Around the Camp-fire

“Now, this was in all respects a most fortunate diversion. Tamang was so light of foot that the snow easily upbore him. He found himself able, without difficulty, to elude his floundering pursuer. He took a short circuit among the trees, and headed back toward the team.

“Baizley was now on his feet, and himself again. He was running to pick up his axe, when Tamang yelled, ‘No! No! Spear him, spear him wid ze peevy, Jeem! Spear him wid ze peevy!’

“It was a good idea, and Baizley realized the force of it. The steel-shod pike-pole was indeed a formidable weapon. Grasping it short in both hands, Baizley sprang upon the logs of his ill-fated load, and a second later Tamang came leaping past with the bear at his heels.

“In an instant the plucky Frenchman turned and faced his pursuer. The bear rose on his hind legs to seize him, and Baizley’s opportunity had arrived. With all his force he drove the point of the pike-pole into the brute’s body, right under the foreshoulder.

“Down came the huge arm, snapping the tough pole like a splinter; but the steel point had gone home. The bear fell dead, close beside the dead ox.

“Whilst Tamang, with voluble excitement, examined the two victims of Baizley’s wise precautions, the latter with taciturn deliberation proceeded to unyoke the trembling steer from its ill-starred mate. But from the way his eyes rolled in their lean sockets, it was easy to see that the gaunt lumberman was doing some swift and energetic thinking.”

“Now, then, Magnus,” cried Queerman, “we look to you. Will it be more about the lumber-camps?”

“No,” replied Magnus; “I shall introduce a beast of whom none of you have yet said a word. Yet he is an important beast, and played no small part in preparing the land of Canaan for the advent of the children of Israel. My story is —

‘SAVED BY A HORNET’S NEST.’

“I got the story just a few weeks ago, when I was out fishing on the Rushagornish with Dick Henderson. Near the shore we came upon a huge hornets’ nest suspended beneath a bush. Swayed by the common impulse of destructiveness, I suggested that we should set fire to the nest.

“‘No, indeed,’ said Dick. ‘If we attack the nest we deserve to get stung. Mr. Yellow Jacket is a self-respecting citizen, and will not trouble you unless you wantonly interfere with him. If he resents aggression fiercely, we cannot blame him for that, can we? Besides, a hornets’ nest is held sacred among us Hendersons.’

“‘You don’t mean to confess,’ I exclaimed, ‘that it symbolizes the spirit and temper of your family?’

“‘Not exactly,’ replied Dick. ‘But it certainly preserved the connection between flesh and spirit for our family at a very critical moment. My Grandfather Henderson owed his life to a nest of hornets at a time when he, a young man of twenty-two, was the sole representative of his line.’

“The trout were not rising, and the rapidly heating air persuaded to indolence. I stood my rod up in a bush, threw myself down in a shady spot, and remarked to Dick that he might as well tell me about his grandfather. This invitation elicited the following curious story: —

“It was during the war of 1812. The battles of Chrysler’s Farm and Chateauguay had not yet been fought, and the Canadians were in doubt as to the movements of the two American armies which were preparing to attack Montreal. They knew that General Wilkinson was at Sackett’s Harbor, making ready to descend the St. Lawrence; but in regard to General Hampton, who was advancing by way of Lake Champlain, information was much in demand.

“My grandfather, James Henderson, who knew the country between the St. Lawrence and Lake Champlain, volunteered to get the information. He had many friends on the American side of the line, most of whom, as he knew, heartily disapproved of this unnecessary struggle between the United States and England. On these he depended for help if he should get caught; and he really gave far too little heed to the nature of the risk he was running. Yet he took wise precautions, and played his part with discretion.

“With a ragged-looking horse and a shabby pedler’s wagon, and himself skilfully made up for the rôle of a country hawker, he was comparatively secure from recognition. Indeed, I have heard him boast that he made sales to some of his most intimate acquaintances, who never for an instant dreamed that it was Jim Henderson whom they were haggling with.

“All went prosperously until the very end of the adventure drew near. My grandfather was returning with the important information that Hampton’s objective point was the mouth of the Chateauguay River, whence he would cross the St. Lawrence, and descend upon Montreal from Lachine.

“At Smith’s Corners, a little rudimentary village about ten miles from the Canadian border, my grandfather stopped for a bite of dinner.

“Jake Smith, the landlord of the little inn, was a trusted friend; and to him my grandfather revealed himself in obedience to a sudden impulse. It was the first time on the whole journey that he had given the slightest clew to his true personality. Well for him that he yielded to this impulse, else even the friendly hornets’ nest, to which we are coming presently, would not have availed to save him.

“Jake Smith was a stirring fellow, who under ordinary circumstances would have liked nothing better than running a spy to earth; but when that spy was Jim Henderson, the case was different.

“My grandfather had stood his horse and wagon in on the spacious barn floor, and was having a wash in a little bedroom opening off the kitchen. The bedroom door was partly closed.

“Suddenly, through the crack of the door, he caught sight of a small party of American militiamen, at whose heels followed two huge brindled mastiffs, or part mastiffs, probably a cross between mastiff and bloodhound. Henderson, confident in his disguise, was just slipping on his coat with the idea of going out and speaking to the soldiers, when the leader’s voice, addressing the landlord at the kitchen door, arrested him.

“‘Where’s that pedler chap that drove in here a few minutes ago?’ inquired the officer, puzzled at seeing no sign of the wagon.

“‘What do you want of him?’ inquired the landlord with an air of interest.

“‘We’ll show you presently!’ said the officer. ‘And we’ll want you, too, if we catch you trying to shelter a spy! Where is he?’

“‘I don’t shelter no spies,’ growled Jake Smith ambiguously; ‘and I’d advise you to keep your jaw for your own men!”

“The officer was about to make an angry reply, but changed his mind.

“‘That pedler,’ said he firmly, ‘is a spy; and it is your duty to assist in his capture. Is he in this house?’

“Now, Smith knew better than to try to persuade the soldiers that Henderson had driven away. He saw they had certain knowledge of the spy’s presence. So he exclaimed: —

“‘A spy, is he? Well, I reckon you’ve about got him, then. He’s drove his team in on the barn floor, out of the sun, and most likely’ – but the whole squad were off for the barn.

“‘To the woods! The cave!’ hissed Smith toward the little bedroom; and at the same instant my grandfather darted from the window, down behind the tall rows of pole-beans and a leafy bed of artichokes, and gained the cover of the woods which touched on the rear edge of the garden.

“He ran with desperate speed, following at first a well-beaten cattle-path that led straight into the woods. But he had small hope of escape. It was the glimpse he had got of those two great dogs that filled his soul with dismay.

“For the troops alone he would have cared little. He knew he could outrun most men, and the forest afforded innumerable hiding-places. But those dogs! With no weapon but his sheath-knife, he could hardly hope to overcome them without being himself disabled; and if he were to take refuge in a tree, they would just hold him there till their masters arrived to lead him off to an ignominious death.

“My grandfather concluded, however, that his only chance for escape lay in fighting the dogs. If he could kill them before the soldiers came up, he might possibly get away.

“But to make the most of this poor chance he must get deep into the woods, and lead the dogs a long distance ahead of the troops.

“He understood the sound tactics of dividing the enemy’s forces. He tightened his belt and ran on, snatching up by the way a stout stick which some one had intended for a cane.

“The cave of which Smith had spoken lay about three miles from the village. After following the cattle-path for perhaps half a mile, my grandfather turned a little to the right and plunged into the trackless forest. His long, nimble legs carried him swiftly over the innumerable obstructions of the forest floor.

“His ears were strained anxiously to catch the first deep baying that would tell him the dogs were on his scent. Every minute that the dreadful voices delayed was an addition to his little stock of hopes. If only he could reach the cave, his chances of victory over the dogs would be much increased; for the entrance to it was so small that only one of his assailants would be able to get in at a time.

“At last, when he had run about two miles, his breath failed him. He threw himself flat on his face on a bit of mossy ground beside a brook. As he lay there gasping, his mouth open, his eyes shut, suddenly along the resonant ground were borne to his ears the voices of the dogs.

“When he sprang to his feet he could no longer hear them; but he knew he must gain more time. Jumping into the brook he ran several hundred yards up-stream; then, seizing a long, overhanging branch, he swung himself well ashore, some ten feet clear of the bank.

“As he once more headed for the cave, he flattered himself, not without reason, that the dogs would lose some time before they picked up his scent again.

“The baying of the pursuers soon came near enough to be distinctly heard, and then grew in volume rapidly. At last it stopped; and he knew the dogs had reached the brook, and were hunting for the scent. Before that sinister music rose again on the stillness of the wilderness air, Henderson came in sight of the hillside wherein the cave lay hidden.

“Just as he was congratulating himself that he had now a good chance of escape, a thought occurred to him that dashed his hopes. ‘Why,’ said he to himself, ‘the dogs would most likely refuse to enter the cave!’ Seeing the smallness of the entrance, they would no doubt stay baying outside, keeping him like a rat in a hole until the soldiers should come and smoke him out.

“However, he decided to risk it. He could, at least, block the entrance with stones, and make some sort of fight at the last; or even there might be some other exit, – some fissure in the hill which he had never explored. At any rate, he was too much exhausted to run any farther.

“As he approached the low opening in the hillside a lot of hornets darted past his ears. Having a dread of hornets he glanced about nervously, and imagined at first they were denizens of his cave. But in a moment he saw the nest.

“It was an immense gray globular structure, hanging from the branch of a small fir-tree, at a height of about two feet from the ground. It was not more than five or six feet from the cave, and almost directly in front of it.

“Henderson was a man of resources; and he appreciated the fighting prowess of a well-stirred colony of hornets. He decided to enlist the colony in his defence.

“The hornets were taking no notice of him whatever, being intent on business of their own. Henderson took a long piece of string from his trousers pocket, and in the most delicate fashion possible made one end fast to the branch which supported the nest. Then, lying down flat on his face, he squirmed softly past without getting into collision with the insects, and crawled into the cave, carrying with him the other end of the string.

“Once safely inside, his first care was to grope around for a big stone or two. These he soon procured, and with their aid the entrance was blocked. Then he took off his coat.

“He laid his ear to the crevices in his barricade. The dogs were getting so near that he could hear now the crashing of their heavy forms as they bounded through the underbrush.

“Holding his coat ready to stop up, if necessary, the small openings he had left for observation, he began jerking sharply on the string which connected him with the hornets’ nest.

“He could hear the furious buzzing which instantly arose as the hornets swarmed forth to resent the disturbance. He could see how the air grew yellow all about the nest. But it did not occur to the angry insects to seek for their disturber in the cave.

“Henderson jerked again and yet again, and the enraged swarm grew thicker.

“At this moment the dogs came into view. Very deadly and inexorable they looked as they bounded along, heads low down, their dark, muscular bodies dashing the branches aside and bearing down the undergrowth.

“Now, realizing perhaps that they had run their prey to earth, they raised their heads and barked, in a tone very different from that of their baying. Unfalteringly they dashed straight upon the barricade; and one of them, as he sprang past, struck the nest a ruder shock than any that my grandfather’s string had been able to give it.

“In that same instant the exasperated hornets were upon the dogs. A sharp chorus arose of angry and frightened yelpings. Yet for a few seconds the brave brutes persisted in their efforts to force an entrance to my grandfather’s retreat. This gave the hornets a fair chance.

“They settled upon the animals’ eyes and ears and jaws, till flesh and blood – even dog flesh and blood – could endure the fiery anguish no longer. Both dogs rolled over and over, burrowing their noses in the moss, and trying with their paws to scrape off their bitter assailants. But the contest was too unequal.

“Presently both dogs stuck their tails between their legs, and darted off in mad panic through the woods. Gradually their yelpings died away.

“My grandfather then and there registered a vow that he would never again break up a hornets’ nest. He slackened the string till it lay loose and inconspicuous amid the moss, but he did not exactly care to go out and detach it from the branch.

“Then he lay down and rested, feeling pretty confident that the soldiers would not find their way to his retreat now that they were deprived of the assistance of the dogs. As for the dogs, he knew that their noses were pretty well spoiled for a day or two.

“That night, when he felt quite sure the hornets had gone to bed, my grandfather crept out of his refuge, stole softly past his little protectors without disturbing them to say farewell, and struck across the forest in the direction of the Canadian border. A little later the moon got up, and by her light he made good progress.

“Soon after daybreak he reached the banks of the Chateauguay, and about an hour later he fell in with a scouting-party of the Glengarry Fencibles, who took him to the headquarters of De Salaberry, the Canadian commander. As for the ragged old horse and the pedler’s wagon, they remained at Smith’s Corners, a keepsake for Jake Smith.”

“I think,” said Ranolf, “that’s a good enough yarn to go to bed on. I’m as sleepy as a June-bug.”

Upon this we all discovered that we were in the same condition as Ranolf. The exhilaration of the run down the Toledi, and the hard strain of the passage across Temiscouata, had tired us through and through. How delicious were our blankets that night at Détour du Lac!

CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST CAMP-FIRE

We got away from Détour du Lac in the early morning, and reached the outlet, the head of the Madawaska River, after a brisk paddle of some eight miles. The run down the Madawaska was swift and easy, – a rapid current and a clear channel. What more could canoemen wish? Late in the afternoon we pitched tent on a woody hill half a mile above Edmundston. To signalize our return to civilization we visited the hotel and post-office, and then returned to camp for tea. The fire blazed right merrily that night, and to ward off melancholy thoughts we told stories as usual.

“Boys,” said Stranion, “I’ve saved for this last night in camp the one that I count choicest of all my yarns. The scene of it lies on those very waters which we have lately passed through!”

“Name?” demanded I, sharpening my pencil with a business air.

“Just —

‘INDIAN DEVILS,’

replied Stranion.

“It was a scorching noon in mid-July of 1885. Dear old H – and I were in camp on the upper waters of the Squatook, not far below the mouth of Beardsley Brook. How H – loved to get away from his professorial dignity and freely unbend in the woods! He used to swear he would never again put on a starched collar. But his big American university keeps him prim enough now!

“We had called a halt for dinner and siesta in a little sandy cove, where the river eddied listlessly. It was a hollow between high banks, down which drew a soft breeze as through a funnel, and the deep grass fringing the tiny beach was densely shadowed by a tangle of vines and branches.

“Our birch canoe was behind us, her resined sides well shaded from the heat. At the water’s edge flickered the remnants of our fire, paled and browbeaten by the steady downpour of sunshine. The stream itself, for a wonder grown drowsy, idled over its pebbly bed with a sleep-inducing murmur.

“While we were thus half idling and dreaming, I was startled wide awake by the grating of a paddle on a line of gravelly shoals above the point. A moment more and a birch canoe swept into view, and drew up at our landing-place. The crew, two youngish-looking Indians, having lifted their craft out of the water, stalked silently up the beach and paused before us, leaning on their paddles. With a non-committal grunt they accepted some proffered tobacco, glanced over our baggage, eyed greedily the bright nickel-plating on our trout-rods, and murmured something in Melicete which I failed to comprehend.

“The professor, somewhat annoyed at this intrusion, blinked sleepily at them for a while, and then proceeded to sort and stow away his latest acquired specimens, amongst which were some splendid bits of pyrites, glittering richly in the sun.

“One of our visitors was not unknown to me. He was a certain Joe Tobin, of ill repute, hailing from Francis Village. The other was an older looking man, with high cheek-bones and little, pig-like, half-shut eyes.

“The appearance of neither had any attraction for me, but the Indian with the pig-like eyes I found particularly distasteful.

“These eyes grew intent at once, as they caught the yellow gleam of the pyrites; but their owner preserved his air of stoical indifference.

“Approaching the professor’s side, he sought a closer examination; but the professor was not propitiatory. He dumped the ore into his specimen-box before the Indian could touch it; and shifting the box deeper into the shade, he took his seat upon it. The box was plainly heavy, and a gleam of interest crept into the cunning eyes of Joe.

“‘Gold, mebbe?’ he suggested persuasively.

“To which the professor, facetiously grumpy, answered, ‘Yes, all gold! Fools’ gold!’

“At this a most greedy glance passed furtively between the Indians, and it flashed upon me that by the barbaric ear ‘Fools’ gold’ might be misinterpreted to ‘Full of gold.’

“I gave the rash professor a warning look, which Joe intercepted. I then proceeded to explain what was meant by ‘Fools’ gold,’ and declared that the things in the professor’s box were valueless bits of rock, which we had picked up chiefly out of curiosity. This statement, however, as I could see by our visitors’ faces, was at once regarded as a cunning and cautious lie to conceal the vast value of our treasure.

“‘Whereabouts you get um?’ queried Joe again.

“‘Oh,’ answered the professor, ‘there’s lots of it floating round Mud Lake and Beardsley Brook.’ He took a lovely cluster of crystals out of his pocket, and laughed to see how the Indians’ eyes stuck out with deluded avarice. I felt angry at his nonsense, for one of our visitors was an out-and-out ruffian.

“In a few moments, after a series of low grunts, which baffled my ear completely, though I was acquainted with the Melicete tongue, the Indians turned to go, saying in explanation of their sudden departure, ‘Sugar Loaf ’fore sundown, mebbe.’ I took the precaution to display, at this juncture, a double-barrelled breech-loader, into which I slipped a couple of buck-shot cartridges; and as I nodded them a bland farewell, I said in Melicete, ‘It’ll be late when you get to Sugar Loaf.’ The start they gave, on hearing me speak their own language, confirmed my suspicions, and they paddled off in haste without more words.

“No sooner were they well out of sight than I made ready with all speed for our own departure; nor did I neglect to upbraid the professor for his rashness. At first he pooh-poohed my apprehension, declaring that it was ‘fun to fool the greedy Hottentots;’ but when I explained my grounds for alarm, he condescended to treat them with some respect. He warmed up, indeed, and made haste, so that we were once more darting along with the racing current before the Indians had been gone above ten minutes; but I could see that he had adopted my suspicions mainly for the sake of an added excitement. The professor’s class-room afforded too little scope for such an adventurous spirit, and he was beginning to crave the relish of a spice of peril. With his dainty rifle just to his hand, he was soon plying a fervent and effective paddle, while his sharp eyes kept a lookout which I knew very little would evade.

“Our design was to press so closely upon the rascals’ heels that any plot they might agree upon should not find time to mature. We knew they would never calculate upon our following them so promptly; still less would they dream of the speed that we were making. In a fair race we flattered ourselves that we could beat most Indians, and we rather counted on overtaking and passing this couple before they could accomplish aught against us. There was one point in the stream, however, which I remembered with misgivings.

“Three or four miles ahead of us were the rapids which, you remember, we had such fun with a few days ago. I suggested to H – that there, if anywhere, those Indians would lie in wait for us, knowing that our hands would be well occupied in navigating the canoe.

“Those five miles soon slipped by. As we shot down the roaring channel we saw, in the reach beyond the last turmoil, a canoe thrust in among the alders.

“‘Ah-h-h!’ exclaimed the professor, in a tone of deepening conviction; and he shifted his grip upon his rifle. An instant more and we were in the surges.

“Just then I saw the professor start, half raising his rifle to the shoulder; but the canoe was taking all my attention, and I dared not follow his glance to shoreward.

“Our delicate craft seemed to wallow down the roaring trough. The stream was much heavier than we found it the other day, I can tell you. At the foot of the first chute a great thin-crested ripple slapped over us.

“I had understood the professor’s gesture; and, as we plunged down the next leap, I chuckled to myself, ‘Sold this time!’

“Like a bird, the true little craft took the plunge. One more blinding dash of spray, a shivering pause, and, darting forward arrow-like, she dipped to the last and steepest descent.

“At this instant, from the bank overhead, came a spurt of blue smoke and a report, followed by a twinge in my left shoulder. Another report, scarcely audible amid the falls’ thunder, and cleaving the last great ripple, we swept into gentler currents. Crack! crack! crack! went the professor’s little rifle, as he fired over his shoulder at the place where the smoke-puffs clung.

“I said, ‘Push on, before they can load again.’

“Dropping my paddle, as we passed their empty canoe, I put two charges of buck-shot through her birchen sides. Then, satisfied that the mending of this breach would keep our enemy wholesomely occupied for some time, we pushed forward swiftly in grim triumph.

“A few miles farther on I stopped, and informed the professor that I was wounded. At this he turned about in such sudden concern that he barely missed upsetting the canoe; but he presently remarked, ‘By the healthy vigor you’ve displayed in running away the last half hour, I don’t imagine the wound can be serious.’