The Little Fig-tree Stories

by Mary Hallock Foote

In a moment or two he came running back for more cartridges. Mr. Gilmour had met a black bear, and they were going after him. John followed with the axe. Some time passed, but no shots were heard. At last the men came back, warm and merry, though disappointed of their game. The bear had got away. It was tantalizing to think how fat and sleek he must have been, after his summer in the mountains. There would be no bear-steaks for supper that night, and no glossy dark skin to carry back in triumph to the home camp and spread before next winter’s hearth wherever the house-fires might be lighted.

Mr. Gilmour had been walking down the trail when he saw the bear ahead of him, crossing the high flat toward the trail and making straight for the river. If both had continued to advance, there would have been a meeting, and as Mr. Gilmour was armed only with a fly-rod and a pistol, he preferred the meeting should be postponed. Then he stopped and shouted for Dane. The bear came on, and Mr. Gilmour fell back, leisurely, he said, toward camp. He did not care to bring his game in alive, he said, without giving the camp due warning, so he shouted again. It was the second shout Dane had heard. The way of his retreat led him down into a little gulch, where he lost sight of the bear.

It did not take very long to tell the story of the hunt, and then Mr. Gilmour went back to his fishing. The sun came out. The fire in front of the tent was a heap of smoking ashes; the magazine story palled; the sketch was pronounced not worth finishing; and then the pack-train for Atlanta came tinkling and shuffling down the trail. Fourteen sleek, handsome mules, with crisp, clipped manes, like the little Greek horses on ancient friezes, passed in single file between a man riding ahead on the “bell-mare,” and another bringing up the rear of the train, swinging his leathern “blind” as he rode. This one was the man from Turner’s. He had met Mr. Gilmour farther down the river, and heard the story about the bear, and offered to leave his dog, which he said was a good bear-dog. But the dog wouldn’t be left, and so the picturesque freight-train went its way, under the Indian’s rock, and up the steep climb beyond. High above the river they could be seen, footing with neat steps the winding trail, their packs swinging and shuffling with a sidelong motion, in time to the regular pace, while the bell sounded fainter and fainter.

Bear stories were told by the camp-fire that night; and Mr. Dane slept with his rifle handy, and John with an axe. John said he was a better shot with an axe than with a rifle. Jack thought he should dream of bears, but he didn’t. The next morning he went with John Brown up to the high pasture to bring down one of the horses. Brown was to ride down to Gillespie’s and make sure of transportation for the party home, the next day but one.

Jack had the happiness of riding Billy barebacked down the trail, following John on Pete, Mrs. O’Dowd, as usual, in the rear. Mr. Gilmour was surprised to see all the animals coming down, and he noticed at once how hollow and drooping the horses looked. John explained that they had evidently not been able to find the trail leading down to the river, and had been without water all the time they had been kept upon the bluffs. He could see by their tracks where they had wandered back and forth along the edge of the bluffs, seeking a way down. How glad they must have been of that deep draught from the river, that had mocked them so long with the sound of its waters! No one liked to find fault with Brown, who was faithful and tender-hearted; and it was stupid of horses, used to the range, not to have gone back from the bluffs and followed the fence until they found the outlet to the river. They quickly revived with water and food, which they could once more enjoy now that their long thirst was quenched. Brown rode Pete down to Gillespie’s, and returned in the afternoon with word that Mr. Gillespie himself would come for the party on Saturday, with the outfit required.

The evening was cool and cloudy; twilight came on early, and Brown cooked supper with the whole family gathered around his fire, hungrily watching him. There was light enough from the fire, mingled with the wan twilight on the beach, by which to eat supper. John was filling the tin cups with coffee, when horses’ feet were heard coming down the trail from the direction of Boise. A man on a gray horse stopped under the Indian’s rock and looking down on the group on the beach below asked what was “the show for a bite of something to eat.” He was invited to share what there was, and throwing the bridle loose on his horse’s neck he dropped out of the saddle and joined the party at the table.

He was the man from Atlanta, returning from his errand to Boise. No doctor had been willing to go up from Boise, so he said, and the friends of the wounded man had telegraphed to C—, and a doctor had gone across from there. The messenger had stayed over a day in Boise to rest, and was now on his way home to his ranch in the hills. He gave the details of the shooting,—the usual details, received with the usual comments and speculations as to the wounded man’s recovery,—then the talk turned upon sport, and bear stories and fish stories were in order. The man from Atlanta knew what good hunting was, from his own account. He told how he had struck a bear track about as big as a man’s hand in the woods and followed it some distance, thinking it was “about his size,” and all of a sudden he had come upon a fresh track about as big—he picked up the cover of the bake-kettle—“as big as that.” Then he turned around and came home. It was suggested (after the man from Atlanta had gone) that the big track he saw was where the bear had sat down.

It was now deep dusk in the woods; only the latest and palest sky gleams touched the water. The stranger included the entire party in his cordial invitation to stop at his place if they ever got so far up the river, mounted his horse and quickly disappeared up the trail. He expected to reach his home some time that night.

The next day was the last in camp. It was still gray, cold weather, and the tent among the pine-trees looked inviting, with a suggestion of a fire outside; but there were sketches to be finished and last walks to be taken and a big mess of trout to be caught to take home. Jack had a little enterprise of his own to complete,—the filling of a tin can Brown had given him with melted pine gum, which hardened into clear, solid resin. The can was nearly full, and Jack had various experiments in his mind which he intended to try with it on his return. Brown had told him it would make an excellent boot-grease mixed with tallow—and if he should want to make a pair of Norwegian snowshoes next winter, it would be just the thing to rub on the bottom of the wood to make it slip easily over the snow.

Brown was going back on the hills to try to get some grouse and the boy was allowed to go with him. They tramped off together, and the walk was one of the memorable ones in Jack’s experience; but Jack’s mother would not have been so contented in his absence, had she known they were coming home by way of Deer Gulch, one of the most likely places in the neighborhood of the camp for a meeting with a bear.