Rolf in the Woods Part 21

"Ugh!" was the reply.

They gathered some dry brush and a lot of birch bark, piled them up against the wall inside, and threw plenty of firewood on this. With flint and steel Quonab made the vital spark, the birch bark sputtered, the dry, resinous logs were easily set ablaze, and soon great volumes of smoke rolled from the door, the window, and the chimney; and Skook.u.m, standing afar, barked pleasantly aloud.

The hunters shouldered their packs and began the long, upward slope. In an hour they had reached a high, rocky ridge. Here they stopped to rest, and, far below them, marked with grim joy a twisted, leaning column of thick black smoke.

That night they camped in the woods and next day rejoiced to be back again at their own cabin, their own lake, their home.

Several times during the march they had seen fresh deer tracks, and now that the need of meat was felt, Rolf proposed a deer hunt.

Many deer die every winter; some are winter-killed; many are devoured by beasts of prey, or killed by hunters; their numbers are at low ebb in April, so that now one could not count on finding a deer by roaming at random. It was a case for trailing.

Any one can track a deer in the snow. It is not very hard to follow a deer in soft ground, when there are no other deer about. But it is very hard to take one deer trail and follow it over rocky ground and dead leaves, never losing it or changing off, when there are hundreds of deer tracks running in all directions.

Rolf's eyes were better than Quonab's, but experience counts for as much as eyes, and Quonab was leading. They picked out a big buck track that was fresh--no good hunter kills a doe at this season. They knew it for a buck, because of its size and the roundness of the toes.

Before long, Rolf said: "See, Quonab, I want to learn this business; let me do the trailing, and you set me right if I get off the line."

Within a hundred yards, Quonab gave a grunt and shook his head. Rolf looked surprised, for he was on a good, fresh track.

Quonab said but one word, "Doe."

Yes, a closer view showed the tracks to be a little narrower, a little closer together, and a little sharper than those he began with.

Back went Rolf to the last marks that he was sure of, and plainly read where the buck had turned aside. For a time, things went along smoothly, Quonab and Skook.u.m following Rolf. The last was getting very familiar with that stub hoof on the left foot. At length they came to the "fumet"

or "sign"; it was all in one pile. That meant the deer had stood, so was unalarmed; and warm; that meant but a few minutes ahead. Now, they must use every precaution for this was the crux of the hunt. Of this much only they were sure--the deer was within range now, and to get him they must see him before he saw them.

Skook.u.m was leashed. Rolf was allowed to get well ahead, and crawling cautiously, a step at a time, he went, setting down his moccasined foot only after he had tried and selected a place. Once or twice he threw into the air a tuft of dry gra.s.s to make sure that the wind was right, and by slow degrees he reached the edge of a little opening.

Across this he peered long, without entering it. Then he made a sweep with his hand and pointed, to let Quonab know the buck had gone across and he himself must go around. But he lingered still and with his eyes swept the near woods. Then, dim gray among the gray twigs, he saw a slight movement, so slight it might have been made by the tail of a tomt.i.t. But it fixed his attention, and out of this gray haze he slowly made out the outline of a deer's head, antlers, and neck. A hundred yards away, but "take a chance when it comes" is hunter wisdom. Rolf glanced at the sight, took steady aim, fired, and down went the buck behind a log. Skook.u.m whined and leaped high in his eagerness to see.

Rolf restrained his impatience to rush forward, at once reloaded, then all three went quickly to the place. Before they were within fifty yards, the deer leaped up and bounded off. At seventy-five yards, it stood for a moment to gaze. Rolf fired again; again the buck fell down, but jumped to its feet and bounded away.

They went to the two places, but found no blood. Utterly puzzled, they gave it up for the day, as already the shades of night were on the woods, and in spite of Skook.u.m's voluble offer to solve and settle everything, they returned to the cabin.

"What do you make of it, Quonab?'

The Indian shook his head, then: "Maybe touched his head and stunned him, first shot; second, wah! I not know."

"I know this," said Rolf. "I touched him and I mean to get him in the morning."

True to this resolve, he was there again at dawn, but examined the place in vain for a sign of blood. The red rarely shows up much on leaves, gra.s.s, or dust; but there are two kinds of places that the hunter can rely on as telltales--stones and logs. Rolf followed the deer track, now very dim, till at a bare place he found a speck of blood on a pebble.

Here the trail joined onto a deer path, with so many tracks that it was hard to say which was the right one. But Rolf pa.s.sed quickly along to a log that crossed the runway, and on that log he found a drop of dried-up blood that told him what he wished to know.

Now he had a straight run of a quarter of a mile, and from time to time he saw a peculiar scratching mark that puzzled him. Once he found a speck of blood at one of these scratches but no other evidence that the buck was touched.

A wounded deer is pretty sure to work down hill, and Quonab, leaving Skook.u.m with Rolf, climbed a lookout that might show whither the deer was heading.

After another half mile, the deer path forked; there were buck trails on both, and Rolf could not pick out the one he wanted. He went a few yards along each, studying the many marks, but was unable to tell which was that of the wounded buck.

Now Skook.u.m took a share in it. He had always been forbidden to run deer and knew it was a contraband amus.e.m.e.nt, but he put his nose to that branch of the trail that ran down hill, followed it for a few yards, then looked at Rolf, as much as to say: "You poor nose-blind creature; don't you know a fresh deer track when you smell it? Here it is; this is where he went."

Rolf stared, then said, "I believe he means it"; and followed the lower trail. Very soon he came to another sc.r.a.pe, and, just beyond it, found the new, velvet-covered antler of a buck, raw and b.l.o.o.d.y, and splintered at the base.

From this on, the task was easier, as there were no other tracks, and this was pointing steadily down hill.

Soon Quonab came striding along. He had not seen the buck, but a couple of jays and a raven were gathered in a thicket far down by the stream.

The hunters quit the trail and made for that place. As they drew near, they found the track again, and again saw those curious sc.r.a.pes.

Every hunter knows that the bluejay das.h.i.+ng about a thicket means that hidden there is game of some kind, probably deer. Very, very slowly and silently they entered that copse. But nothing appeared until there was a rush in the thickest part and up leaped the buck. This was too much for Skook.u.m. He shot forward like a wolf, fastened on one hind leg, and the buck went cras.h.i.+ng head over heels. Before it could rise, another shot ended its troubles. And now a careful study shed the light desired.

Rolf's first shot had hit the antler near the base, breaking it, except for the skin on one side, and had stunned the buck. The second shot had broken a hind leg. The scratching places he had made were efforts to regain the use of this limb, and at one of them the deer had fallen and parted the rag of skin by which the antler hung.

It was Rolf's first important trailing on the ground; it showed how possible it was, and how quickly he was learning the hardest of all the feats of woodcraft.

Chapter 49. Rolf Gets Lost

Every one who lives in the big woods gets lost at some time. Yes, even Daniel Boone did sometimes go astray. And whether it is to end as a joke or a horrible tragedy depends entirely on the way in which the person takes it. This is, indeed, the grand test of a hunter and scout, the trial of his knowledge, his muscle, and, above everything, his courage; and, like all supreme trials, it comes without warning.

The wonderful flocks of wild pigeons had arrived. For a few days in May they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in long-reaching hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the rearmost flying on ahead, ever to the front. The food they sought so eagerly now was chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny nuts showered down on wings like broad-brimmed hats. And when the flock arose at some alarm, the sound was like that of the sea beach in a storm.

There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of the lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms. So Rolf took his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and confidently set about gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.

It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of your weapon and keep the exact safe distance. It is marvellous how many times you may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and never kill one. Rolf went on and on, always in sight of the long, straggling flocks on the ground or in the air, but rarely within range of them. Again and again he fired a random shot into the distant ma.s.s, without success for two hours.

Finally a pigeon was touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward, and flew ten yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it fluttered out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim, and killed it with an arrow.

Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead attracted him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he found out, as he should have known, that it was caused by a mischievous bluejay.

At length he came to a spring in a low hollow, and leaving his bow and arrows on a dry log, he went down to get a drink.

As he arose, he found himself face to face with a doe and a fat, little yearling buck, only twenty yards away. They stared at him, quite unalarmed, and, determining to add the yearling to his bag, Rolf went back quietly to his bow and arrows.

The deer were just out of range now, but inclined to take a curious interest in the hunter. Once when he stood still for a long time, they walked forward two or three steps; but whenever he advanced, they trotted farther away.

To kill a deer with an arrow is quite a feat of woodcraft, and Rolf was keen to show his prowess; so he kept on with varying devices, and was continually within sight of the success that did not actually arrive.

Then the deer grew wilder and loped away, as he entered another valley that was alive with pigeons.

He was feeling hungry now, so he plucked the pigeon he had secured, made a fire with the flint and steel he always carried, then roasted the bird carefully on a stick, and having eaten it, felt ready for more travel.

The day was cloudy, so he could not see the sun; but he knew it was late, and he made for camp.

The country he found himself in was entirely strange to him, and the sun's whereabouts doubtful; but he knew the general line of travel and strode along rapidly toward the place where he had left the canoe.

After two hours' tramping, he was surprised at not seeing the lake through the trees, and he added to his pace.

Three hours pa.s.sed and still no sign of the water.

He began to think he had struck too far to the north; so corrected his course and strode along with occasional spells of trotting. But another hour wore away and no lake appeared.