Part 22

The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the wilderness—it is enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings. It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without shaking.

I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.

Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner. Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their caterwauling.

We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet with a specimen of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one.

Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.

The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.

A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.

While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—a surveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.

My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.

A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—

“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”

High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the Sunday _New York Journal_. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.

I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.

He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.

Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowhere near the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.

“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”

“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”

“Montana.”

“Hunting?”

“No, just taking life easy.”

That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?

Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.

“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.

“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.

“Shot.”

“W-h-a-a-t!”

“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental. Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more Jerry Lane.”

* * * * *

That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired, blue-eyed sheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.

THE SONG OF THE MOOSE

_This the song which the trapper heard,_ _Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,_ _Heard while the embers snapped and snarled,_ _To the growl and glare of the glimmering spark._ _Heard while the lucivee cried from the pines,_ _And the ribboned splash of a startled loon,_ _Crystalled the rim of the lake, as it lay_ _Soft in the gleam of the hunter’s moon._ _This is the song of the moose._

Near the amber drip of the torrent’s rip, Where the lean wolf howls at the blinding spray, Where the sleeted pine is riven and rent, By stress and strain of the mist-bank gray; We struggled and fed through the reedling’s bed, Where the sheldrake croons to her fledglings brown, And the otter mewed to its hungry brood, As the osprey peered from the hemlock’s crown.

Our moosling day was a rapturous play, We browsed where the partridge drummed a song, Where the brown bear hid in the tamarack, Where the days were short and the nights were long. We roamed ’neath the arch of the drowsy larch, Where the beaver bred in the inky pool, We splashed in the foam of the cataract, In the frothing spume and the ripples cool.

We hid ’neath the pine of the Serpentine, As the red fox barked to his sleek-fed mate; We ate of the birch of the Restigouche, Where the goldfinch whisper and undulate. Oh, bright were the days, with surcease of care, As we fed and grew from our clumsy birth; While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen, And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.

Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad, As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake; The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year, And the salmon raced from their spawning creek. Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed, We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad; From the distant blue came the caribou, Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.

Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed, When the air grew chill in the Northern blast, And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky, On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast. Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl, And soft was his voice from the cedar deep; As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard, And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.

Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang, “’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afar From the sound of his voice and reach of his arm, For his song is death and his hand is war.” The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut, Far down in the depths of the silent wood; And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd, As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.

We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend, The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp; We were shown to ride, with a single stride, The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp. We saw how to strip the birch with our lip, And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight; We learned how to tell a foe by the smell, That law in the wood was the law of hate.

Another year, and the wide ridge was clear, As the snow grew less, and the day grew long; With a start of the sap we swung from our trap, While the chickadee whispered his mating song; And the robin came, with feathers of flame, To carol a psalm from the budding spray, While the chewink’s flute, like a minstrel’s lute, Trilled clear in the balm of the softening day.

Oh, that life was good in the opening wood, As our brothers’ horns turned velvet to bone, We wandered at will over hummock and hill, ’Till we found out—alas—we were never alone. Man found us there, in our deep, forest lair, And plunge as we would in the thicket’s gloom, We ran on his track and the sign of his pack, As he close hunted us down to our doom.

There, oft in the dark, we trembled to hark To his muffled call, by bank of the pond, And to those who lacked in spirit of fear, It was death to inquire, and death to respond. Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain, As prostrate they lay near some crystal stream Lured to their end by the low, soothing cry, Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.

To the whispering rest of the trackless West, We travel to live where the range-land is clear, Where wolf and bear keep their sheltering lair, Where silence is deep and man is not near. Few—few are there left from merciless war, Waged on our ranks, now broken and gone, Yet, struggle we must ’gainst slaughtering lust, Our end is in view—race-driven, forlorn.

_This is the song which the trapper heard,_ _Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,_ _Heard of an ancient and vanishing race,_ _By the growl and glare of the glimmering spark._ _Heard of the mannish blood-lust and greed,_ _Of the withering waste in the rifle’s path,_ _Song of the steel-clad bullet’s speed,_ _This is the song of the moose._

RETROSPECT

NO longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust, No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust, Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists of time, Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing line. The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there, Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly bear. The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry, Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the dark’ning sky. From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and bled On treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed. The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest, Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast. No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall, By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl. The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone, As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn. We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth, Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth. Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper bold Were wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled. Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the West, Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their Heavenly rest.

THE END.

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