Northern Diamonds Part 6

At dusk they got supper, and ate it in a rather gloomy silence.

"We've nothing to go on," said Macgregor. "I can't believe that Horace is dead, though, and we must stay on the spot till we know something more definite."

"Of course we must," Maurice agreed.

"I shouldn't have asked it of you, boys," said Fred. "I'd made up my mind to stay, though, till I found out something certain--and it would have been mighty lonely."

"Nonsense! Do you think we'd have left you?" Maurice exclaimed.

"Aren't we all Horace's friends? The only thing I'm thinking of is the grub. We have barely enough for a week more."

"What of that?" said Peter. "We have rifles, haven't we? The woods ought to be full of deer--plenty of partridges and small game, anyway.

We must make a regular business of hunting till we get enough meat for a week, and we must economize, of course, on our bread and canned stuff. Then there are sure to be whitefish or trout in the nearest lake, and we can fish through the ice. Lucky the Indians left their hooks and lines. And we can trap, too."

"Boys," cried Fred, "you're both bricks. You're solid gold--" A choke in his voice stopped him.

"A pair of gold bricks!" laughed Maurice, with a suspicious huskiness in his own tones.

But the thing was settled.

It turned colder that night, and the next day dawned with bl.u.s.tering snow flurries. Their open camp was far from comfortable, and with some reluctance they moved into the cabin.

A good deal of fresh snow had drifted in, but they swept it out, brought in fresh balsam twigs for couches, and lighted a roaring fire.

The hut was decidedly homelike and cozy, and a vast improvement on the open camp. The smell of formaldehyde had gone entirely. The light from the skin-covered window was poor, but that seemed to be the only drawback, until, as the temperature rose, the roof showed a leak near the door. Snow water dripped in freely, in spite of their efforts to stop it, until Maurice finally clambered to the roof, cleared away the snow, tore up the thatch, and covered the defective spot with a large piece of old deer-hide.

In the afternoon it stopped snowing; Macgregor and Fred, with the two rifles, made a wide circuit round the cabin, but killed no game except half a dozen spruce grouse. Not a deer trail did they see; probably the animals were yarded for the winter.

Without being discouraged, however, Peter set out again the next morning, this time with Maurice. Fred, left alone, spent most of the day in cutting wood and storing it by the cabin door, and the hunters did not return until just after sunset. They were empty-handed, but in high spirits, and had a great tale to tell.

Five miles from camp, Maurice and Peter had come upon the fresh trail of a moose, and had followed it nearly all day. Toward the middle of the afternoon, however, they were obliged to give up the chase and turn back, for they were fully fifteen miles from home.

On the way to the cabin they chanced upon a well-beaten deer trail that they felt certain must lead to a "yard." It was too late to follow it that day, but they determined to have a great hunt on the morrow.

Killing yarded deer is not exactly sportsmanlike, and is unlawful besides; but law is understood to yield to the necessities of the frontier, and the boys needed the meat badly.

The next morning they were off early. It was clear and cold. A little wind blew the powdery snow like puffs of smoke from the trees, and the biting air was full of life. It was impossible to be anything but gay in that atmosphere; even Fred, oppressed with anxiety as he was, felt its effect.

The fresh snow was criss-crossed here and there with the tracks of small animals,--rabbits, foxes, and squirrels,--and now and again a spruce partridge rose with a roar. These birds were plentiful, and the boys might have made a full bag if they had ventured to shoot.

It was nearly noon before they reached the deer trail. They followed it back for some twenty minutes, and came down into a low bottom, grown up with small birch and poplar. Fred had only the vaguest idea what a deer yard was like; he half expected a dense huddle of deer in a small, beaten s.p.a.ce, and he was consequently much startled when he suddenly heard a sound of cras.h.i.+ng and running in the thickets.

Macgregor's rifle banged almost in his ear. Maurice fired at the same instant. Something large and grayish had shot up into view behind a thicket, and had departed with the speed of an arrow. Peter fired again at the flying target, and Fred caught a single glimpse of a buck, with antlered head carried high, vanis.h.i.+ng through a screen of birches.

"Hit!" shouted Macgregor, and he ran forward, clicking another cartridge into his rifle.

They had walked right into the "yard." All round them the snow was trampled into narrow trails where the herd had moved about, feeding on the shrubbery. With a little more caution they might have got three or four of the animals.

They found the buck a hundred yards away, dead in the snow. It was no small task to get him back to the cabin, for he was too fat and heavy to carry, even if they had cut him up. They had to haul the carca.s.s with a thong, like a toboggan, over the snow. The weather changed, and it was beginning to bl.u.s.ter again when they arrived, dead tired, to find the fire gone out and the cabin cold. But they rejoiced at being supplied with meat enough to last them for perhaps a month.

CHAPTER IV

That night they heard the timber wolves for the first time, howling mournfully a little way back in the woods. No doubt they had scented the fresh carca.s.s of the deer, and probably there would have been no venison in the morning if they had not had the wisdom to carry the carca.s.s into the cabin. Peter opened the door quietly and slipped out with a c.o.c.ked rifle, but the wolves were too wary for him. Not one was in sight, and the howling receded and grew fainter. But they heard it at intervals again during the night--a dismal and savage note, that made them feel like making the fire burn brighter.

"They must have followed the trail where we dragged the buck home,"

said Maurice. "Good thing they didn't happen to strike it before we got back."

"Oh, they'd hardly venture to attack three of us," replied Peter. "I almost wish they would. We could mow them down with our repeaters, and you know there's a Government bounty of ten dollars a head on dead timber wolves. We might make quite a pile, and besides the skins must be worth something."

"Might set some traps," Fred suggested.

"No use. The timber wolf is far too wise to get into any steel trap.

That's why so few of them are killed. But say, boys, why couldn't we manage to ambush 'em?"

"How?" Maurice demanded.

"Well, suppose I shot a couple of rabbits to-morrow night and went through the woods dragging them after me, so as to make a blood trail.

Any wolves that happened to cross it would certainly follow, and I'd lead them past a spot where you fellows would be ambushed, ready to pump lead into them."

"Sounds all right," said Fred, "but suppose they overtook you before you got to the ambush?"

"Oh, they wouldn't dare to attack me. They'd keep me in sight, stop if I stopped, and turn if I turned, waiting for a chance to take me at a disadvantage. A shot would scatter them, anyway. The only trouble would be that they'd scatter so quick when you opened fire that you wouldn't be able to bag more than one or two. And I don't suppose the same trick could be worked twice."

They discussed the matter all that evening and grew so enthusiastic over it that they determined to try it the next night. There was no hope now of diamonds, and the expedition had cost them nearly two hundred dollars. A few wolf bounties and pelts, together with the furs found in the cabin, would cover this and perhaps leave a little profit.

It was cold and cloudy the next day, and they waited impatiently for evening. The moon would not rise till nearly midnight, and it was necessary to wait in order to have light enough for the proposed ambush. They sallied out toward eleven o'clock, and shot three rabbits, which Peter attached to a deerskin thong. Selecting an open glade, Maurice and Fred established themselves in ambush under the thickets, while Peter started on a wide circle through the woods, trailing his bait, in the hope of attracting the wolves.

Fred and Maurice waited for more than two hours, nearly frozen, stamping and beating their arms, listening for the hunting cry of the wolf pack. At the end of that time Peter reappeared, tired and disgusted. The wolves had failed to do their part, and had not picked up the trail.

Still he was not discouraged, and insisted on trying it again the next evening. This time Fred and Maurice stayed in the cabin to keep warm, listening intently. At the first, distant howl they were to rush out and ensconce themselves in a prearranged spot, a quarter of a mile up the river, which Peter was to pa.s.s. They kept the two repeating rifles, while Mac carried the double-barreled gun, loaded with buckshot, which they had found in the cabin.

Half a mile from the shanty Peter shot a swamp hare that was nibbling a spruce trunk, and a little way farther he secured another. These carca.s.ses he tied together with a deerskin thong as before, and trailed them in the wake of his snowshoes. This time he intended to make a longer circuit than on the preceding night.

He dragged this bait across a hardwood ridge and down into a great cedar swamp on the other side. In hard weather all the wild life of the woods resorts to such places for shelter, and here the wolves would be hunting if there was a pack in the neighborhood. But he found few tracks and no sign at all of wolves.

After traveling slowly for two or three miles, Mac sat down on a log to rest, and as the warmth of exercise died out, the cold nipped him to the bone through the "four-point" blanket coat. He got up and moved on, intending to return in a long curve toward the cabin. He did not much care, after all, whether he started any wolves. It was too cold for hunting that night.

The dry snow swished round his ankles at the fall of the long racquets.

He still dragged the dead hares, which were now frozen almost as hard as wood, but not too hard to leave a scent.

He had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caught suddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp, sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tense air. He knew well what it was. The pack had struck a trail--possibly his own, possibly that of a deer. He would very soon learn which.

Thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head to listen. Again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack, far away, but still perceptibly nearer. He was just then in the midst of a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on to reach more open ground. As soon as he felt convinced that the pack was following him he intended to turn back toward the river.

He kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before he expected it. He was still more than a mile above the point where the ambush was to be set, and he paused on the sh.o.r.e and hearkened. Far away through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell, much nearer now--so much so that he felt that he might as well make for the ambush at once. He felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longed earnestly to see his companions.

He started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over his shoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he went down with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp.