Wearied though he was with the long day’s tramp, and with his efforts to satisfy the ravenous appetites of the score of men, Rob could not roll up in his blanket before the fire with the rest, as they finished their meal. In a little hollow scooped out near the log fire, were to be placed a half bushel of Irish potatoes, with a jab of his knife through the skin of each one to let out the steam. Over them the hot ashes were raked and packed down tight, then a few coals, and here they would bake slowly through the night, to be eaten in their mealy whiteness, cold, with salt, at the hasty noon meal the next day. The coffee kettle was replaced by another containing great chunks of corned beef, and from the baker came several batches of delicately browned biscuit to be packed away in a box for the morrow. There would be no time allowed at the noon rest for more than the preparing of the hot coffee.
It seemed to the lad that he had no more than closed his eyes, as he finally rolled himself into his blanket—his boots under his head for pillow—than he found himself sitting up, panting for breath, as though exhausted by running, and trembling all over. Clearly he had been frightened in his sleep; but by what? The horses, securely tied near by, were snorting and frantically trying to break away. The men, here and there, were rising upon elbows. Then, from the tall pine, seemingly right over their heads, came the scream as of a woman in such agony, despair, and heart-breaking entreaty, that it seemed to Rob nothing in all the world could express more hopeless misery. With a “Sh-h, keep quiet, boys,” Mr. Medford grasped his winchester and slipped around to quiet the horses, peering up into the thick branches as he went. Again that hideous cry—and Mr. Medford fired at the place from which the sound seemed to come.
“What is it?” whispered Rob to teamster Jackson, next him.
“A panther. There is no danger. Lie still.”
There was the noise of something bounding from limb to limb, high up in the pines, then all was still.
Exhausted, though he was, with the day’s march and labor, Rob was so thoroughly awakened, that long after the quieted teams were again munching their corn, and the men were snoring, he lay, looking up at the one far-away star peeping through the boughs, and starting up now and then as a soft pad-pad, or sniff-sniff, or low growl, or bark, announced the presence of some other visiting woods-folk.
When at last they had reached the timber tract, a little knoll not far back from the river, was selected as the site for the permanent camps. These would be three in number—the main building where the men would sleep and eat, and one end of which would serve as kitchen; a second for the snug stable for the teams; and the third to be used as repair shop and storehouse.
All hands went to work at once putting up the houses. It was now the second week of November, and the fierce winter storms might be looked for at any time. The buildings were constructed of logs, about twelve inches in diameter, the cracks between chinked in with moss and clay. The roof was made of split logs, the split faces being laid together, breaking the joints. There was always plenty of chance for ventilation. After the roaring fires in the sheet iron stoves should finally succeed in drying them out, these rooms would be warm and comfortable.
For nearly a week, during the house-building, the men slept in tents which opened one end toward the big log fire. At this fire also, with its undiminished abundance of live coals, Rob baked and boiled and roasted. Now that there was to be no more traveling, the supplies were overhauled, and great dishes of dried fruit—prunes, peaches, and apples, were stewed. Later, Mr. Medford would have a team bring in fresh beef and pork. Pea soup, hot, and rich with pork fat, was an almost daily ration, and then the great staple—baked beans! Lucky for Rob, indeed, was that accomplishment of which Ed had boasted for him. Surely even Boston itself never knew such appetizing dish as that Rob brought forth from the “bean hole.”
This is the way in which the delicacy was prepared: First, a hole two feet in depth, filled with live coals; the big pot with just the right amount of beans—(be careful to not put in too many, or you will duplicate Mark Twain’s experience with dried apples), molasses, a chunk of fat pork, salt and pepper to season—then water enough to swell the dish full when done (a few disastrous experiments will teach you the right amount), then the coals raked out and the pot, tightly covered, placed in the hole; ashes packed around and over; more live coals heaped above all—and everybody go away and forget it for twenty-four hours—if you can—and then!