Rolf In The Woods

Part 4 out of 6

long, rambling talk on "fellers and things," that was one of the
most interesting Rolf had ever listened to. At the time it was
simply amusing; it was not till years after that the lad realized
by its effect on himself, its insight, and its hold on his
memory, that Si Sylvanne's talk was real wisdom. Parts of it
would not look well in print; but the rugged words, the uncouth
Saxonism, the obscene phrase, were the mere oaken bucket in which
the pure and precious waters were hauled to the surface.

"Looked like he had ye pinched when that shyster got ye in to
Lyons Falls. Wall, there's two bad places for Jack Hoag; one is
where they don't know him at all, an' take him on his looks; an'
t'other is where they know him through and through for twenty
years, like we hev. A smart rogue kin put up a false front fer a
year or maybe two, but given twenty year to try him, for and bye,
summer an' winter, an' I reckon a man's make is pretty well
showed up, without no dark corners left unexplored.

"Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don't know what kind
o' maggots is eatin' his innards to make him so ornery. I'm
bound to suppose he has 'em, or he wouldn't act so dum like it.
So I says, go slow and gentle before puttin' a black brand on any
feller; as my mother used to say, never say a bad thing till ye
ask, 'Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?' An' I tell you,
the older I git, the slower I jedge; when I wuz your age, I wuz a
steel trap on a hair trigger, an' cocksure. I tell you, there
ain't anythin' wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, 'cept maybe a
fifteen-year-old girl.

"Ye'll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black
as they kin look, that's the sign of luck a-comin' your way,
pervidin' ye hold steady, keep cool and kind; something happens
every time to make it all easy. There's always a way, an' the
stout heart will find it.

"Ye may be very sure o' this, boy, yer never licked till ye think
ye air an' if ye won't think it, ye can't be licked.

It's just the same as being sick. I seen a lot o' doctorin' in
my day, and I'm forced to believe there ain't any sick folks
'cept them that thinks they air sick.

"The older I git, the more I'm bound to consider that most things
is inside, anyhow, and what's outside don't count for much.

"So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what's inside,
ye win over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to
Hoag, ye mightn't a meant it, but ye was bracin' up the goodness
in yerself, or bankin' it up somewher' on the trail ahead, where
it was needed. And he was simply chawin' his own leg off, when
he done ye dirt. I ain't much o' a prattlin' Christian, but I
reckon as a cold-blooded, business proposition it pays to lend
the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on gratitude. It's
scarcer'n snowballs in hell -- which ain't the point; but I take
notice there ain't any man'll hate ye more'n the feller that
knows he's acted mean to ye. An' there ain't any feller more
ready to fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum
accident has hed the luck to help ye, even if he only done it to
spite some one else -- which 'minds me o' McCarthy's bull pup
that saved the drowning kittens by mistake, and ever after was a
fightin' cat protector, whereby he lost the chief joy o' his
life, which had been cat-killin'. An' the way they cured the cat
o' eatin' squirrels was givin' her a litter o' squirrels to raise.

"I tell ye there's a lot o' common-sense an' kindness in the
country, only it's so dum slow to git around; while the
cussedness and meanness always acts like they felt the hell fire
sizzlin' their hind-end whiskers, an' knowed they had jest so
many minutes to live an' make a record. There's where a man's
smart that fixes things so he kin hold out a long time, fer the
good stuff in men's minds is what lasts; and the feller what can
stay with it hez proved hisself by stayin'. How'd ye happen to
tie up with the Injun, Rolf?"

"Do ye want me to tell it long or short?" was the reply. "Wall,
short, fer a start," and Silas Sylvanne chuckled.

So Rolf gave a very brief account of his early life.

"Pretty good," said the miller; "now let's hear it long."

And when he had finished, the miller said: "I've seen yer tried
fer most everything that goes to make a man, Rolf, an' I hev my
own notion of the results. You ain't goin' to live ferever in
them hills. When ye've hed yer fling an' want a change, let me know."

Early next day the two hunters paddled up the Moose River with a
good canoe, an outfit of groceries, and a small supply of ready cash.

"Good-bye, lad, good-bye! Come back again and ye'll find we
improve on acquaintance; an' don't forget I'm buying fur," was Si
Sylvanne's last word. And as they rounded the point, on the home
way, Rolf turned in the canoe, faced Quonab, and said: "Ye see
there are some good white men left;" but the Indian neither
blinked, nor moved, nor made a sound.

Chapter 48. Rolf's Lesson in Trailing

The return journey was hard paddling against strong waters, but
otherwise uneventful. Once over any trail is enough to fix it in
the memory of a woodman. They made no mistakes and their loads
were light, so the portages were scarcely any loss of time, and
in two days they were back at Hoag's cabin.

Of this they took possession. First, they gathered all things of
value, and that was little since the furs and bedding were gone,
but there were a few traps and some dishes. The stuff was made
in two packs; now it was an overland journey, so the canoe was
hidden in a cedar thicket, a quarter of a mile inland. The two
were about to shoulder the packs, Quonab was lighting his pipe
for a start, when Rolf said:

"Say, Quonab! that fellow we saw at the Falls claimed to be
Hoag's partner. He may come on here and make trouble if we don't
head him off. Let's burn her," and he nodded toward the shanty.

"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 Skookum, 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 Skookum 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.

Skookum 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 grass 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 tomtit. 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. Skookum 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 Skookum'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, grass, 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 passed 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 Skookum 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 Skookum took a share in it. He had always been forbidden to
run deer and knew it was a contraband amusement, 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 scrape, and, just
beyond it, found the new, velvet-covered antler of a buck, raw
and bloody, 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 scrapes.

Every hunter knows that the bluejay dashing 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 Skookum. He shot forward
like a wolf, fastened on one hind leg, and the buck went crashing
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 mass, 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 passed 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 arid no lake appeared.

Then Rolf knew he was off his bearings. He climbed a tree and got
a partial view of the country. To the right was a small hill. He
made for that. The course led him through a hollow. In this he
recognized two huge basswood trees, that gave him a reassuring
sense. A little farther he came on a spring, strangely like the
one he had left some hours ago. As he stooped to drink, he saw
deer tracks, then a human track. He studied it. Assuredly it was
his own track, though now it seemed on the south side instead of
the north. He stared at the dead gray sky, hoping for sign of
sun, but it gave no hint. He tramped off hastily toward the hill
that promised a lookout. He went faster and faster. In half an
hour the woods opened a little, then dipped. He hastened down,
and at the bottom found himself standing by the same old spring,
though again it had changed its north bearing.

He was stunned by this succession of blows. He knew now he was
lost in the woods; had been tramping in a circle.

The spring whirled around him; it seemed now north and now south.
His first impulse was to rush madly northwesterly, as he
understood it. He looked at all the trees for guidance. Most moss
should be on the north side. It would be so, if all trees were
perfectly straight and evenly exposed, but alas! none are so. All
lean one way or another, and by the moss he could prove any given
side to be north. He looked for the hemlock top twigs. Tradition
says they always point easterly; but now they differed among
themselves as to which was east.

Rolf got more and more worried. He was a brave boy, but grim fear
came into his mind as he realized that he was too far from camp
to be heard; the ground was too leafy for trailing him; without
help he could not get away from that awful spring. His head began
to swim, when all at once he remembered a bit of advice his guide
had given him long ago: "Don't get scared when you're lost.
Hunger don't kill the lost man, and it ain't cold that does it;
it's being afraid. Don't be afraid, and everything will come out
all right."

So, instead of running, Rolf sat down to think it over.

"Now," said he, "I went due southeast all day from the canoe."
Then he stopped; like a shock it came to him that he had not seen
the sun all day. Had he really gone southeast? It was a
devastating thought, enough to unhinge some men; but again Rolf
said to himself "Never mind, now; don't get scared, and it'll be
all right. In the morning the sky will be clear."

As he sat pondering, a red squirrel chippered and scolded from a
near tree; closer and closer the impudent creature came to
sputter at the intruder.

Rolf drew his bow, and when the blunt arrow dropped to the
ground, there also dropped the red squirrel, turned into
acceptable meat. Rolf put this small game into his pocket,
realizing that this was his supper.

It would soon be dark now, so he prepared to spend the night.

While yet he could see, he gathered a pile of dry wood into a
sheltered hollow. Then he made a wind-break and a bed of balsam
boughs. Flint, steel, tinder, and birch bark soon created a
cheerful fire, and there is no better comforter that the lone
lost man can command.

The squirrel roasted in its hide proved a passable supper, and
Rolf curled up to sleep. The night would have been pleasant and
uneventful, but that it turned chilly, and when the fire burnt
low, the cold awakened him, so he had a succession of naps and
fire-buildings.

Soon after dawn, he heard a tremendous roaring, and in a few
minutes the wood was filled again with pigeons.

Rolf was living on the country now, so he sallied forth with his
bow. Luck was with him; at the first shot he downed a big, fat
cock. At the second he winged another, and as it scrambled
through the brush, he rushed headlong in pursuit. It fluttered
away beyond reach, halfflying, half-running, and Rolf, in
reckless pursuit, went sliding and tumbling down a bank to land
at the bottom with a horrid jar. One leg was twisted under him;
he thought it was broken, for there was a fearful pain in the
lower part. But when he pulled himself together he found no
broken bones, indeed, but an ankle badly sprained. Now his
situation was truly grave, for he was crippled and incapable of
travelling.

He had secured the second bird, and crawling painfully and slowly
back to the fire, he could not but feel more and more despondent
and gloomy as the measure of his misfortune was realized.

"There is only one thing that can shame a man, that is to be
afraid." And again, "There's always a way out." These were the
sayings that came ringing through his head to his heart; one was
from Quonab, the other from old Sylvanne. Yes, there's always a
way, and the stout heart can always find it.

Rolf prepared and cooked the two birds, made a breakfast of one
and put the other in his pocket for lunch, not realizing at the
time that his lunch would be eaten on this same spot. More than
once, as he sat, small flocks of ducks flew over the trees due
northward. At length the sky, now clear, was ablaze with the
rising sun, and when it came, it was in Rolf's western sky.

Now he comprehended the duck flight. They were really heading
southeast for their feeding grounds on the Indian Lake, and Rolf,
had he been able to tramp, could have followed, but his foot was
growing worse. It was badly swollen, and not likely to be of
service for many a day - perhaps weeks -- and it took all of his
fortitude not to lie down and weep over this last misfortune.

Again came the figure of that grim, kindly, strong old pioneer,
with the gray-blue eyes and his voice was saying: "Jest when
things looks about as black as they can look, if ye hold steady,
keep cool and kind, something sure happens to make it all easy.
There's always a way and the stout heart will find it."

What way was there for him? He would die of hunger and cold
before Quonab could find him, and again came the spectre of fear.
If only he could devise some way of letting his comrade know. He
shouted once or twice, in the faint hope that the still air might
carry the sound, but the silent wood was silent when he ceased.

Then one of his talks with Quonab came to mind. He remembered how
the Indian, as a little papoose, had been lost for three days.
Though, then but ten years old, he had built a smoke fire that
brought him help. Yes, that was the Indian way; two smokes means
"I am lost"; "double for trouble."

Fired by this new hope, Rolf crawled a little apart from his camp
and built a bright fire, then smothered it with rotten wood and
green leaves. The column of smoke it sent up was densely white
and towered above the trees.

Then painfully he hobbled and crawled to a place one hundred
yards away, and made another smoke. Now all he could do was wait.

A fat pigeon, strayed from its dock, sat on a bough above his
camp, in a way to tempt Providence. Rolf drew a blunt arrow to
the head and speedily had the pigeon in hand for some future meal.

As he prepared it, he noticed that its crop was crammed with the
winged seed of the slippery elm, so he put them all back again
into the body when it was cleaned, knowing well that they are a
delicious food and in this case would furnish a welcome variant
to the bird itself.

An hour crawled by. Rolf had to go out to the far fire, for it
was nearly dead. Instinctively he sought a stout stick to help
him; then remembered how Hoag had managed with one leg and two
crutches. "Ho!" he exclaimed. "That is the answer -- this is the
'way."'

Now his attention was fixed on all the possible crutches. The
trees seemed full of them, but all at impossible heights. It was
long before he found one that he could cut with his knife.
Certainly he was an hour working at it; then he heard a sound
that made his blood jump.

From far away in the north it came, faint but reaching;

"Ye-hoo-o."

Rolf dropped his knife and listened with the instinctively open
mouth that takes all pressure from the eardrums and makes them
keen. It came again: " Ye-hoo-o." No mistake now, and Rolf sent
the ringing answer back:

"Ye-hoo-o, ye-hoo-o."

In ten minutes there was a sharp " yap, yap," and Skookum bounded
out of the woods to leap and bark around Rolf, as though he knew
all about it; while a few minutes later, came Quonab striding.

"Ho, boy," he said, with a quiet smile, and took Rolf's hand.
"Ugh! That was good," and he nodded to the smoke fire. "I knew
you were in trouble."

"Yes," and Rolf pointed to the swollen ankle.

The Indian picked up the lad in his arms and carried him back to
the little camp. Then, from his light pack, he took bread and tea
and made a meal for both. And, as they ate, each heard the
other's tale.

"I was troubled when you did not come back last night, for you
had no food or blanket. I did not sleep. At dawn I went to the
hill, where I pray, and looked away southeast where you went in
the canoe. I saw nothing. Then I went to a higher hill, where I
could see the northeast, and even while I watched, I saw the two
smokes, so I knew my son was alive."

"You mean to tell me I am northeast of camp? "

"About four miles. I did not come very quickly, because I had to
go for the canoe and travel here.

"How do you mean by canoe?" said Rolf, in surprise.

You are only half a mile from Jesup River," was the reply. "I
soon bring you home."

It was incredible at first, but easy of proof. With the hatchet
they made a couple of serviceable crutches and set out together.

In twenty minutes they were afloat in the canoe; in an hour they
were safely home again.

And Rolf pondered it not a little. At the very moment of blackest
despair, the way had opened, and it had been so simple, so natural,
so effectual. Surely, as long as he lived, he would remember it�
"There is always a way, and the stout heart will find it."

Chapter 50. Marketing the Fur

If Rolf had been at home with his mother, she would have rubbed
his black and swollen ankle with goose grease. The medical man at
Stamford would have rubbed it with a carefully prepared and
secret ointment. His Indian friend sang a little crooning song
and rubbed it with deer's fat. All different, and all good,
because each did something to reassure the patient, to prove that
big things were doing on his behalf, and each helped the process
of nature by frequent massage.

Three times a day, Quonab rubbed that blackened ankle. The grease
saved the skin from injury, and in a week Rolf had thrown his
crutches away.

The month of May was nearly gone; June was at hand; that is, the
spring was over. !

In all ages, man has had the impulse, if not the habit, of spring
migration. Yielding to it he either migrated or made some radical
change in his life. Most of the Adirondack men who trapped in the
winter sought work on the log drives in spring; some who had
families and a permanent home set about planting potatoes and
plying the fish nets. Rolf and Quonab having neither way open,
yet feeling the impulse, decided to go out to Warren's with the fur.

Quonab wanted tobacco -- and a change.

Rolf wanted a rifle, and to see the Van Trumpers -- and a change.

So June Ist saw them all aboard, with Quonab steering at the
stern, and Skookum bow-wowing at the bow, bound for the great
centre of Warren's settlement -- one store and three houses, very
wide apart.

There was a noble flush of water in the streams, and, thanks to
their axe work in September, they passed down Jesup's River
without a pause, and camped on the Hudson that night, fully
twenty-five miles from home.

Long, stringing flocks of pigeons going north were the most
numerous forms of life. But a porcupine on the bank and a bear in
the water aroused Skookum to a pitch of frightful enthusiasm and
vaulting ambition that he was forced to restrain.

On the evening of the third day they landed at Warren's and found
a hearty welcome from the trader, who left a group of loafers and
came forward:

"Good day to ye, boy. My, how ye have growed."

So he had. Neither Rolf nor Quonab had remarked it, but now they
were much of the same height. "Wall, an' how'd ye make out with
yer hunt? -- Ah, that's fine!" as each of them dropped a fur pack
on the counter. "Wall, this is fine; we must have a drink on the
head of it," and the trader was somewhat nonplussed when both the
trappers refused. He was disappointed, too, for that refusal
meant that they would get much better prices for their fun But he
concealed his chagrin and rattled on: "I reckon I'll sell you the
finest rifle in the country this time, "and he knew by Rolf's
face that there was business to do in that line.

Now came the listing of the fur, and naturally the bargaining was
between the shrewd Yankee boy and the trader. The Indian stood
shyly aside, but he did not fail to help with significant grunts
and glances.

"There, now," said Warren, as the row of martens were laid out
side by side, " thirty martens -- a leetle pale -- worth three
dollars and fifty cents each, or, to be generous, we'll say four
dollars." Rolf glanced at Quonab, who, unseen by the trader shook
his head, held his right hand out, open hollow up, then raised it
with a jerk for two inches.

Quickly Rolf caught the idea and said; "No, I don't reckon them
pale. I call them prime dark, every one of them." Quonab spread
his hand with all five fingers pointed up, and Rolf continued,
"They are worth five dollars each, if they're worth a copper."

"Phew!" said the trader. "you forget fur is an awful risky thing;
what with mildew, moth, mice, and markets, we have a lot of risk.
But I want to please you, so let her go; five each. There's a
fine black fox; that's worth forty dollars."

"I should think it is," said Rolf, as Quonab, by throwing to his
right an imaginary pinch of sand, made the sign "refuse."

They had talked over the value of that fox skin and Rolf said,
"Why, I know of a black fox that sold for two hundred dollars."

"Where?"

"Oh, down at Stamford."

"Why, that's near New York."

"Of course; don't you send your fur to New York?"

"Yes, but it costs a lot to get it there.

"Now," said Warren, "if you'll take it in trade, I'll meet you
half-way and call it one hundred dollars."

"Make it one hundred and twenty-five dollars and I'll take a
rifle, anyway."

"Phew!" whistled the trader. "Where do ye get such notions? "

"Nothing wrong about the notion; old Si Sylvanne offered me
pretty near that, if I'd come out his way with the stuff."

This had the desired effect of showing that there were other
traders. At last the deal was closed. Besides the fox skin, they
had three hundred dollars' worth of fur. The exchange for the fox
skin was enough to buy all the groceries and dry goods they
needed. But Rolf had something else in mind.

He had picked out some packages of candies, some calico prints
and certain bright ribbons, when the trader grasped the idea. "I
see; yer goin' visitin'. Who is it? Must be the Van Trumpers! "

Rolf nodded and now he got some very intelligent guidance. He did
not buy Annette's dress, because part of her joy was to be the
expedition in person to pick it out; but he stocked up with some
gorgeous pieces of jewellery that were ten cents each, and
ribbons whose colours were as far beyond expression as were the
joys they could create in the backwoods female heart.

Proudly clutching his new rlile, and carrying in his wallet a
memorandum of three hundred dollars for their joint credit, Rolf
felt himself a person of no little impor- tance. As he was
stepping out of the store, the trader said, "Ye didn't run across
Jack Hoag agin, did ye?"

"Did we? Hmph!" and Rolf told briefly of their experience with
that creature.

"Just like him, just like him; served him right; he was a dirty
cuss. But, say; don't you be led into taking your fur out Lyons
Falls way. They're a mean lot in there, and it stands to reason I
can give you better prices, being a hundred miles nearer New
York."

And that lesson was not forgotten. The nearer New York the better
the price; seventy-five dollars at Lyons Falls; one hundred and
twenty-five dollars at Warren's; two hundred dollars at New York.
Rolf pondered long and the idea was one which grew and bore
fruit.

Chapter 51. Back at Van Trumper's

Nibowaka" -- Quonab always said "Nibowaka" when he was impressed
with Rolf's astuteness -- "What about the canoe and stuff?"

"I think we better leave all here. Callan will lend us a canoe."
So they shouldered the guns, Rolf clung to his, and tramped
across the portage, reaching Callan's in less than two hours.

"Why, certainly you can have the canoe, but come in and eat
first," was the kindly backwoods greeting. However, Rolf was keen
to push on; they launched the canoe at once and speedily were
flashing their paddles on the lake.

The place looked sweetly familiar as they drew near. The crops in
the fields were fair; the crop of chickens at the barn was good;
and the crop of children about the door was excellent.

"Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! " shouted fat old Hendrik, as they
walked up to the stable door. In a minute he was wringing their
hands and smiling into great red, white, and blue smiles. "Coom
in, coom in, lad. Hi, Marta, here be Rolf and Quonab. Mein Hemel!
mein Hemel! what am I now so happy."

"Where's Annette?" asked Rolf.

"Ach, poor Annette, she fever have a little; not mooch, some,"
and he led over to a corner where on a low cot lay Annette, thin,
pale, and listless.

She smiled faintly, in response, when Rolf stooped and kissed her.

"Why, Annette, I came back to see you. I want to take you over to
Warren's store, so you can pick out that dress. See, I brought
you my first marten and I made this box for you; you must thank
Skookum for the quills on it."

"Poor chile; she bin sick all spring," and Marta used a bunch of
sedge to drive away the flies and mosquitoes that, bass and
treble, hovered around the child.

"What ails her?" asked Rolf anxiously.

"Dot ve do not know," was the reply.

"Maybe there's some one here can tell," and Roll glanced at the Indian.

"Ach, sure! Have I you that not always told all-vays -- eet is so.
All-vays, I want sumpin bad mooch. I prays de good Lord and all-vays,
all-vays, two times now, He it send by next boat. Ach, how I am spoil,"
and the good Dutchman's eyes filled with tears of thankfulness.

Quonab knelt by the sufferer. He felt her hot, dry hand; he
noticed her short, quick breathing, her bright eyes, and the
untouched bowl of mush by her bed.

"Swamp fever," he said. "I bring good medicine." He passed
quietly out into the woods. When he returned, he carried a bundle
of snake-root which he made into tea.

Annette did not wish to touch it, but her mother persuaded her to
take a few sips from a cup held by Rolf.

"Wah! this not good," and Quonab glanced about the close,
fly-infested room. "I must make lodge." He turned up the cover of
the bedding; three or four large, fiat brown things moved slowly
out of the light. "Yes, I make lodge."

It was night now, and all retired; the newcomers to the barn.
They had scarcely entered, when a screaming of poultry gave a
familiar turn to affairs. On running to the spot, it proved not a
mink or coon, but Skookum, up to his old tricks. On the appearance
of his masters, he fled with guilty haste, crouched beneath the post
that he used to be, and soon again was, chained to.

In the morning Quonab set about his lodge, and Rolf said: "I've
got to go to Warren's for sugar." The sugar was part truth and
part blind. As soon as he heard the name swamp fever, Rolf
remembered that, in Redding, Jesuit's bark (known later as
quinine) was the sovereign remedy. He had seen his mother
administer it many times, and, so far as he knew, with uniform
success. Every frontier (or backwoods, it's the same) trader
carries a stock of medicine, and in two hours Rolf left Warren's
counter with twenty-five pounds of maple sugar and a bottle of
quinine extract in his pack.

"You say she's bothered with the flies; why don't you take some
of this new stuff for a curtain? " and the trader held up a web
of mosquito gauze, the first Rolf had seen. That surely was a
good idea, and ten yards snipped off was a most interesting
addition to his pack. The amount was charged against him, and in
two hours more he was back at Van Trumper's.

On the cool side of the house, Quonab had built a little lodge,
using a sheet for cover. On a low bed of pine boughs lay the
child. Near the door was a smouldering fire of cedar, whose
aromatic fumes on the lazy wind reached every cranny of the lodge.

Sitting by the bed head, with a chicken wing to keep off the few
mosquitoes, was the Indian. The child's eyes were closed; she was
sleeping peacefully. Rolf crept gently forward, laid his hand on
hers, it was cool and moist. He went into the house with his
purchases; the mother greeted him with a happy look: Yes, Annette
was a little better; she had slept quietly ever since she was
taken outdoors. The mother could not understand. Why should the
Indian want to have her surrounded by pine boughs? why
cedar-smoke? and why that queer song? Yes, there it was again.
Rolf went out to see and hear. Softly summing on a tin pan, with
a mudded stick, the Indian sang a song. The words which Rolf
learned in the after- time were:

"Come, Kaluskap, drive the witches; Those who came to harm the
dear one."

Annette moved not, but softly breathed, as she slept a sweet,
restful slumber, the first for many days.

"Vouldn't she be better in de house?" whispered the anxious mother.

"No, let Quonab do his own way," and Rolf wondered if any white
man had sat by little Wee-wees to brush away the flies from his
last bed.

Chapter 52. Annette's New Dress

Deep feelin's ain't any count by themselves; work 'em off, an'
ye're somebody; weep 'em off an' you'd be more use with a heart
o' stone -- Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

Quonab, I am going out to get her a partridge." "Ugh, good."

So Rolf went off. For a moment he was inclined to grant Skookom's
prayer for leave to, follow, but another and better plan came in
mind. Skookum would most likely find a mother partridge, which
none should kill in June, and there was a simple way to find a
cock; that was, listen. It was now the evening calm, and before
Rolf had gone half a mile he heard the distant "Thump, thump,
thump, thump -- rrrrrrr" of a partridge, drumming. He went
quickly and cautiously toward the place, then waited for the next
drumming. It was slow in coming, so he knelt down by a mossy,
rotten log, and struck it with his hands to imitate the thump and
roll of the partridge. At once this challenge procured response.

"Thump -- thump -- thump,, thump rrrrrrrrrrrr" it came, with
martial swing and fervour, and crawling nearer,

Rolf spied the drummer, pompously strutting up and down a log
some forty yards away. He took steady aim, not for the head -- a
strange gun, at forty yards -- for the body. At the crack, the
bird fell dead, and in Rolf's heart there swelled up a little
gush of joy, which he believed was all for the sake of the
invalid, but which a finer analysis might have proved to be due
quite as much to pride in himself and his newly bought gun.

Night was coming on when he got back, and he found the Dutch
parents in some excitement. "Dot Indian he gay no bring Annette
indoors for de night. How she sleep outdoors -- like dog -- like
Bigger -- like tramp? Yah it is bad, ain't it?" and poor old
Hendrik looked sadly upset and mystified.

"Hendrik, do you suppose God turns out worse air in the night
than in the day?"

"Ach, dunno."

"Well, you see Quonab knows what he's doing."

"Yah."

"Well, let him do it. He or I'll sleep alongside the child she'll
be all right," and Rolf thought of those horrible brown crawlers
under the bedding indoors.

Rolf had much confidence in the Indian as a doctor, but he had
more in his own mother. He was determined to give Annette the
quinine, yet he hesitated to interfere. At length, he said: "It
is cool enough now; I will put these thin curtains round her
bed."

"Ugh, good!" but the red man sat there while it was being done.

"You need not stay now; I'll watch her, Quonab."

"Soon, give more medicine," was the reply that Rolf did not want.
So he changed his ruse. "I wish you'd take that partridge and
make soup of it. I've had my hands in poison ivy, so I dare not
touch it."

"Ach, dot shall I do. Dot kin myself do," and the fat mother,
laying the recent baby in its cradle, made cumbrous haste to cook
the bird.

"Foiled again," was Rolf's thought, but his Yankee wit was with
him. He laid one hand on the bowl of snake-root tea. It was
lukewarm. "Do you give it hot or cold, Quonab?"

"Hot."

"I'll take it in and heat it." He carried it off, thinking, "If
Quonab won't let me give the bark extract, I'll make him give
it." In the gloom of the kitchen he had no difficulty in adding
to the tea, quite unseen, a quarter of the extract; when heated,
he brought it again, and the Indian himself gave the dose.

As bedtime drew near, and she heard the red man say he would
sleep there, the little one said feebly, "Mother, mother," then
whispered in her mother's ear, "I want Rolf."

Rolf spread his blanket by the cot and slept lightly. Once or
twice he rose to look at Annette. She was moving in her sleep,
but did not awake. He saw to it that the mosquito bar was in
place, and slept till morning.

There was no question that the child was better. The renewed
interest in food was the first good symptom, and the partridge
served the end of its creation. The snakeroot and the quinine
did noble work, and thenceforth her recovery was rapid. It was
natural for her mother to wish the child back indoors. It was a
matter of course that she should go. It was accepted as an
unavoidable evil that they should always have those brown
crawlers about the bed.

But Rolf felt differently. He knew what his mother would have
thought and done. It meant another visit to Warren's, and the
remedy he brought was a strong-smelling oil, called in those days
"rock oil" -- a crude petroleum. When all cracks in the bed and
near wall were treated with this, it greatly mitigated, if it did
not quite end, the nuisance of the "plague that walks in the
dark."

Meanwhile, Quonab had made good his welcome by working on the
farm. But when a week had flown, he showed signs of restlessness.
"We have enough money, Nibowaka, why do we stay?"

Rolf was hauling a bucket of water from the well at the time. He
stopped with his burden on the well-sweep, gazed into the well,
and said slowly: "I don't know." If the truth were set forth, it
would be that this was the only home circle he knew. It was the
clan feeling that held him, and soon it was clearly the same
reason that was driving Quonab to roam.

"I have heard," said the Indian, "that my people still dwell in
Canada, beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come
again in the Red Moon (August)."

So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum
in the bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the
plead waters of Lakes George and Champlain. His canoe became a
dark spot on the water; slowly it faded till only the flashing
paddle was seen, and that was lost around a headland.

The next day Rolf was sorry he let Quonab go alone, for it was
evident that Van Trumper needed no help for a month yet; that is,
he could not afford to hire, and while it was well enough for
Rolf to stay a few days and work to equalize his board, the
arrangement would not long continue satisfactory to both.

Yet there was one thing he must do before leaving, take Annette
to pick out her dress. She was well again now, and they set off
one morning in the canoe, she and Rolf. Neither father nor mother
could leave the house. They had their misgivings, but what could
they do? She was bright and happy, full of the childish joy that
belongs to that age, and engaged on such an important errand for
the first time in her life.

There was something more than childish joy showing in her face,
an older person would have seen that, but it was largely lost on
Rolf. There was a tendency to blush when she laughed, a
disposition to tease her "big brother," to tyrannize over him in
little things.

"Now, you tell me some more about 'Robinson Crusoe,'" she began,
as soon as they were in the canoe, and Rolf resumed the ancient,
inspiring tale to have it listened to eagerly, but criticized
from the standpoint of a Lake George farm. "Where was his wife?"
"How could he have a farm without hens?" "Dried grapes must be
nice, but I'd rather have pork than goat," etc.

Rolf, of course, took the part of Robinson Crusoe, and it gave
him a little shock to hear Quonab called his man Friday.

At the west side they were to invite Mrs. Callan to join their
shopping trip, but in any case they were to borrow a horse and
buckboard. Neither Mrs. Callan nor the buckboard was available,
but they were welcome to the horse. So Annette was made
comfortable on a bundle of blankets, and chattered incessantly
while Rolf walked alongside with the grave interest and
superiority of a much older brother. So they crossed the
five-mile portage and came to Warren's store. Nervous and
excited, with sparkling eyes, Annette laid down her marten skin,
received five dollars, and set about the tremendous task of
selecting her first dress of really, truly calico print; and Rolf
realized that the joy he had found in his new rifle was a very
small affair, compared with the epoch-making, soul-filling,
life-absorbing, unspeakable, and cataclysmal bliss that a small
girl can have in her first chance of unfettered action in choice
of a cotton print.

"Beautiful?" How can mere words do justice to masses of yellow
corn, mixed recklessly with green and scarlet poppies on a bright
blue ground. No, you should have seen Annette's dress, or you
cannot expect to get the adequate thrill. And when they found
that there was enough cash left over to add a red cotton parasol
to the glorious spoils, every one there beamed in a sort of
friendly joy, and the trader, carried away by the emotions of the
hour, contributed a set of buttons of shining brass.

Warren kept a "meal house," which phrase was a ruse that saved
him from a burdensome hospitality. Determined to do it all in the
best style, Rolf took Annette to the meal-house table. She was
deeply awed by the grandeur of a tablecloth and white plates, but
every one was kind.

Warren, talking to a stranger opposite, and evidently resuming a
subject they had discussed, said:

"Yes, I'd like to send the hull lot down to Albany this week, if
I could get another man for the canoe."

Rolf was interested at once and said: "What wages are you offering?"

"Twenty-five dollars and board."

"How will I do?"

"Well," said Warren, as though thinking it over:
"I dunno but ye would. Could ye go to-morrow?"

"Yes, indeed, for one month."

"All right, it's a bargain."

And so Rolf took the plunge that influenced his whole life.

But Annette whispered gleefully and excitedly, "May I have some
of that, and that?" pointing to every strange food she could see,
and got them all.

After noon they set out on their return journey, An- nette
clutching her prizes, and prattling incessantly, while Rolf
walked alongside, thinking deeply, replying to her chatter, but
depressed by the thought of good-bye tomorrow. He was aroused at
length by a scraping sound overhead and a sharp reprimand, "Rolf,
you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't lead the horse better."

By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had
crossed the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying
her treasures to the wonder and envy of her kin.

Making a dress was a simple matter in those and Marta promised:
"Yah, soom day ven I one have, shall I it sew." Meanwhile,
Annette was quaffing deep, soul-satisfying draughts in the mere
contempt of the yellow, red, green, and blue glories in which was
soon to appear in public. And when the bed came, she fell asleep
holding the dress-goods stuff in arms, and with the red parasol
spread above her head, tired out, but inexpressibly happy.

Chapter 53. Travelling to the Great City

He's a bad failure that ain't king in some little corner --
Sayings of Sylvanne Sylvanne

The children were not astir when Rolf was off in the morning. He
caught a glimpse of Annette, still asleep under the red parasol,
but the dress goods and the brass buttons had fallen to the
floor. He stepped into the canoe. The dead calm of early morning
was on the water, and the little craft went skimming and wimpling
across. In half an hour it was beached at Callan's. In a little
more than an hour's jog and stride he was at Warren's, ready for
work. As he marched in, strong and brisk, his colour up, his
blue eyes kindled with the thought of seeing Albany, the trader
could not help being struck by him, especially when he remembered
each of their meetings -- meetings in which he discerned a keen,
young mind of good judgment, one that could decide quickly.

Gazing at the lithe, red-checked lad, he said: "Say, Rolf, air ye
an Injun?? "

"No, sir."

"Air ye a half-breed?"

"No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding,
Connecticut."

"Well, I swan, ye look it. At fust I took ye fur an Injun; ye did
look dark (and Rolf laughed inside, as he thought of that
butternut dye), but I'm bound to say we're glad yer white."

"Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to
Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-
handed, semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle
he was roping.

Then Warren took Rolf aside and explained: "I'm sending down all
my fur this trip. There's ten bales of sixty pounds each, pretty
near my hull fortune. I want it took straight to Vandam's, and,
night or day, don't leave it till ye git it there. He's close to
the dock. I'm telling ye this for two reasons: The river's
swarming with pirates and sneaks. They'd like nothing better
than to get away with a five-hundred-dollar bundle of fur; and,
next, while Bill is A1 on the river and true as steel, he's awful
weak on the liquor; goes crazy, once it's in him. And I notice
you've always refused it here. So don't stop at Troy, an' when ye
get to Albany go straight past there to Vandam's. You'll have a
letter that'll explain, and he'll supply the goods yer to bring back.
He's a sort of a partner, and orders from him is same as from me.

"I suppose I ought to go myself, but this is the time all the fur
is coming in here, an' I must be on hand to do the dickering, and
there's too much much to risk it any longer in the storehouse."

"Suppose," said Rolf, "Bill wants to stop at Troy?"

"He won't. He's all right, given he's sober. I've give him the
letter."

"Couldn't you give me the letter, in case?"

"Law, Bill'd get mad and quit."

"He'll never know."

"That's so; I will." So when they paddled away, Bill had an
important letter of instructions ostentatiously tucked in his
outer pocket. Rolf, unknown to any one else but Warren, had a
duplicate, wrapped in waterproof, hidden in an inside pocket.

Bill was A1 on the river; a kind and gentle old woodman, much
stronger than he looked. He knew the value of fur and the danger
of wetting it, so he took no chances in doubtful rapids. This
meant many portages and much hard labour.

I wonder if the world realizes the hard labour of the portage or
carry? Let any man who seeks for light, take a fifty-pound sack
of flour on his shoulders and walk a quarter of a mile on level
ground in cool weather. Unless he is in training, he will find it
a heavy burden long before he is half-way. Suppose, instead of a
flour sack, the burden has sharp angles; the bearer is soon in
torture. Suppose the weight carried be double; then the strain
is far more than doubled. Suppose, finally, the road be not a
quarter mile but a mile, and not on level but through swamps,
over rocks, logs, and roots, and the weather not cool, but
suffocating summer weather in the woods, with mosquitoes boring
into every exposed part, while both hands are occupied, steadying
the burden or holding on to branches for help up steep places --
and then he will have some idea of the horror of the portage; and
there were many of these, each one calling for six loaded and
five light trips for each canoe-man. What wonder that men will
often take chances in some fierce rapid, rather than to make a
long carry through the fly-infested woods.

It was weighty evidence of Bill's fidelity that again and again
they made a portage around rapids he had often run, because in
the present case he was in sacred trust of that much prized
commodity -- fur.

Eighty miles they called it from Warren's to Albany, but there
were many halts and carries which meant long delay, and a whole
week was covered before Bill and Rolf had passed the settlements
of Glens Falls, Fort Edward, and Schuylerville, and guided their
heavily laden canoe on the tranquil river, past the little town
of Troy. Loafers hailed them from the bank, but Bill turned a
deaf ear to all temptation; and they pushed on happy in the
thought that now their troubles were over; the last rapid was
past; the broad, smooth waters extended to their port.

Chapter 54. Albany

Only a man who in his youth has come at last in sight of some
great city he had dreamed of all his life and longed to see, can
enter into Rolf's feelings as they swept around the big bend, and
Albany -- Albany, hove in view. Abany, the first chartered city
of the United States; Albany, the capital of all the Empire
State; Albany, the thriving metropolis with nearly six thousand
living human souls; Albany with its State House, beautiful and
dignified, looking down the mighty Hudson highway that led to the
open sea.

Rolf knew his Bible, and now he somewhat realized the feelings of
St. Paul on that historic day when his life-long dream came true,
when first he neared the Eternal City -- when at last he glimpsed
the towers of imperial, splendid Rome.

The long-strung docks were massed and webbed with ship rigging;
the water was livened with boats and canoes; the wooden
warehouses back of the docks were overtopped by wooden houses in
tiers, until high above them all the Capitol itself was the
fitting climax.

Rolf knew something of shipping, and amid all the massed boats
his eyes fell on a strange, square-looking craft with a huge
water-wheel on each side. Then, swinging into better view, he
read her name, the Clermont, and knew that this was the famous
Fulton steamer, the first of the steamboat age.

But Bill was swamped by no such emotion. Albany, Hudson,
Clermont, and all, were familiar stories to him and he stolidly
headed the canoe for the dock he knew of old.

Loafers roosting on the snubbing posts hailed him, at first with
raillery; but, coming nearer, he was recognized. "Hello, Bill;
back again? Glad to see you," and there was superabundant help to
land the canoe.

"Wall, wall, wall, so it's really you," said the touter of a fur
house, in extremely friendly voice; "come in now and we'll hev a
drink."

"No, sir-ree," said Bill decisively, "I don't drink till business
is done."

"Wall, now, Bill, here's Van Roost's not ten steps away an' he
hez tapped the finest bar'l in years."

"No, I tell ye, I'm not drinking -- now."

"Wall, all right, ye know yer own business. I thought maybe ye'd
be glad to see us."

"Well, ain't I?"

"Hello, Bill," and Bill's fat brother-in-law came up. Thus does
me good, an' yer sister is spilin' to see ye. We'll hev one on
this."

"No, Sam, I ain't drinkin'; I've got biz to tend."

"Wall, hev just one to clear yer head. Then settle yer business
and come back to us."

So Bill went to have one to clear his head. "I'll be back in two
minutes, Rolf," but Rolf saw him no more for many days.

"You better come along, cub," called out a red-nosed member of
the group. But Rolf shook his head.

"Here, I'll help you git them ashore," volunteered an effusive
stranger, with one eye.

"I don't want help."

"How are ye gain' to handle 'em alone?"

"Well, there's one thing I'd be glad to have ye do; that is, go
up there and bring Peter Vandam."

"I'll watch yer stuff while you go."

"No, I can't leave." "Then go to blazes; d'yte take me for yer
errand boy?" And Rolf was left alone.

He was green at the business, but already he was realizing the
power of that word fur and the importance of the peltry trade.
Fur was the one valued product of the wilderness that only the
hunter could bring. The merchants of the world were as greedy for
fur as for gold, and far more so than for precious stones.

It was a commodity so light that, even in those days, a hundred
weight of fur might range in value from one hundred to five
thousand dollars, so that a man with a pack of fine furs was a
capitalist. The profits of the business were good for trapper,
very large for the trader, who doubled his first gain by paying
in trade; but they were huge for the Albany middleman, and
colossal for the New Yorker who shipped to London.

With such allurements, it was small wonder that more country was
explored and opened for fur than for settlement or even for gold;
and there were more serious crimes and high-handed robberies over
the right to trade a few furs than over any other legitimate
business. These things were new to Rolf within the year, but he
was learn- ing the lesson, and Warren's remarks about fur stuck
in his memory with growing value. Every incident since the trip
began had given them new points.

The morning passed without sign of Bill; so, when in the
afternoon, some bare-legged boys came along, Rolf said to them:
"Do any of ye know where Peter Vandam's house is?"

"Yeh, that's it right there," and they pointed to a large log
house less than a hundred yards away.

"Do ye know him?"

"Yeh, he's my paw," said a sun-bleached freckle-face.

"If you bring him here right away, I'll give you a dime. Tell him
I'm from Warren's with a cargo."

The dusty stampede that followed was like that of a mustang herd,
for a dime was a dime in those days. And very soon, a tall,ruddy
man appeared at the dock. He was a Dutchman in name only. At
first sight he was much like the other loafers, but was bigger,
and had a more business-like air when observed near at hand.

"Are you from Warren's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alone? "

"No, sir. I came with Bill Bymus. But he went off early this
morning; I haven't seen him since. I'm afraid he's in trouble."

"Where'd ho go?"

"In there with some friends."

"Ha, just like him; he's in trouble all right. He'll be no good
for a week. Last time he came near losing all our stuff. Now
let's see what ye've got."

"Are you Mr. Peter Vandam? "

"Of course I am."

Still Rolf looked doubtful. There was a small group around, and
Rolf heard several voices, "Yes, this is Peter; ye needn't
a-worry." But Rolf knew none of the speakers. His look of
puzzlement at first annoyed then tickled the Dutchman, who
exploded into a hearty guffaw.

"Wall, wall, you sure think ill of us. Here, now look at that,"
and he drew out a bundle of letters addressed to Master Peter
Vandam. Then he displayed a gold watch inscribed on the back
"Peter Vandam"; next he showed a fob seal with a scroll and an
inscription, "Petrus Vandamus"; then he turned to a youngster and
said, "Run, there is the Reverend Dr. Powellus, he may help us";
so the black-garbed, knee-breached, shovel-hatted clergyman came
and pompously said: "Yes, my young friend, without doubt you may
rest assured that this is our very estimable parishioner, Master
Peter Vandam; a man well accounted in the world of trade."

"And now," said Peter, "with the help of my birth- register and
marriage-certificate, which will be placed at your service with
all possible haste, I hope I may win your recognition." The
situation, at first tense, had become more and more funny, and
the bystanders laughed aloud. Rolf rose to it, and smiling said
slowly, "I am inclined to think that you must be Master Peter
Vandam, of

Albany. If that's so, this letter is for you, also this cargo."
And so the delivery was made.

Bill Bymus has not delivered the other letter to this day.
Presumably he went to stay with his sister, but she saw little of
him, for his stay at Albany was, as usual, one long spree. It was
clear that, but for Rolf, there might have been serious loss of
fur, and Vandam showed his appreciation by taking the lad to his
own home, where the story of the difficult identification
furnished ground for gusty laughter and primitive jest on many an
after day.

The return cargo for Warren consisted of stores that the Vandam
warehouse had in stock, and some stuff that took a day or more to
collect in town.

As Rolf was sorting and packing next day, a tall, thin, well-dressed
young man walked in with the air of one much at home.

"Good morrow, Peter."

"Good day to ye, sir," and they talked of crops and politics.

Presently Vandam said, "Rolf, come over here."

He came and was presented to the tall man, who was indeed very
thin, and looked little better than an invalid. "This," said
Peter, "is Master Henry van Cortlandt the son of his honour, the
governor, and a very learned barrister. He wants to go on a long
hunting trip for his health. I tell him that likely you are the
man he needs."

This was so unexpected that Rolf turned red and gazed on the
ground. Van Cortlandt at once began to clear things by
interjecting: "You see, I'm not strong. I want to live outdoors
for three months, where I can have some hunting and be beyond
reach of business. I'll pay you a hundred dollars for the three
months, to cover board and guidance. And providing I'm well
pleased and have good hunting, I'll give you fifty dollars more
when I get back to Albany."

"I'd like much to be your guide," said Rolf, "but I have a
partner. I must find out if he's willing."

"Ye don't mean-that drunken Bill Bymus?"

"No! my hunting partner; he's an Indian." Then, after a pause, he
added, " You wouldn't go in fly-time, would you?"

"No, I want to be in peace. But any time after the first of August."

"I am bound to help Van Trumper with his harvest; that will take
most of August."

As he talked, the young lawyer sized him up and said to himself,
"This is my man."

And before they parted it was agreed that Rolf should come to
Albany with Quonab as soon as he could return in August, to form
the camping party for the governor's son.

Chapter 55. The Rescue of Bill

Bales were ready and the canoe newly gummed three days after
their arrival, but still no sign of Bill. A messengers sent to
the brother-in-law's home reported that he had not been seen for
two days. In spite of the fact that Albany numbered nearly "six
thousand living human souls," a brief search by the docksharps
soon revealed the sinner's retreat. His worst enemy would have
pitied him; a red-eyed wreck; a starved, sick and trembling
weakling; conscience-stricken, for the letter intrusted to him
was lost; the cargo stolen -- so his comforters had said -- and
the raw country lad murdered and thrown out into the river. What
wonder that he should shun the light of day! And when big Peter
with Rolf in the living flesh, instead of the sheriff, stood
before him and told him to come out of that and get into the
canoe, he wept bitter tears of repentance and vowed that never,
never, never, as long as he lived would he ever again let liquor
touch his lips. A frame of mind which lasted in strength for
nearly one day and a half, and did not entirely varnish for three.

They passed Troy without desiring to stop, and began their fight
with the river. It was harder than when coming, for their course
was against stream when paddling, up hill when portaging, the
water was lower, the cargo was heavier, and Bill not so able. Ten
days it took them to cover those eighty miles. But they came out
safely, cargo and all, and landed at Warren's alive and well on
the twenty-first day since leaving.

Bill had recovered his usual form. Gravely and with pride he
marched up to Warren and handed out a large letter which read
outside, "Bill of Lading," and when opened, read: "The bearer of
this, Bill Bymus, is no good. Don't trust him to Albany any more.
(Signed) Peter Vandam."

Warren's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. He took

Rolf aside and said, "Let's have it." Rolf gave him the real
letter that, unknown to Bill, he had carried, and Warren learned
some things that he knew before.

Rolf's contract was for a month; it had ten days to run, and
those ten days were put in weighing sugar, checking accounts,
milking cows, and watching the buying of fur. Warren didn't want
him to see too much of the fur business, but Rolf gathered
quickly that these were the main principles: Fill the seller with
liquor, if possible; "fire water for fur" was the idea; next,
grade all fur as medium or second-class, when cash was demanded,
but be easy as long as payment was to be in trade. That afforded
many loopholes between weighing, grading, charging, and
shrinkage, and finally he noticed that Albany prices were 30 to
50 per cent. higher than Warren prices. Yet Warren was reckoned
a first-class fellow, a good neighbour, and a member of the
church. But it was understood everywhere that fur, like
horseflesh, was a business with moral standards of its own.

A few days before their contract was up, Warren said: "How'd ye
like to renew for a month?"

"Can't; I promised to help Van Trumper with his harvest."

"What does he pay ye?"

"Seventy-five cents a day and board."

"I'll make it a dollar."

"I've given my word," said Rolf, in surprise.

"Hey ye signed papers?"

"They're not needed. The only use of signed papers is to show ye
have given your word," said Rolf, quoting his mother, with rising
indignation.

The trader sniffed a little contemptuously and said nothing. But
he realized the value of a lad who was a steady, intelligent
worker, wouldn't drink, and was absolutely bound by a promise;
so, after awhile, he said: "Wall, if Van don't want ye now, come
back for a couple of weeks."

Early in the morning Rolf gathered the trifles he had secured for
the little children and the book he had bought for Annette, a
sweet story of a perfect girl who died and went to heaven, the
front embellished with a thrilling wood-cut. Then he crossed the
familiar five-mile portage at a pace that in an hour brought him
to the lake.

The greeting at Van's was that of a brother come home.

"Vell, Rolf, it's goood to see ye back. It's choost vat I vented.
Hi, Marta, I told it you, yah. I say, now I hope ze good Gott
send Rolf. Ach, how I am shpoil!"

Yes, indeed. The hay was ready; the barley was changing. So Rolf
took up his life on the farm, doing work that a year before was
beyond his strength, for the spirit of the hills was on him, with
its impulse of growth, its joy in effort, its glory in strength.
And all who saw the longlegged, long-armed, flat- backed youth
plying fork or axe or hoe, in some sort ventured a guess: "He'll
be a good 'un some day; the kind o' chap to keep friendly with.

Chapter 56. The Sick Ox

The Thunder Moon passed quickly by; the hay was in; the barley
partly so. Day by day the whitefaced oxen toiled at the creaking
yoke, as the loads of hay and grain were jounced cumbrously over
roots and stumps of the virgin fields. Everything was promising
well, when, as usual, there came a thunderbolt out of the clear
sky. Buck, the off ox, fell sick.

Those who know little about cattle have written much of the meek
and patient ox. Those who know them well tell us that the ox is
the "most cussedest of all cussed" animals; a sneak, a bully, a
coward, a thief, a shirk, a schemer; and when he is not in
mischief he is thinking about it. The wickedest pack mule that
ever bucked his burden is a pinfeathered turtle-dove compared
with an average ox. There are some gentle oxen, but they are
rare; most are treacherous, some are dangerous, and these are
best got rid of, as they mislead their yoke mates and mislay
their drivers. Van's two oxen, Buck and Bright, manifested the
usual variety and contrariety of disposition. They were all
right when well handled, and this Rolf could do better than Van,
for he was "raised on oxen," and Van's over voluble, sputtering,
Dutch- English seemed ill comprehended of the massive yoke
beasts. The simpler whip-waving and fewer orders of the Yankee
were so obviously successful that Van had resigned the whip of
authority and Rolf was driver.

Ordinarily, an ox driver walks on the hew (nigh or left) side,
near the head of his team, shouting "gee" (right), "haw" (left),
"get up," "steady," or "whoa" (stop), accompanying the order with
a waving of the whip. Foolish drivers lash the oxen on the haw
side when they wish them to gee -- and vice versa; but it is
notorious that all good drivers do little lashing. Spare the lash
or spoil your team. So it was not long before Rolf could guide
them from the top of the load, as they travelled from shook to
shook in the field. This voice of command saved his life, or at
least his limb, one morning, for he made a misstep that tumbled
him down between the oxen and the wagon. At once the team
started, but his ringing "Whoa!" brought them to a dead stop, and
saved him; whereas, had it been Van's "Whoa!" it would have set
them off at a run, for every shout from him meant a whip lick to
follow.

Thus Rolf won the respect, if not the love, of the huge beasts;
more and more they were his charge, and when, on that sad
morning, in the last of the barley, Van came in, "Ach, vot shall
I do! Vot shall I do! Dot Buck ox be nigh dead."

Alas! there he lay on the ground, his head sometimes raised,
sometimes stretched out flat, while the huge creature uttered
short moans at times.

Only four years before, Rolf had seen that same thing at Redding.
The rolling eye, the working of the belly muscles, the straining
and moaning. "It's colic; have you any ginger?"

"No, I hat only dot soft soap."

What soft soap had to do with ginger was not clear, and Rolf
wondered if it had some rare occult medical power that had
escaped his mother.

"Do you know where there's any slippery elm?"

"Yah."

"Then bring a big boiling of the bark, while I get some
peppermint."

The elm bark was boiled till it made a kettleful of brown slime.
The peppermint was dried above the stove till it could be
powdered, and mixed with the slippery slush. Some sulphur and
some soda were discovered and stirred in, on general principles,
and they hastened to the huge, helpless creature in the field.

Poor Buck seemed worse than ever. He was flat on his side, with
his spine humped up, moaning and straining at intervals. But now
relief was in sight -- so thought the men. With a tin dipper they
tried to pour some relief into the open mouth of the sufferer,
who had so little appreciation that he simply taxed his remaining
strength to blow it out in their faces. Several attempts ended
the same way. Then the brute, in what looked like temper, swung
his muzzle and dashed the whole dipper away. Next they tried the
usual method, mixing it with a bran mash, considered a delicacy
in the bovine world, but Buck again took notice, under pressure
only, to dash it away and waste it all.

It occurred to them they might force it down his throat if they
could raise his head. So they used a hand lever and a prop to
elevate the muzzle, and were about to try another inpour, when
Buck leaped to his feet, and behaving like one who has been
shamming, made at full gallop for the stable, nor stopped till
safely in his stall, where at once he dropped in all the evident
agony of a new spasm.

It is a common thing for oxen to sham sick, but this was the real
thing, and it seemed they were going to lose the ox, which meant
also lose a large part of the harvest.

In the stable, now, they had a better chance; they tied him, then
raised his head with a lever till his snout was high above his
shoulders. Now it seemed easy to pour the medicine down that
long, sloping passage. But his mouth was tightly closed, any that
entered his nostrils was blown afar, and the suffering beast
strained at the rope till he seemed likely to strangle.

Both men and ox were worn out with the struggle; the brute was no
better, but rather worse.

"Wall," said Rolf, "I've seen a good many ornery steers, but
that's the orneriest I ever did handle, an' I reckon we'll lose
him if he don't get that poison into him pretty soon."

Oxen never were studied as much as horses, for they were
considered a temporary shift, and every farmer looked forward to
replacing them with the latter. Oxen were enormously strong, and
they could flourish without grain when the grass was good; they
never lost their head in a swamp hole, and ploughed steadily
among all kinds of roots and stumps; but they were exasperatingly
slow and eternally tricky. Bright, being the trickier of the
two, was made the nigh ox, to be more under control. Ordinarily
Rolf could manage Buck easily, but the present situation seemed
hopeless. In his memory he harked back to Redding days, and he
recalled old Eli Gooch, the ox expert, and wondered what he would
have done. Then, as he sat, he caught sight of the sick ox
reaching out its head and deftly licking up a few drops of bran
mash that had fallen from his yoke fellow's portion. A smile
spread over Rolf's face. "Just like you; you think nothing's good
except it's stolen. All right; we'll see." He mixed a big dose of
medicine, with bran, as before. Then he tied Bright's head so
that he could not reach the ground, and set the bucket of mash
half way between the two oxen. "Here ye are, Bright," he said, as
a matter of form, and walked out of the stable; but, from a
crack, he watched. Buck saw a chance to steal Bright's bran; he
looked around; Oh, joy! his driver was away. He reached out
cautiously; sniffed; his long tongue shot forth for a first
taste, when Rolf gave a shout and ran in. "Hi, you old robber!
Let that alone; that's for Bright."

The sick ox was very much in his own stall now, and stayed there
for some time after Rolf went to resume his place at the
peephole. But encouraged by a few minutes of silence, he again
reached out, and hastily gulped down a mouthful of the mixture
before Rolf shouted and rushed in armed with a switch to punish
the thief. Poor Bright, by his efforts to reach the tempting
mash, was unwittingly playing the game, for this was proof
positive of its desirableness.

After giving Buck a few cuts with the switch, Rolf retired, as
before. Again the sick ox waited for silence, and reaching out
with greedy haste, he gulped down the rest and emptied the
bucket; seeing which, Rolf ran in and gave the rogue a final
trouncing for the sake of consistency.

Any one who knows what slippery elm, peppermint, soda, sulphur,
colic, and ox do when thoroughly interincorporated will not be
surprised to learn that in the morning the stable needed special
treatment, and of all the mixture the ox was the only ingredient
left on the active list. He was all right again, very thirsty,
and not quite up to his usual standard, but, as Van said, after a
careful look, "Ah, tell you vot, dot you vas a veil ox again, an'
I t'ink I know not vot if you all tricky vas like Bright."

Chapter 57. Rolf and Skookum at Albany

The Red Moon (August) follows the Thunder Moon, and in the early
part of its second week Rolf and Van, hauling in the barley and
discussing the fitness of the oats, were startled by a most
outrageous clatter among the hens. Horrid murder evidently was
stalking abroad, and, hastening to the rescue, Rolf heard loud,
angry barks; then a savage beast with a defunct "cackle party"
appeared, but dropped the victim to bark and bound upon the
"relief party" with ecstatic expressions of joy, in spite of
Rolf's -- "Skookum! you little brute!"

Yes! Quonab was back; that is, he was at the lake shore, and
Skookum had made haste to plunge into the joys and gayeties of
this social centre, without awaiting the formalities of greeting
or even of dry-shod landing.

The next scene was -- a big, high post, a long, strong chain and
a small, sad dog.

"Ho, Quonab, you found your people? You had a good time?"

"Ugh," was the answer, the whole of it, and all the light Rolf
got for many a day on the old man's trip to the North. The
prospect of going to Albany for Van Cortlandt was much more
attractive to Quonab than that of the harvest field, so a
compromise was agreed on. Callan's barley was in the stock; if
all three helped Callan for three days, Callan would owe them for
nine, and so it was arranged.

Again "good-bye," and Rolf, Quonab, and little dog Skookum went
sailing down the Schroon toward the junction, where they left a
cache of their supplies, and down the broadening Hudson toward
Albany.

Rolf had been over the road twice; Quonab never before, yet his
nose for water was so good and the sense of rapid and portage was
so strong in the red man, that many times he was the pilot. "This
is the way, because it must be"; "there it is deep because so
narrow"; "that rapid is dangerous, because there is such a
well-beaten portage trail"; "that we can run, because I see it,"
or, "because there is no portage trail," etc. The eighty miles
were covered in three sleeps, and in the mid-moon days of the Red
Moon they landed at the dock in front of Peter Vandam's. If
Quonab had any especial emotions for the occasion, he cloaked
them perfectly under a calm and copper-coloured exterior of
absolute immobility.

Their Albany experiences included a meeting with the governor and
an encounter with a broad and burly river pirate, who, seeing a
lone and peaceable-looking red man, went out of his way to insult
him; and when Quonab's knife flashed out at last, it was only his
recently established relations with the governor's son that saved
him from some very sad results, for there were many loafers
about. But burly Vandam appeared in the nick of time to halt the
small mob with the warning: "Don't you know that's Mr. Van
Cortlandt's guide?" With the governor and Vandam to back him,
Quonab soon had the mob on his side, and the dock loafer's own
friends pelted him with mud as he escaped. But not a little
credit is due to Skookum, for at the critical moment he had
sprung on the ruffian's bare and abundant leg with such toothsome
effect that the owner fell promptly backward and the knife thrust
missed. It was quickly over and Quonab replaced his knife,
contemptuous of the whole crowd before, during and after the
incident. Not at the time, but days later, he said of his foe:
"He was a talker; he was full of fear."

With the backwoods only thirty miles away, and the unbroken
wilderness one hundred, it was hard to believe how little Henry
van Cortlandt knew of the woods and its life. He belonged to the
ultra-fashionable set, and it was rather their pose to affect
ignorance of the savage world and its ways. But he had plenty of
common-sense to fan back on, and the inspiring example of
Washington, equally at home in the nation's Parliament, the army
intrenchment, the glittering ball room, or the hunting lodge of
the Indian, was a constant reminder that the perfect man is a
harmonious development of mind, morals, and physique.

His training had been somewhat warped by the ultraclassic fashion
of the times, so he persisted in seeing in Quonab a sort of
discoloured, barbaric clansman of Alaric or a camp follower of
Xenophon's host, rather than an actual living, interesting,
native American, exemplifying in the highest degree the sinewy,
alert woodman, and the saturated mystic and pantheist of an age
bygone and out of date, combined with a middle-measure
intelligence. And Rolf, tall, blue-eyed with brown, curling
hair, was made to pose as the youthful Achilles, rather than as a
type of America's best young manhood, cleaner, saner, and of far
higher ideals and traditions than ever were ascribed to Achilles
by his most blinded worshippers. It recalled the case of
Wordsworth and Southey living side by side in England; Southey,
the famous, must needs seek in ancient India for material to
write his twelve-volume romance that no one ever looks at;
Wordsworth, the unknown, wrote of the things of his own time,
about his own door? and produced immortal verse.

What should we think of Homer, had he sung his impressions of the
ancient Egyptians? or of Thackeray, had he novelized the life of
the Babylonians? It is an ancient blindness, with an ancient wall
to bruise one's head. It is only those who seek ointment of the
consecrated clay that gives back sight, who see the shining way
at their feet, who beat their face against no wall, who safely
climb the heights. Henry van Cortlandt was a man of rare parts,
of every advantage, but still he had been taught steadfastly to
live in the past. His eyes were yet to be opened. The living
present was not his -- but yet to be.

The young lawyer had been assembling his outfit at Vandam's
warehouse, for, in spite of scoffing friends, he knew that Rolf
was coming back to him.

When Rolf saw the pile of stuff that was gathered for that
outfit, he stared at it aghast, then looked at Vandam, and
together they roared. There was everything for light housekeeping
and heavy doctoring, even chairs, a wash stand, a mirror, a
mortar, and a pestle. Six canoes could scarcely have carried the
lot.

"'Tain't so much the young man as his mother," explained Big
Pete; "at first I tried to make 'em understand, but it was no
use; so I says, 'All right, go ahead, as long as there's room in
the warehouse.' I reckon I'll set on the fence and have some fun
seein' Rolf ontangle the affair."

"Phew, pheeeww -- ph-e-e-e-e-w," was all Rolf could say in
answer. But at last, "Wall, there's always a way. I sized him up
as pretty level headed. We'll see."

There was a way and it was easy, for, in a secret session, Rolf,
Pete, and Van Cortlandt together sorted out the things needed. A
small tent, blankets, extra clothes, guns, ammunition, delicate
food for three months, a few medicines and toilet articles -- a
pretty good load for one canoe, but a trifle compared with the
mountain of stuff piled up on the floor.

"Now, Mr. van Cortlandt," said Rolf, "will you explain to your
mother that we are going on with this so as to travel quickly,
and will send back for the rest as we need it?"

A quiet chuckle was now heard from Big Pete. "Good! I wondered
how he'd settle it."

The governor and his lady saw them off; therefore, there was a
crowd. The mother never before had noted what a frail and
dangerous thing a canoe is. She cautioned her son never to
venture out alone, and to be sure that he rubbed his chest with
the pectoral balm she had made from such and such a famous
receipt, the one that saved the life but not the limb of old
Governor Stuyvesant, and come right home if you catch a cold; and
wait at the first camp till the other things come, and (in a
whisper) keep away from that horrid red Indian with the knife,
and never fail to let every one know who you are, and write
regularly, and don't forget to take your calomel Monday,
Wednesday, and Friday, alternating with Peruvian bark Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday, and squills on Sunday, except every other
week, when he should devote Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays to
rhubarb and catnip tea, except in the full moon, when the catnip
was to be replaced with graveyard bergamot and the squills with
opodeldoc in which an iron nail had been left for a week.

So Henry was embraced, Rolf was hand-shaken, Quonab was nodded
at, Skookum was wisely let alone, and the trim canoe swung from
the dock. Amid hearty cheers, farewells, and "God speed ye's" it
breasted the flood for the North.

And on the dock, with kerchief to her eyes, stood the mother,
weeping to think that her boy was going far, far away from his
home and friends in dear, cultured, refined Albany, away, away,
to that remote and barbarous inaccessible region almost to the
shore land of Lake Champlain.

Chapter 58. Back to Indian Lake

Young Van Cortlandt, six feet two in his socks and thirty- four
inches around the chest, was, as Rolf long afterward said, "awful
good raw material, but awful raw." Two years out of college,
half of which had been spent at the law, had done little but
launch him as a physical weakling and a social star. But his
mental make-up was more than good; it was of large promise. He
lacked neither courage nor sense, and the course he now followed
was surely the best for man-making.

Rolf never realized how much a farmer-woodman-
canoeman-hunter-camper had to know, until now he met a man who
did not know anything, nor dreamed how many wrong ways there were
of doing a job, till he saw his new companion try it.

There is no single simple thing that is a more complete measure
of one's woodcraft than the lighting of a fire. There are a dozen
good ways and a thousand wrong ones. A man who can light thirty
fires on thirty successive days with thirty matches or thirty
sparks from flint and steel is a graduated woodman, for the feat
presupposes experience of many years and the skill that belongs
to a winner.

When Quonab and Rolf came back from taking each a load over the
first little portage, they found Van Cortlandt getting ready for
a fire with a great, solid pile of small logs, most of them wet
and green. He knew how to use flint and steel, because that was
the established household way of the times. Since childhood had
he lighted the candle at home by this primitive means. When his
pile of soggy logs was ready, he struck his flint, caught a spark
on the tinder that is always kept on hand, blew it to a flame,
thrust in between two of the wet logs, waited for all to blaze
up, and wondered why the tiny blaze went out at once, no matter
how often he tried.

When the others came back, Van Cortlandt remarked: "It doesn't
seem to burn." The Indian turned away in silent contempt. Rolf
had hard work to keep the forms of respect, until the thought
came: "I suppose I looked just as big a fool in his world at
Albany."

"See," said he, "green wood and wet wood won't do, but yonder is
some birch bark and there's a pine root." He took his axe and cut
a few sticks from the root, then used his knife to make a
sliver-fuzz of each; one piece, so resinous that it would not
whittle, he smashed with the back of the axe into a lot of
matchwood. With a handful of finely shredded birch bark he was
now quite ready. A crack of the flint a blowing of the spark
caught on the tinder from the box, a little flame that at once
was magnified by the birch bark, and in a minute the pine
splinters made a sputtering fire. Quonab did not even pay Van
Cortlandt the compliment of using one of his logs. He cut a
growing poplar, built a fireplace of the green logs around the
blaze that Rolf had made, and the meal was ready in a few
minutes.

Van Cortlandt was not a fool; merely it was all new to him. But
his attention was directed to fire-making now, and long before
they reached their cabin he had learned this, the first of the
woodman's arts -- he could lay and light a fire. And when, weeks
later, he not only made the flint fire, but learned in emergency
to make the rubbing stick spark, his cup of joy was full. He felt
he was learning.

Determined to be in everything, now he paddled all day; at first
with vigour, then mechanically, at last feebly and painfully.
Late in the afternoon they made the first long portage; it was a
quarter mile. Rolf took a hundred pounds, Quonab half as much
more, Van Cortlandt tottered slowly behind with his pill-kit and
his paddle. That night, on his ample mattress, he slept the sleep
of utter exhaustion. Next day he did little and said nothing. It
came on to rain; he raised a huge umbrella and crouched under it
till the storm was over. But the third day he began to show signs
of new life, and before they reached the Schroon's mouth, on the
fifth day, his young frame was already responding to the elixir
of the hills.

It was very clear that they could not take half of the stuff that
they had cached at the Schroon's mouth, so that a new adjustment
was needed and still a cache to await another trip.

That night as they sat by their sixth camp fire, Van Cortlandt
pondered over the recent days, and they seemed many since he had
left home. He felt much older and stronger. He felt not only less
strange, but positively intimate with the life, the river, the
canoe, and his comrades; and, pleased with his winnings, he laid
his hand on Skookum, slumbering near, only to arouse in response
a savage growl, as that important animal arose and moved to the
other side of the fire. Never did small dog give tall man a more
deliberate snub. "You can't do that with Skookum; you must wait
till he's ready," said Rolf.

The journey up the Hudson with its "mean" waters and its
"carries" was much as before. Then they came to the eagle's nest
and the easy waters of Jesup's River, and without important
incident they landed at the cabin. The feeling of "home again"
spread over the camp and every one was gay.

Chapter 59. Van Cortlandt's Drugs

AIN'T ye feelin' all right?" said Rolf, one bright, calomel
morning, as he saw Van Cortlandt pre- paring his daily physic.

"Why, yes; I'm feeling fine; I'm better every day," was the
jovial reply.

"Course I don't know, but my mother used to say: 'Med'cine's the
stuff makes a sick man well, an' a well man sick."'

"My mother and your mother would have fought at sight, as you may
judge. B-u-t," he added with reflective slowness, and a merry

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