CHAPTER IV.
A Day in the Woods.
The following morning Dick was up and out before even the early rising Collinsons were stirring. It was one of those mornings in late November which seem to be a faint, sad recollection of spring. The sun had not yet appeared above the far-off edge where the misty forest lands faded into mistier skies, but the promise of his approach thrilled the leafless, songless world to deeper quiet. Everything was hushed and dark; but in the east a clear bar of amber broadened and brightened slowly.
Yet it would be some time, Dick knew, before it became really light. He wandered through the frosty garden, the noise of his footsteps in the dried leaves sounding harsh and clamorous; but save for this, and for the lanterns which moved about the farm buildings as some of the hands attended to the stock, the world seemed wholly given up to shade and silence.
The air was damp and very chill, and the ghostly half-light was full of unexpected gleams and shadows. But Dick wandered on restlessly, until he came to the boundary of the enclosure. Here the land dipped sharply, and the cultivated ground ended in a low stump fence. Beyond this fence there was a small and rocky ravine, which ran up in a constantly narrowing cleft into the very midst of the fertile fields. On the crest of the dip Dick paused, and peered attentively over and down into the little valley, which here was scarcely fifty feet across—a mere sword-cut of beautiful worthlessness in the rich acres around—for his nose had been greeted by a small, savoury odour of cooking.
His eyes were as keen as his nose, and presently he made out a very tiny spiral of blue smoke rising from among the bushes. No sooner had he seen it than he scrambled silently, but with difficulty, over the barricade of the stump fence, and crept cautiously round the trees to get a clearer view.
As he half expected, an Indian lad crouched beside the tiny fire, busy with the preparation of his wild breakfast. Dick had thought to steal upon him unheard, but he was disappointed, for the lad's eyes sought him out immediately and unerringly. It had grown much lighter now, and each was able to see and take stock of the other.
Dick saw a boy of about his own age, smaller and slighter, but hardened so by the ways of his life that he appeared older; his every movement had the silence and precision of an animal's; and he was made up of a shock of black hair, a smooth brown skin, sharp white teeth, and a compact mass of light bones and untirable muscles. He was dressed in what had originally been a respectable suit of homespun, probably presented to him by good Mrs. Collinson, but it was patched and pieced out with all manner of skins and rags. A scarlet blanket served to keep out the frost. But his eyes were what attracted at once the attention of an observer; they were not black, nor even dark, but a very light, bright, greenish grey; this, and their utter lack of expression, rendered them unpleasantly impressive. No one might say whether such eyes portended good or evil, but most people would have inclined to the latter.
Peter Many-Names glanced at Dick with a grave sort of indifference, which was annoying and yet amusing. He saw a good-looking youngster, strongly built and fresh coloured, who bore himself as if life owed him something very easy and pleasant. Peter also saw that the English boy would not go more than one mile to his own two on the trail; that while he was probably a good shot, he lacked patience; and that he moved with excessive noise; so Peter valued him accordingly, though his eyes gave no sign. Dick nodded cheerfully, and Peter returned the nod with ceremonial gravity; then he bent once more over the little fire, and left to the other the task of opening the conversation.
Dick felt somewhat at a loss; Roger had told him that the Indian understood English perfectly well, though speaking it according to his own taste, but he felt that his questions were too trivial to break the massive silence with which the young savage surrounded himself. It was the first time he had come into contact with that dignity which is not the outcome of education, but which is a characteristic of some races. Indians he had seen, but not such an Indian as this.
"You 're Peter, I suppose," he began at last, and then waited for some confirmation of his words. But the other was raking among the wood ashes with a little stick, and merely nodded again in answer, seeming to think it a matter of entire indifference whatever Dick chose to suppose. "When you 've been up to the house," continued Dick, "I want to know if you 'll come with me after a brute of a fox that is taking our poultry." It appeared better to put the matter briefly.
Peter Many-Names regarded him gravely still. He knew enough of the mannerless ways of white folks not to be shocked at this abrupt introduction of business. So after a few minutes' meditation, he grunted agreement. "All right, I come," he said. Then he turned his back calmly, and went on with his culinary operations. There was no mistaking the hint, so Dick walked back to the homestead again.
Shortly after appeared Peter, with some fine fish, and a somewhat less taciturn manner; and before an hour had passed, the two lads, some provisions, guns, and an excited dog, were all on the trail of the fox.
The Indian strode on ahead with the dog straining in the leash, and left to Dick their weapons and the food, which vexed him mightily. Nor was his temper improved when he noticed that Peter carefully moderated his pace from time to time as if out of consideration for his companion's weaknesses. It is not pleasant to know that your comrade can run twice as fast as you can, and to know that he knows it also. He had always prided himself on his strength and fleetness, and to find himself relegated to the position of follower and burden-bearer by the first Indian into whose company he was thrown was a salutary lesson.
In this manner they proceeded for some two or three miles. Every now and then Dick made valiant efforts to gain upon his companion, but Peter, as if maliciously aware of it, always kept the same distance ahead.
Once, restraining the dog with difficulty, he pointed to a little piece of grey down caught on a thorn—pathetic reminder of the perished gander. Then once more they went on, following unerringly the fresh scent, until, all at once, the character of the country changed, and a small, low, sandy hillock, almost bare of trees and underwood, thrust itself upwards amidst the encircling forests. In a confident manner, which Dick found vaguely annoying, Peter announced it to be the end of their journey.
Dick looked back. They had not come far, as distance was counted in those days, but the land was entirely strange to him. However, to the Indian and the dog it appeared to be familiar enough; for Peter Many-Names, after a few minutes' search, unearthed two broad discs of thick wood from beneath the accumulation of leaf and vine which had safely concealed them. Dick looked at him inquiringly, but he did not seem disposed to give explanations. "Me here bin before," he remarked, "catch fox. These hidy then."
Not thus had the English boy dreamed of the hunt. Rather had he thought of a progress through the woods in lordly wise, killing or sparing at his pleasure, with the Indian as an appreciative audience. He resented the way in which Peter took the whole affair into his own hands, competent and cunning though the said hands were.
But now the Indian's proceedings arrested his attention. After much cautious scrambling and struggling, the dog led them to the mouth of a burrow, where, Peter declared, the thief must now be securely and gorgedly sleeping. At the same time, he gave Dick clearly to understand that he, and he alone, would compass the fox's destruction. "You sit see watch," he commanded.
Were anyone else concerned in this matter, Dick would have disputed this order with heat. But already he had fallen under the spell of that savage nature, so much wilder, so much stronger, than his own. There seemed to be something in the keen, dark face, with its strange eyes, which required obedience, and he yielded it without a word. In the wilds, the soul and will of the savage at once became dominant, not to be disregarded.
So Dick meekly conveyed himself to a little distance, and sat down on a little mound from whence he could "see watch" the whole affair, which promised to be interesting, and even peculiar. He wondered why the Indian had brought only one dog. "I suppose he's going to smoke it out," he murmured doubtfully to himself.
But that was not it. For first Peter cut small branches into slender poles about three or four feet long, until he had quite a bundle of them. These he pushed into the burrow until it was completely though loosely filled for some four feet from its mouth. Next he took one of the flat discs of wood, and fitted it carefully into the opening, using earth to wedge it firmly, and finally blocking it with a big stone. This process, which mystified Dick entirely, he repeated at a second hole that he said was the other exit from the burrow. Then he rested from his labours with a satisfied air.
"And what about the fox?" demanded Dick.
Whereupon Peter Many-Names unbent sufficiently to enter into a long and curiously worded explanation, the gist of which was as follows:—
When the fox found the narrow entrance of his burrow blocked with the little poles, he would at once set cleverly to work to pull and kick and scratch them away, which he could easily do. But in so doing he built a barrier in the burrow behind him as he worked, and by the time he had pushed them all back, he faced the immovable plug of wood, and was penned into a section of the tunnel of little more than his own length. He could neither move backwards nor forwards, and so fell an easy victim when the plug was removed. As Peter pointed out, his industry was his own undoing.
Dick scarcely knew whether to admire or laugh at the quaint stratagem. But the fact remained that their work for that day was done, and done without his help or advice. He supposed there was nothing to do but go back to the homestead, and his face showed how little he relished the idea.
The Indian watched him with keen eyes, seeming to read his thoughts. At last he spoke, quietly and indifferently, as was his wont.
"Why you not stay with me this to-day?" he said, not even looking at Dick.
A sparkle sprang into the boy's eyes. To have one more day of lazy freedom! One more day of the wood-running in which his soul delighted! One more day with no will but his own to follow, with no cares, no work, no restraint! One more day of the deep silent undergrowth and the stately uplands, of the clear chill skies and the keen cold wind! One more day of the wilderness that was dearer and fairer to him than the farm and the fruitful fields! To wander for one more day, with no master but his own pleasure, no one calling to sterner labour; and only the silent crafty savage, himself the very incarnation of the wilds, his comrade!
His face grew bright and dreamy at the thought. It was the look which all restless folk wear at times, reflecting the love of God's "unmanstifled places" which glorifies their profitless wandering. Profitless only in the worldly sense of material gain, yet often the stronger soul is shown in resisting the call to freedom and to nature.
But Dick had not yet learnt his lesson; and once more he chose the way that pleased him best. "Yes, I will stay," he said.
Peter Many-Names nodded, his usual mode of assent; to him Dick's evident struggle between inclination and duty had been amusing, and there was a rare gleam of merriment in his dark face. He had a far keener appreciation of the situation than had Dick, and it gave him a boy's feeling of pride to think of all the wonders of the woods he might show to his white comrade if he chose. "Come, then," he said, with a flash of his white teeth, "and I show you bear, sleeping much for winter. Come quiet."
The forests were bright with that soft recollection of spring which the early morning had promised. The bare twigs seemed as full of life and colour as if the sap had been rising instead of falling, and the recent frosts but made the going better. Very silently, Peter Many-Names turned into the undergrowth, Dick following closely in his track, and the well-trained dog following Dick as closely. He was troubled in his mind, this dog, remembering an unguarded bone near the woodpile, and longing to end such foolish, aimless rambling as his two-legged companions indulged in. Many were the wistful glances he cast back.
But Dick's face was set to the forests of his dreams, and duty called him to the homestead in vain.