Occasionally a deer would bound away from behind a fallen tree. The doe and her fawn were safe from the Indian’s rifle, but the fat, grass-fed buck had best be wary. Once the procession stopped for a moment as a huge lucivee, the Canadian lynx—“Indian devil” as it was called and dreaded by the early white hunters of the far north—dropped down from a pine tree into the trail in front of them. With insolent, yellow eyes the big cat looked them over, and, seeming to conclude that it was not worth his while to dispute the way, moved leisurely off. The Indians, though armed, had a wholesome respect for this animal’s fighting qualities, who seemed to have not only the traditional nine lives of the cat, but a big added store of invincibility on his own account. Any one of them, however, might have tackled the big brute, had they been alone, but all together would let him go in peace, if so he elected, for the sake of the women and little ones with them.
In a space bare of trees or other growth, the boys caught sight of some noble deer antlers, yet attached to bare skulls, and about which were scattered many white bones. Here was the scene of a woods-folk tragedy. The brave antlers on the two bare skulls were inextricably locked together. The picture came to the boys as they trudged on:—
The crisp brightness of an October morning—mating time; the meeting of the two gallant knights of the forest; the quick call of challenge; the fierce stamping of slender hoofs; the rush; the shock of impact, head to head; the great horns locked, prong in prong, the attempt to break away for thrust and stroke with knife-like hoof; the long day of alternate fierce struggle for freedom and panting exhaustion. Then came night—and the wolves, for there were to be no more days, long-drawn-out with suffering, for these brave warriors.
It is the law of the wild that none of the woods-folk shall die of old age, neither shall very many suffer long of wounds, but, when the strength and cunning that nature has given, no longer protects, their flesh shall pass to add to the strength of the stronger.
The days of a week passed rapidly, as the boys gathered berries, which dried quickly on the clean, hot sand. However, they could not rid themselves of the thought of the great “paint mine,” as they called it, and the desire to investigate and learn its real value, possessed them. They already had twice as many berries, Rob said, as the family could eat in a year. But Ed argued that the paint mine could wait a little, while the berries would not. Besides, he had a plan to sell a lot of this dried fruit to the men going up into the big woods, next fall. After talking over the matter, they concluded to go back after the steers and light wagon, as now they knew the trail, and bring more provision, and something in which to pack the dried berries. Also, they would bring a barrel, which they would fill with the paint.
Taking along a few quarts of the half-dried fruit for their mother, the boys started for home about sundown, preferring to make the trip of eight miles by the light of the moon, rather than in the heat of the day, for old Sol had now begun to show his strength in the short northern summer. Of course there would be no chance of an investigation of the paint mine, though Ed would fill a pocket with the pasty, red stuff, to show to mother.
The berries were harvested, a goodly store, and for which they found a ready sale among the north-bound lumbermen, the next fall, at ten cents per pound. Returning, they spent half a day at the red bank, inspecting the paint mine. Where the bank lay clear and free from grass it extended for perhaps an hundred yards up stream, where it seemed to shelve off into the water, and there the grass and rushes were growing up through it. The deposit in the bank was not gritty, but smooth and slippery, like fine clay, apparently free from soil or dirt, and ranged in color from an orange yellow, to a deep brown. In several places where they dug, it was a full foot in depth, though perhaps half of that would be an average depth.
“Just look at it, Ed,” exclaimed Rob. “How many tons of it do you suppose there is? If it wasn’t so far from some railroad, we could make our fortune shipping this.”
“But, Rob,” replied sturdy Ed, “it’s only about four miles straight to the river; and we could easily fill the five barrels that we have, and build a raft and float them down to Necedah. I am sure we could sell it to Mr. Blake; he always keeps the mill buildings painted. And then, perhaps, we could raft another lot down to Kilbourne.”
Mr. Allen had arrived at home when the boys reached there with their specimen barrel, and was greatly interested in their account of the paint mine. “It is a very pure specimen of ocher, boys, and some day, when the railroads push out into this country, will be of commercial value.”