wo generations have passed away from Tobique since the first settlers came, yet so little has man encroached upon the wild domain that the gaunt moose often stops and lingers with the friendly cattle, the shaggy bear as the spring comes round levies tribute on the defenceless flocks, while the balsam smells as sweet, and the crinkle of the crisp snow beneath the moccasined foot is still as pleasant music as of old. The woods seem changed but little; boys have turned men, the men have turned gray, and just a little more moss lies on the fallen tree-trunks. Yet the same change has passed over Tobique as has passed over all the backwoods of Maine and Canada. The dreaded panther, or "Indian devil," as it is known, seldom troubles one now, or startles the forest with its awful cry—so human, so bloodcurdling, that its very mention sends a thrill through one's body.
The dangers of the woods are exaggerated. No living thing is match for a man, and every creature among predatory beasts shuns the society of man. There are exceptions, as there are seasons when our black bear should not be provoked. So in the experience of every woodsman there have been times when the rule has been broken, and it is the man that has been hunted.
Raish Turner, now a man of some fifty years of age, still lives at the Red Rapids, on Tobique. I have stopped at his hospitable dwelling—back a ways from the river, on the slope of the hill, near the timber. There was still the old, low cow-shed alongside the barn, and I have been with him along the old wood road directly back of his place that was the scene of an exciting adventure of his.
Raish, still called "Raish," as when he was a boy of sixteen and hauled wood with oxen, has not forgotten the story, nor yet the long white scar above his temple that he will carry to his grave.
The story is known to every one on Tobique, but it needs to be heard from Raish himself, the sturdy, kindly old back-woodsman, with homespuns in boot-tops, knife sheathed at his belt, and generally an axe over his shoulder.
In the fall of one year, thirty-four years ago, about first fall, two hunters came out of the woods from Pokiok stream, which lay some five miles back of Red Rapids. They came with rather more speed than is customary with those who travel solely for pleasure. Their story, of which they sought to conceal nothing, and which was listened to the more gravely because of their reputation as brave men, was that in the night something had come around the camp, which was an open shelter with a fire in front. The growling of their dog awakened them.
They listened, peering into the darkness, and as they listened they heard a cry. It was not an owl, nor any wild-cat. It seemed at first afar off, not loud, like a child in awful distress, and it affected them strangely. Their dog began to tremble, and show fear that he had never shown before, even before a bear. The hunters jumped to their feet, kindled the fire, which threw a ruddy glare all around.
The thing, which they knew perfectly well, came nearer, uttering now and then that awful cry. They sat with their guns on their knees, speaking in whispers; but it did not attack them, and when daylight came it withdrew. When the sun rose they broke camp and made for the settlement.
Small wonder, then, that there was a stir in the settlement, for the men were known to be bold, fearless hunters, and, moreover, this was the first panther that had come near enough to bother them, for whatever the men in the timber-camps might have to tell, such things did not greatly trouble the settlers along the river.