Plenty of luck did we have too, for we lived in a sparsely-settled part of Nova Scotia, and the trout and partridges and rabbits had not had their ranks thinned by too much hunting. It was no uncommon thing for us to bring back, as the result of an afternoon's whipping of the brooks, two or three dozen speckled trout weighing from half-a-pound to three pounds each, while less than a dozen brace of plump partridges or bob-tailed rabbits was looked on as a very poor bag for a day's shooting.
Adventurous and enterprising as we were, however, one stream of which we had knowledge remained undisturbed by our lines. It was known among the Mic-Macs, a band of whom roamed about the neighbourhood, as Indian Devil Run, being so called because of their belief that the dense dark forest in which it took its rise was the fastness of a family of panthers, of which they stood in great dread.
Nor was the name without good foundation, for one autumn a hunter with gun and trap ventured into this place, and returned with the body of a panther, stating that he believed others still remained.
Indian Devil Run began somewhere in the North Forest, ran through its heavy shadows for several miles, and then appeared to add its contribution to the Digdequash River, at which point we made its acquaintance.
We often talked about following it up into the depths of the forest, but the Indian stories made us pause, until at last one evening in September, Jack Johnston, craving some fresh excitement, dared us to make the attempt, and we rashly accepted the challenge.
The following morning we set off, letting no one know the object of our expedition. We were armed in this fashion: Charlie Peters bore an ancient Dutch musket, warranted when properly loaded to kill at both ends; Johnston had a keen tomahawk, which the Indians had taught him to use like one of themselves; and I carried an old-fashioned smooth-bore shot-gun, dangerous only to small game.
"Now, if we come across an Indian devil, Charlie," said Johnston, "you give him a broadside from 'Dutchie,' and I'll finish him with my tomahawk."
"And where do I come in?" I asked, with a smile.
"You? Oh, you blaze away at him with your pepperpot; you might perhaps put his eyes out, you know," Jack laughingly responded, and so our order of battle was settled upon.
We crossed the Digdequash in a canoe, hid our craft in the underbrush, and in high feather entered upon the exploration of Indian Devil Run.