Why, I think they pay the shover a dollar and a half or two dollars a tide, and then, of course, the ammunition costs something, and perhaps a man has to go quite a long journey on the railroad to get to the rail grounds."
"Well," said Hugh, "I don't believe I'd find much fun doing that sort of thing; but then," he continued, "I don't find much fun in hunting nowadays; it's simply a question of getting something to eat."
"Yes," said Jack, "I understand what you mean. Out here where game is so plenty the fun of hunting is largely taken away. I expect that it is the doubt in hunting, the uncertainty whether you are going to get a shot or not, that makes hunting interesting."
"I reckon that's it," said Hugh. "It's the gamble that there is in it; the chance that there is about it, that makes men like it. But say, son," he continued, "before we forget it I want to tell you something about these little rail birds. You know they've got mighty short wings and it seems hard for them to fly. Now what do you think the Indians up north say about these birds?"
"I am sure I don't know, Hugh; what is it?" asked Jack.
"Why, they say that these birds make their journeys north and south on the backs of the cranes—not herons, I don't mean, those fellows that live along the water—but regular sandhill cranes; those fellows that make so much noise flying over in spring and fall."
"Well," said Jack, "that's funny, and that reminds me of something, too; but first I want to ask how they know that the rail migrate in that way; what makes them think so?"
"I've asked that question, too," said Hugh, "and this is what old Saiyeh told me—"
"Saiyeh—that's Mad Wolf, isn't it, Hugh?" asked Jack.
"Yes," said Hugh; "old Mad Wolf, he said that once when he was out on the prairie with two or three other men, they saw some cranes coming, and hid, and the cranes flew over them and they shot at them and perhaps killed one or two, and when they fell to the prairie, two or three of these little birds came down with them."
"That's mighty interesting," said Jack; "and that reminds me of something that I have read, written by some German who studied birds. He said that there were some small birds of Europe that crossed the Mediterranean by riding on the backs of the wild geese."
"That's queer, too," said Hugh; "and yet I don't see why it might not be so."
"Oh," rejoined Jack, "there was a long, long article about it in one of the New York papers, copied from some paper printed in Europe. I wish I could remember more about it. It gave the names of the different kinds of little birds that were thought to cross that big water in that way, and it also told about some African people, perhaps they were Arabs, who knew and always had known that these little birds made their journeys north and south in that way."
"Now, tell me, son, you are a good deal younger than I am; isn't there some white man's story about a dispute among the birds as to which one could fly the highest, and doesn't the story say that the eagle flew highest, but that some small bird got on his back, and after the eagle had turned to come down, flew a little higher still, and then came down and won the prize?"
"Yes," said Jack, "there is just such a story. The little bird that beat the eagle was the wren, a tiny little bird."
"Well," said Hugh, "I suppose there have been a whole lot of mighty smart men that have been trying for a long time to find out all about birds, but I reckon there are some things left yet that they do not know."
"I guess so," said Jack, "a whole lot of things."
"Hugh," he went on, after a pause, "the Indians must have a great many beliefs and stories about birds and animals, haven't they? I don't mean sacred stories, or stories where birds and animals help them, but just tales about the animals, and how they live and what they do."
"Yes," said Hugh; "they do so. Of course, you know that there are lots of Indians who believe that they can understand the talk of the wolves. If they hear a wolf howling they know that he is speaking, telling them some news or other, and they can understand him and interpret for him to other Indians that don't understand the wolf's speech. Then, there are some Indians, Blackfeet, who say that they can understand what the meadow lark says when he is singing. The Cheyennes say this, too, but they say that the meadow lark says only one thing; that is, the song always repeats, 'I come from Tallow River.' Tallow River, you know, is the South Platte River. The Blackfeet names for the killdee and for the big curlew are in imitation of the cry of each bird. Blackfeet call the little chickadee 'Neo-po-muki,' and that means, according to them, 'summer is coming.' Yes, there are a whole lot of beliefs and stories about birds and animals that are pretty interesting. Of course, the birds and the animals seem a whole lot closer to the Indians than they do to us. They come pretty near to being the Indian's comrades and every day associates. There is one story that old Shell, a Cheyenne Indian, told me once, that I thought was a mighty good story, and if you like I'll try to repeat it to you before we go to bed."
"I wish you would, Hugh," said Jack. "I always like to hear those stories, and it seems to me that you know an awful lot of them."
"Well," replied Hugh, "I've heard a lot of them in my time, and I wish that I could remember them all. This is what old Shell told me as near as I can remember. He said: 'A long time ago my father was out walking in the hills and he came to a high cut cliff. The cliff was broken and overhung a little, and almost everywhere it was covered with the mud nests of swallows. It was about the time in spring when the eggs hatch, and the swallows were flying about gathering food and bringing it to the young ones. They were thick about the nests, and made a great deal of noise. My father sat there and looked at them for quite a long time. Presently he saw the birds gathering in great numbers about a particular place on the cliff, and when he looked carefully to see what attracted them, he saw a great snake crawling along on a ledge. Presently the snake came close to a lot of nests built all together, and raised its head and put it into one nest after another and ate the young birds. The swallows kept flying at the snake, but they could not stop it. All at once all the birds gathered together and flew in a great throng away to the east. All the old ones were gone; none were left about the nests. While my father sat there wondering where they had gone, he saw the swallows coming back in a great black bunch, and flying in front of them was a swift hawk, which every now and then whistled as it flew along. The birds came on and when they were close to the cliff the hawk whistled loud. When he did that, the snake raised its head and turned it toward the hawk, and the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake and flew away out of sight. When the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake without doing anything to it, the swallows made a great noise and followed him as he flew away, calling as if asking him to come back. So all the birds flew over the hill out of sight, but my father sat there waiting to see what would happen.
"'Before long he saw the swallows come back over the hill a second time, and now the bird leading them was a bald eagle, and as it flew it whistled as eagles do. When the eagle drew near to the snake, the snake raised its head and looked at the eagle, and when the snake looked, the eagle seemed to be afraid, and it turned and flew away out of sight, the swallows following it and making still more noise.
"'A third time the swallows came back over the hill, and flying in front of them was a gray eagle, and as it drew near, the gray eagle whistled as the bald eagle had done. The gray eagle came up flying swiftly, but when the snake raised its head and looked at the eagle it seemed as if a flash of light blazed from the snake's eyes, and the gray eagle made the same turn as the others had made, and flew away out of sight, while all the swallows made a mournful noise.
"'The gray eagle flew out of sight down the creek, and the swallows followed it and were gone a long time. Pretty soon, though, they could be seen coming back just like a black mass, and this time their leader was a heron. When the heron drew near the side of the cliff the snake raised its head and looked at the bird, and it seemed as if blue sparks of fire flew from the snake's eyes. The heron did not turn aside from the snake when it raised its head, but flew straight on, and when he had come close to the snake he ran his bill clear through its body and it fell to the ground and died, and the swallows gathered around the snake in great crowds and trampled all over it.' That is the way old Shell said that the swallows tried to save their children."
"That's sure a good story, Hugh," said Jack. "It's got the same old number four in it, hasn't it?"
"Yes," said Hugh; "of course we look to find that in every Indian story. You'll have to try four times before you succeed at anything."
"Well, son," he said, "let us go to bed. We ought to be starting out in good season to-morrow, for unless I am mistaken we'll have quite a long day of it."