Green Timber Thoroughbreds

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

“What’s the matter with him?”

Jard tapped his brow significantly with a finger-tip.

“Lost an’ found ag’in,” he said. “But he was half-witted when they found him, an’ he’s been that way ever since—an’ that was nigh onto twenty years ago.”

“What happened to him?”

“He tells a queer story—but you can’t pin it on any Dangler, even if you believe it. Pete an’ one of the Dangler men fell out about a girl. Pete wiped up Gus Johnson’s chipyard with that Dangler. There was good trappin’ country way up Squaw Brook in them days, an’ Pete used to work it. He had a little shack up there, an’ that’s where he’d spend most of the winter, tendin’ his traps. It was along in the fall of the year he knocked Dangler down an’ drug him around; an’ it was along in the first week of January he woke up in his bunk on Squaw Brook one night jist in the nick of time to bust his way out an’ take a roll in the snow. He had most of his clothes on, for he’d been sleepin’ in them; an’ he had his top blanket, an’ his mackinaw with mitts in the pockets, which he had grabbed up an’ brought out with him.

“The roof fell in before he could figure on how to save anything else but his snowshoes, which stood jist inside the door. His rifle an’ pelts an’ grub were all burned—all except a ham, which was roasted to a turn when he raked it out with a long pole. His axe was in the choppin’-block. He cut the blanket an’ tied up his feet in strips of it, wonderin’ all the time how the shack come to catch fire. So he took a look around, by the light of a half-moon, an’ he found tracks leadin’ right up to the smokin’ mess that had been his shack an’ right away ag’in. But they were bear tracks. So he cal’lated it must of been the stovepipe, for how could a bear set a fire? Where would he get the matches? But he took another think; an’ then he put on his snowshoes an’ shouldered the ham an’ the axe an’ lit out after the bear. It was a big bear, to judge by its paws; an’ he was mad enough to kill it with the axe. He reckoned that would serve it right for not bein’ asleep in a hole like a decent bear should of been, even if it hadn’t set fire to his camp.

“For the best part of a mile he followed along jist as fast as he could lift his webs an’ spat ’em down ag’in, until he had to stop an’ tie up one of his blanket socks; an’ that give him a close-up view of the tracks which he hadn’t taken since his first examination of them, an’ he seen that the old varmint wasn’t usin’ his forepaws now but was travelin’ on his hind legs only. Well, sir, that made him madder yet an’ kinder pleased with the way things were shapin’, too; so he tore off enough of the roasted ham to fill his pockets an’ throwed away the rest of it an’ lit out on the tracks of that queer bear ag’in like he was runnin’ a race with the champeen snowshoer of Montreal.

“Dawn came up red, an’ still the bear wasn’t in sight. Pete kept right on, but not quite so fast, chawin’ ham as he traveled. He cal-lated he was makin’ better time than any bear could run on its hind legs, an’ would overhaul it in another hour at the outside. Pretty soon he picked up a burnt match. Then he knew he wouldn’t have much trouble skinnin’ that bear when once he’d caught it. But he wished harder’n ever he had his rifle—for a bear that carries matches is jist as like as not to tote a gun, too. The ham an’ the runnin’ give him a plagued thrist, an’ he went an’ et some snow instead of waitin’ till he come to a brook an’ choppin’ a waterhole. He et some more snow, an’ that kinder took the heart out of him.

“He was jist on the p’int of quittin’ an’ turnin’ off to shape a bee-line for the nearest clearance, when his nose caught a whiff of cold tobacco smoke on the air. That told him Mister Bear wasn’t far ahead, an’ he broke into runnin’ ag’in jist as tight as he could flop his webs. But he didn’t get far that time. What with thirst an’ bellyache an’ the bum riggin’ he had on his feet instead of moccasins, he tripped an’ took a hell of a tumble. An’ when he got himself right-end-up an’ sorted out he found a pain in his right ankle like a knife an’ one of his snowshoes busted an’ the sun all grayed over. He was in a nasty fix. He tried travelin’ on one foot, but that soon bested him. His ankle was real bad. Atop all that, he was in a bit of country he didn’t recognize an’ couldn’t get a glimpse of the sun.

“He got together some dry stuff for a fire—an’ then he remembered how careful he’d been to take his matchbox out of his pocket an’ put it on the table the night before—so’s he’d be sure to fill it chock-a-block in the mornin’. But he found one loose match. He fumbled that the first try, an’ at the second try the head come off it. Can you beat it? Well, sir, he kinder lost his grip then an’ spent quite a while feelin’ through his pockets over an’ over ag’in for another match. Then he tried hoppin’ ag’in. Then he tried crawlin’—but the snow was too deep for that game. He let some more snow melt in his mouth, but his throat was so sore already it was all he could do to swaller it. All of a sudden he heard a kinder devilish laugh, an’ that started him rarin’ round ag’in on one foot, though he didn’t see nothin’, till he fell down.