Chapter Twenty.
Alone in the Beast-Haunted Wilderness—The Search Party—Agony of Thought—A Midnight Visitor—The Forest on Fire.
The feeling of consternation on the minds of Ralph and Rory, when they returned to the working party and found that Allan was missing, may be better imagined than described. Mitchell was in command of the woodcutters, and not only he, but every one of the men, was interrogated as to what they knew or could tell of the sudden disappearance. They had all the self-same story to relate. They simply missed him, all at once as it were, from his seat. They had not noticed which way he had gone. They certainly did not hear the crack of his rifle; he had disappeared as quietly and suddenly as if he had been spirited away, and they very naturally imagined that he had got tired of waiting, and had gone along down to the river and creek to meet his friends.
Any search for a trail was altogether a waste of time. Had Seth himself been there, hardly could he have picked it up, for the gloom of night was fast settling down over mountain, and forest, and sea.
One thing, however, they could and did do. Coming speedily to the conclusion that Allan had gone more inland, probably after big game of some kind, they took a middle course, ’twixt east and south, and in a body marched upon a high bluff of barren ground, that rose up like an island in the centre of the spruce pines. Once on the top they could hear from all directions, if anything were to be heard. But alas! there was no answering shout to theirs, and the only reply to their firing was the faint echo of the rifles among the distant hills. Then a hopeless kind of sorrow seemed to settle down on every heart.
Neither Ralph nor Rory dared to express their thoughts in words. Allan their beloved companion was gone. The chances of their ever seeing him alive again were few, for what might not have happened to him already, or what might not happen to him during the night, all alone in this beast-haunted wilderness!
Was there any comfort to be had from the thought that he was simply lost? None. For how could they forget the many stories trapper Seth had told them of men lost on the prairies, on the plains, or in the woods and jungles; of how some suddenly lose all hope and heart, throw themselves on the ground, fall into a stupor, shiver and die; of how others lose all control over themselves, and rush hither and thither like wild beasts in confinement, and others who, instead of keeping cool and waiting for friendly help, become the victims of a restless mania?
It is strange how two people in an emergency like the present may be, at precisely the same moment of time, thinking of exactly the same thing, so that almost without the aid of words they may read each other’s soul. I have seen many instances of this, but am not psychologist enough to be able to account for it; but here now we have Ralph turning suddenly round to his companion, and looking for a brief moment inquiringly into his face, and Rory replying, “No, he left his compass in his cabin this morning, with his watch and chain.”
This was an answer to the very question Ralph was about to ask.
“Heaven help him, then!” said Ralph, with one brief glance skywards. Perhaps, reader, Heaven even then helped the utterer of that little prayer himself, and granted him presence of mind.
Anyhow, he at once began to give orders. Ralph had what might be called a larger and more grasping mind than Rory; the latter was as brave as brave could be, but Ralph was ever the better man in an emergency.
“Mitchell,” said our English hero, “there is no time to be lost. Take a few men with you, and go on board at once, and report this sad business to Captain McBain. He will know what to do as soon as it is daylight.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Mitchell, and choosing three men he ran quickly down the side of the hill, and the spruce forest swallowed them up.
“Now, lads,” continued Ralph, “go to work and collect wood, there is plenty about; we’ll build a fire on the hill here, and trust the rest to Providence.”
The men were glad to set to work, it revived hope in their hearts.
From the deck of the Snowbird, the eminence which Ralph and Rory occupied could be seen by daylight, so the fire could be seen burning steadily all the livelong night. Just after midnight McBain threw himself wearily on his cot to snatch a few hours’ rest. He was up again before daybreak, the fire was burning brightly then.
Trapper Seth was on deck even before McBain. He was quite ready to go over the side as soon as the order was given, so were the dogs. The mastiff would go with his master as a matter of course, who on this particular occasion had resumed his former useful, if not picturesque, costume of skins.
Had one of even those few individuals in this world who neither care for nor admire man’s true friend, the dog, been on the Snowbird’s deck and witnessed the quiet, eager anxious looks of great Oscar, as he took his seat in the boat along with McBain, he could not have begrudged a word of pity for the poor fellow.
Meanwhile, how fared it with Allan in the solitude of the forest? Brave as he was, he could not help experiencing a feeling of awe as night deepened around him. He determined, however, to make the most of his position, and selecting a spot close under a rock, he collected wood and lit a fire; there was some comfort in that, and its fitful light, although it seemed to deepen the darkness all around him, made him feel more cheerful. He rolled himself in his Highland plaid, and placing his rifle handy, lay down to watch the blazing logs, without, however, any very serious intention of going to sleep. He felt more sorry for his companions than for himself, for when daylight returned he never doubted for a moment that he would be able to find his way, but he would have given a good deal to be able to relieve their anxiety. It was some consolation to him in his loneliness to have the companionship of a book. But reading by the firelight made him drowsy, and it was not very long ere the book dropped from his powerless grasp, and he fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight, the fire had gone out, and he felt very cold and stiff and tired. But he was sure now he would soon regain the creek.
But the mistake he fell into was a very terrible one. He had forgotten that he had crossed the stream, or rather that he had not re-crossed it. When he left the ravine, therefore, and commenced walking in a direct line north-west as he imagined, he was in reality going quite the opposite way. He hurried along, too, at a very rapid rate, sometimes even running, so that by the time McBain and Seth reached the hill-top, where Rory and Ralph were, and the search was begun in earnest, there must have been a distance of at least fifteen miles between himself and his anxious companions.
It was probably an hour longer before Seth found the trail and Oscar took it up. Both dogs started off on the same scent apparently, but they had not followed it for a mile ere they seemed to disagree, the mastiff going up to the higher ground, the Saint Bernard keeping far lower down. Both animals were right, only the former was on the track of deer, following the bent he had been trained to; the latter was on his master’s trail. This put Seth out, however; he naturally had more faith in the wisdom of his own dog, so Oscar was called away, and it was not until deer were seen that the mistake was discovered, and steps had to be retraced in order to seek once again for the right trail, and thus much valuable time was lost.
When, about five hours after this, Allan found himself once again at the top of a ravine, adown which a stream meandered, “I declare,” he said to himself, “this is provoking; I’ve been going round in a circle, and here I am very near the spot where I started from.”
Now this was not the case. He had been walking almost in a bee-line, and had struck quite another river.
The probability that this might be the case did cross his mind, but, he reasoned with himself, this stream must reach the sea, and if I follow it I am bound to come upon the beach; then, if I am not in sight of the Snowbird, I have only to walk along until I do see her. But little did he know then that the course of this river was a very winding one indeed, and that it fell into the sea after running among a ridge of high mountains, twenty good leagues to the eastward of the bay in which lay the yacht. To make a resolve, however, was with Allan to keep it, so he recommenced his journey and hurried onwards as before. He walked all day, and as the shades of evening began to fall he found himself very tired and weary, having eaten nothing for over four-and-twenty hours. He had the good fortune, however, to find food in the shape of a jack rabbit. This, after being cleaned, he rolled in clay and cooked gipsy-fashion in the fire he had built. Then, once again rolling himself in his plaid, he lay down to rest and to think. It must be confessed that his position was far from an enviable one, and his thoughts anything but pleasant. He began to fear he had made some strange mistake, for why, if he were indeed going in the right direction, were there no signs that his friends were seeking for him, as he knew they must be? Should he start to-morrow and walk again up-stream, or should he leave this river that seemed endless and plunge once again into forest and hill? Or should he remain stationary? This last was precisely what one in his situation ought to have done, but already the spirit of unrest had taken possession of his mind, and he longed for the night and the darkness to wear away, that he might resume his toilsome march, albeit the probability dawned upon his mind that he might wander in this wilderness until he died. Would this be the end of all his ambitions? Would he never again sail up his own lovely lake in the Scottish Highlands, and receive the tender greetings of his mother and sister? He asked himself such questions over and over again till they almost maddened him, and he was obliged at last to start up and pace rapidly up and down in front of the fire. He walked thus for hours, until ready to drop, then he heaped more logs on the burning pile, and again sat down. The sounds that issued from the forest were far from reassuring. There was a whisper of wind through the branches of the pine-trees, there was the mournful cry of some night bird, or the scream of some frightened bird trying in vain to escape the clutches of the owl, and there was the barking yelp of the great grey wolf.
Again and again poor Allan threw himself down in front of the fire, and attempted to compose himself to sleep, but all in vain. He tried to read, but there was no connection between the author’s words and his own thoughts, so he threw the book aside at last, and pressed his palm to his burning brow. His head ached and his eyes felt like balls of fire. Was he going mad? The very thought that he might be caused him such agony, that the sweat stood in on beads his forehead. He found his way to the river side and bathed his face and head in the cool water; this soothed him; then his troubled mind found solace in prayer, and laying himself down once more, just like a tired child, he began to repeat to himself psalm after psalm, and hymn after hymn, that he had learned at school. And so gradually his eyes began to droop, and troubled dreams took the place of waking thoughts.
And the night wore on, and on, and on.
But it still wanted many hours of morning.
So light were Allan’s slumbers that the snapping of a twig or branch, some distance away in the thicket, caused him to spring up at last and seize his rifle. He listened, but there was no unusual sound to alarm him. The forest he knew was filled with wolves, but he also knew from experience that the courage of the brutes is of no very high standing, and unless they came in numbers they would hardly dare to attack him.
He heaped branches of wood and logs on the fire nevertheless. While so engaged there fell upon his startled ear the sounds of hurried breathing close behind him, and next moment, even before he had time to raise his rifle to defend himself, an animal bigger and more powerful than a buffalo-wolf had sprung upon and rolled him to the ground.
And this animal, reader, was none other than his own great honest Oscar. When McBain and his party, still on Allan’s trail, had encamped for the night, this good dog had stolen away and left them. Night and darkness were nothing to him, nor did he fear bears or wolves, or anything else that makes a forest dangerous to traverse after sundown. He was instigated by the love he bore for his master, and guided by scent alone.
But what a change his presence made on Allan’s mind!
He felt no longer gloomy and hopeless, and as he hugged the giant Saint Bernard, he could not help dropping tears upon his broad brow. Only they were tears of joy, and tears that relieved his pent-up feelings and cooled his burning brain.
If the dog could only have spoken, a most animated conversation would have ensued forthwith.
But as soon as Oscar had relieved his feelings by a series of wild gambols and quixotic performances that are simply indescribable, Allan plied him with a hundred questions, and talked to him just as if the poor animal knew every word he uttered.
“And how did you find me, dear old boy? What a blessing you are, to be sure! But do you know I took you for a great wolf, and it is a wonder I didn’t shoot you? Oh! think what a thing it would have been if I had killed my dear kind Oscar. It won’t bear thinking about. And where did you leave our friends? They are coming to seek for me, I know; but you, you impatient boy! you must give them the slip and come paddling along through the dark dreary forest to look for your beloved master. Heigho! but I am so glad you’re here. I am so happy, and I am so hungry too. And, by the way, that reminds me I roasted a rabbit last night, Oscar, and could hardly touch it. But we’ll have it now. What have you got in the little barrel at your collar? Coffee, I declare! Well, well, well!”
Talking thus, Allan shared his supper with his friend, and then laid himself down by his side, using the dog as his pillow, just as he had often done when resting at home, among the blooming heather on the braes of Arrandoon. That was the sweetest and most refreshing hour’s slumber ever he remembered having enjoyed.
He awoke at last like the proverbial giant refreshed, and found his pillow sitting up alongside of him, and gazing down at him with loving hazel eyes.
“Hullo, Oscar!” he said: “day is breaking yonder in the east; it is almost time we were moving.”
The dog shook himself as much as to say,—
“I’m ready at a moment’s notice to guide you safely home.”
There was a broad belt of red light in the distant horizon and towards this Oscar attempted to lead his master, with many a bound and many a bark.
But Allan wouldn’t budge.
“Not in that direction, Oscar, old boy,” he said; “our road lies towards the setting, not the rising sun.”
“Bow, wow!” barked Oscar, as if reasoning with him, “bow, wow, wow, wow!”
There was something in the dog’s demeanour that set Allan a-thinking. Could the animal really be right and he wrong? He examined the belt of red light more carefully now. Was that the east? Was that indeed the crimson clad vanguard that heralds the coming day? Nay, it could not be, the red was a more lurid red, the light was a fitful light, and as he gazed he could distinctly make out a confused rolling of great clouds over it. Then all at once the truth flashed across his mind.
The forest was on fire!
How this happened the reader may at once be told: sparks from McBain’s camp fire had towards morning ignited the withered needles that had fallen from the pine-trees, the brushwood had caught, and next the underwood of the spruce-trees, and at the very moment that Allan was gazing skywards his friends were rushing headlong through the woods, pursued by the devouring element.
Would they ever meet Allan again?