Chapter 6

Ringtail climbed from the home tree to which he had returned in the spring, and set out for the swamp, eager for a meal of frogs and fish in spite of the strange, oppressive feeling in the air. About midnight, while he was still abroad, the storm broke and swept over the wilderness, leaving its path strewn with a tangled mass of brush and fallen trees. Fortunate it was for Ringtail that he was not at home, for the great beech crashed to the earth, where it lay upon the forest floor, the entrance to the raccoon's house buried from sight. Thus Ringtail found it when he returned from his fishing, having safely weathered the storm under a ledge of rock.

His comfortable home was gone, but Ringtail was not one to complain. The next night found him abroad in search of a new dwelling, moving being no trouble at all for him. In the course of his wanderings he came to the rail fence which protected the clearing of the Hermit. Standing with his front feet on the lower rail, Ringtail surveyed the house and the cleared ground flooded with moonlight. A dark object at the top of a tall pole caught his attention and he decided to investigate.

Ringtail was a skillful climber and he soon stood on a stout platform at the top of the pole. Before him was a rude, though inviting-looking cabin of sticks; but, alas for poor Ringtail's hopes, the doorway was much too small for him to enter. He poked in his inquisitive, pointed nose, thereby causing a great commotion among the sparrows who had made the place their home. Aroused by their noisy chirping, the Hermit appeared in his doorway and in the moonlight discovered the dark bulk before his birdhouse.

Wondering what it could be, he approached noiselessly and turned his flashlight upon the visitor. The light revealed a pair of bright little eyes set in a comical, black-masked face peering down at him over the edge of the platform.

"Old Ringtail, as sure as I am standing here, and by the looks of things, trying his best to roost in my birdhouse!" The Hermit chuckled as he looked up into the eyes of the animal, who did not seem at all alarmed.

After the two had gazed sociably at each other for a few moments the Hermit bade Ringtail a cheery good-night and withdrew to his own cabin, calling to Pal, who had been arousing the echoes with his excited barking. The next morning Ringtail had disappeared, but, deciding that the raccoon would make a far more interesting neighbor than a colony of noisy sparrows, the Hermit tore out the nests and enlarged the doorway enough to permit the animal to enter. Then he awaited developments, trusting to the raccoon's curiosity to bring him back.

He was not disappointed. The following night Ringtail again visited the birdhouse. To his joy he discovered that it could now be entered, even though the doorway was a tight fit. The sparrows, who, in spite of the destruction of their nests, had returned to the cabin to roost, he evicted without a qualm of conscience. The first streaks of dawn found him curled up snugly, sound asleep in his new home.

From that time on, the big raccoon made himself very much at home about the clearing. At night he investigated everything on the place and nearly drove Pal to a frenzy until the dog's master gave him to understand that the raccoon was to be one of the family. Pal was surprised and disgusted, but from that time on he tried to ignore his old enemy. This was not an easy matter. Ringtail, who had grown extremely bold with the protection accorded him, seemed to take delight in making Pal's life miserable. He would tag the dog around the clearing until Pal, in desperation, would turn upon him with a savage growl. Then his tormentor would take to a tree, or his pole, or even the roof of the cabin, there to wait until the dog's anger had cooled.

Ringtail had, also, another habit which annoyed Pal greatly. In the shade just outside the cabin door was the dog's drinking-pan which the Hermit always kept filled with fresh water from the spring. This pan the raccoon always used for washing his food. Poor Pal, coming up hot and thirsty, was sure to find it full of leaves, twigs and earth. He bore this affront for some time but at last his patience was exhausted. There-after he did his drinking at the spring, approaching it always by a round-about way lest the raccoon discover it and pollute its clear water. The Hermit watched the two animals with amusement, but he did not interfere. Gradually the feud was forgotten. Indeed, before many weeks had passed, the two had become firm friends, though Ringtail still delighted in teasing the dog.

In a surprisingly short space of time, too, the raccoon came to trust the Hermit, even to the point of entering the cabin and eating from his hand. This friendliness, however, led to trouble, as the man soon discovered. Ringtail's curiosity was never satisfied and the cabin furnished a rich field for exploration. Shining objects of all kinds seemed to hold a fascination for him. One day when the Hermit missed his watch, and found it eventually in the raccoon's house, he decided that it was time to put a curb upon that animal's explorations.

Ringtail developed another habit which came to be very annoying to the Hermit. On warm summer nights the man slept in a hammock swung between two trees in front of his cabin. Ringtail, returning from his nocturnal hunting, would run along the low branch of one of these trees until he stood directly above the sleeper. Then he would let go and fall with a thud, sometimes into the springy hammock, but more often upon the man.

Nothing that the Hermit could do would break Ringtail of this playful habit. At length he was compelled to move his hammock, swinging it between a corner of the cabin and a small spruce having no long, horizontal branches. Here for a time he slept in peace, until Ringtail discovered that he could take a few steps on the rope and so get into the hammock, where he would sleep contentedly until morning. At least this was better than having the raccoon's weight descend upon him without warning, and the Hermit permitted him to remain. Sometimes he even used Ringtail for a pillow, a liberty which the animal never resented.

As has been mentioned, Ringtail was extremely fond of bright objects. A bit of glass or tin glittering in the light would draw him irresistibly. And one night this attraction led him into serious trouble. At dawn Ringtail was still absent, and as the morning passed and he did not return, the Hermit grew uneasy. Pal, too, seemed to miss his playmate. He wandered aimlessly about and at last disappeared into the forest.

Late in the afternoon Pal returned and signified by his actions that his master was needed in the forest. Remembering the plight in which Dave Lansing had found himself, the Hermit carried his axe with him into the wilderness. Pal ran on ahead but his eager barking enabled his master to follow. Coming to a mossy spot under a big pine, he beheld a sight which moved him to pity.

Long before, a trap had been set under the tree and forgotten. It was covered from sight and badly rusted save for one spot, where a moonbeam had made a dazzling point of light in the darkness. Lured by its gleam Ringtail had stopped to investigate and his foot had been caught fast in the trap.

For hours he had torn at the thing which held him so tightly, until, bleeding and exhausted and almost dead with thirst, he had crouched down among the leaves in despair. Thus Pal had found him and, unable to do anything for his playfellow, had brought his master, confident that to him all things were possible. When the Hermit came upon them, Pal was licking the face of the big raccoon who seemed much comforted by the dog's presence.

The Hermit, with his axe, soon freed Ringtail. As the latter limped painfully, he carried him in his arms to the cabin, Pal frisking joyfully about them. Ringtail had the best of attention and in a few days was as lively as ever, his spirits undampened by his harrowing experience. He worried Pal continually, but the dog bore it all with a look of mingled resignation and pleasure which was comical to see.

About this time a new trick which the big raccoon had developed became very annoying to poor Pal. When presented by his master with an unusually fine bone, the dog would sneak off back of the cabin, look suspiciously around and then quickly bury his prize, concealing all traces of its location. Almost invariably, however, a pair of bright eyes set in a masked face would be watching from some place of concealment and the dog would no sooner turn his back than the mischievous Ringtail would dig up the treasure. Pal generally discovered him in time to save the bone and the friendship appeared not to suffer in the least.

Once Pal, in his turn, owed his life to his friend. At dusk the two wandered together into the borders of the wilderness. While Ringtail was catching mice, Pal went on by himself. Early that spring a lynx had taken up its abode in a rocky cave not far from the Hermit's clearing, and several times had watched hungrily as Pal trotted through the forest. Pal had always been accompanied by the Hermit and, though the lynx could see no gun, it was suspicious of mankind and dared not attack. Now, however, it found the dog alone and unprotected.

Without a sound the beast crouched and leaped. As it sprang, however, a sound deflected its attention and the leap fell short, the long claws raking cruelly across the dog's unprotected back, but causing no fatal injury. Pal uttered a howl of terror and pain and, before the big cat could launch itself again, a raging whirlwind of claws and teeth descended upon its back.

Ringtail, at his hunting not far away, had heard the agonized cry of his playmate and the sound had filled him with rage. Now, perched upon the back of the astonished lynx, he bit and tore, holding his place in spite of the animal's frantic efforts to dislodge him. At length, cowed and exhausted and with bleeding flanks, the lynx was glad to escape to its den. From that time on it showed no interest in either dog or raccoon.

Late summer came, with a full moon flooding the world with its silvery radiance. The nights were almost as bright as the days and seemed to hold a witchery which ran like fire in the veins of the forest folk. Ringtail slept in his log house the greater part of the day but was seldom to be found about the clearing at night. He was round, full-fed, and jolly.

One night the Hermit fell asleep thinking of Ringtail. As he slept, he dreamed of walking in the forest and of hearing the distant barking of dogs. Louder and louder grew the sound until suddenly he awoke to find that it had not all been a dream. So close at hand as to startle him, he heard a wild clamor in which he could distinguish Pal's excited voice. Leaping from his hammock he quickly rounded the corner of the cabin and beheld a weird sight. A torch borne in the hand of a tall man cast a flickering light over a mêlée of dogs, leaping and barking about the foot of the pole which held Ringtail's snug home. Another but smaller figure stood near, pointing to the spot where, upon the platform before the birdhouse, two shining eyes looked down at the group. Pal was here, there and everywhere, loudly voicing his opinion of the intruders.

The Hermit strode up to the group. "What does this mean?" he asked in a stern voice, of the man who held the torch.

Instead of replying to his question, the man asked, "Is that your coon?"

"No, it isn't my coon, but it is kind enough to be boarding with me at present," the Hermit replied.

"Well, you'll have to kill him. My name is Graham. I live a mile up the river and this coon has just about ruined my cornfield," was the truculent answer.

"How do you know it is this one?" the Hermit asked. "There are other raccoons in the woods."

"How do we know?" The man was growing angry at the delay. "Didn't we just track him here? After he had ruined a choice patch last night, I made up my mind to get him. Sure enough, he came to-night and the dogs brought us here."

The Hermit's face grew grave and he raised troubled eyes to those of his old friend twinkling down at him. "If this is true," he said slowly, "of course something will have to be done. I only ask you to make sure first. Will you do what I propose?"

He talked earnestly for a few moments while the farmer listened in silence. Then Mr. Graham said, still unconvinced, "Well, we will try it, but if we find that it is your coon, he will have to be killed."

The Hermit nodded and, calling their dogs, the strangers departed without their game. The Hermit returned to his hammock and silence once more settled over the clearing. It was long, however, before the man slept. Ringtail, with his mischievous ways and funny masked face, had become a favorite member of his little household. And now disgrace and death were probably to be his portion. With a sinking of the heart the Hermit remembered Ringtail's long absences in the moonlight and his full-fed, happy appearance upon his return.

The following morning, in accordance with his promise to the farmer, the Hermit lured Ringtail to the cabin by means of a cooky. Snapping a chain about his neck he tethered him securely to a young pine before the door. Ringtail ate the cooky, nosed the Hermit's hand for more and then started for home. The chain, however, brought him up with a jerk and he turned such a bewildered look upon the man that the latter's heart almost failed him.

"I'm sorry, old chap, but I promised," he said. "If you would take just a little corn it would not matter, but I have seen a field ruined by your tribe and I know it cannot be permitted."

Ringtail tried in every way to gain his freedom but the chain was strong. Pal, too, seemed much bewildered at the sudden curtailing of his playmate's liberty. He stood at attention, looking from the Hermit to his old chum and back again.

"It's no use, Pal. I promised to keep him chained to-night. Then if Mr. Graham's field suffers again, he will know that it was not Ringtail who visited it." The Hermit patted the dog's head and turned back to the cabin. When he came out some time later, he found Pal and the raccoon asleep side by side.

So Ringtail became a prisoner of war, though, it must be confessed, a very pampered one. During the day he seemed quite contented with his lot, playing with the shining links of his chain or sleeping with his tail over his eyes. But when night came and the moon again flooded the wilderness with its radiance, the raccoon strained at his leash and whimpered like a child, so that the Hermit was forced to harden his heart anew. Meanwhile, he hoped against hope that the jury would not find his pet guilty.

Both the man and the animal spent a restless night. The Hermit rose early and was just preparing his breakfast when he heard a commotion in the clearing. Looking out, he beheld Farmer Graham and his son, guns over their shoulders and two weary dogs at their heels.

"Well, I guess you can keep your coon," the farmer chuckled, as the Hermit stepped out to greet him. "The thief came again last night and we treed him much nearer home than this." He patted a bulky bag at his back. "The trails of the two must have crossed the other time. Anyway, we'll give your Ringtail the benefit of the doubt. Sorry to have troubled you."

"That's all right and I will confess that I am glad Ringtail has not been found guilty. I am just getting breakfast. Come right in and help eat it, won't you?" the Hermit invited, heartily.

The farmer declined, on the plea that breakfast would be waiting at home, and the men parted friends. Ringtail was then released from bondage and given a good breakfast, after which he climbed to his home in the birdhouse and fell asleep, unconscious of his narrow escape from death.

THE HAUNTER OF THE TRAIL

Toward the close of an early autumn day the Hermit might have been seen leaning comfortably against an angle of the old rail fence, pleasantly engaged in doing nothing. At his feet lay a bundle of freshly dug roots, the rich forest mold still adhering to their leathery, brown surfaces. At his back stretched an upland pasture covered with coarse brown grass and dotted with clumps of jumper and wild berry-bushes; before him lay the wilderness, the golden tints of birch and poplar and the scarlet of maples in sharp contrast with the dark green of pine and spruce.

The Hermit was puzzled. On several occasions when harvesting in the woods, he had become conscious of being watched by unfriendly eyes, yet when he turned there was nothing to be seen, save perhaps an inquisitive chickadee or a squirrel peeping at him from behind a tree trunk. That very afternoon, while digging his roots, he had experienced the unpleasant sensation and, stopping his work, had searched the forest all about him. Yet, a little later, the feeling had returned, and Pal had growled deep in his throat, the hair along his back bristling defiantly. The dog, however, did not leave his master and after a moment of silent waiting the Hermit had turned again to his work, resolutely dismissing the matter from his mind.

Now, as he leaned against the fence looking back toward the forest, he resolved to visit it again the following afternoon for the sole purpose of seeking out this mysterious haunter of his trail. In the mean time the shadows were growing long and a number of tasks were still to be done, so he picked up his roots, whistled to Pal, who was investigating a woodchuck hole, and turned his face homeward.

The next afternoon the Hermit entered the wilderness alone, for he wanted no excitable small dog to balk his quest. Seating himself comfortably with his back against a log and partly screened by a thicket of young alders, he waited motionless. A deep hush seemed to clothe the forest as in a garment. All about him rose great trees, their branches shutting out the sunlight and making a mysterious green dimness.

For a long time nothing unusual appeared and the Hermit grew impatient, half believing that his experience had been but a trick of the imagination. He had just about made up his mind to abandon the quest when suddenly he caught his breath, thankful that he had not stirred. He was aware of neither sound nor motion, yet not many paces distant stood a tawny, gray-brown animal whose round, moon-like face, pale savage eyes and tufted ears proclaimed it to be a lynx, or, as it is more commonly known in the backwoods settlements, a lucivee.

The animal stood a trifle over twenty inches in height, his hind legs somewhat longer than his front ones, giving him a queer, humped-up appearance. His feet were huge, furry pads which could tread a cracking forest floor as silently as shadows; his eyes beneath the tassels of stiff dark hair glowed with a pale fire, giving the beast a most sinister appearance. Save for the nervous twitching of his stubby tail, the lucivee stood as motionless as the trees about him.

As the wind was blowing toward him, the Hermit felt sure that the lynx was not yet aware of his presence. He was glad of this, as it would give him an opportunity to study the beast. The attention of the lynx was directed elsewhere, and even the ears of the man, dull in comparison with those of the wild creature, gradually became aware of a faint rustling which grew momentarily louder. The animal drifted behind a tree where he melted into the shadows and became invisible. The effect was uncanny and the Hermit ceased to wonder that he had been unable to catch a glimpse of this haunter of his trail.

Now the rustling sound grew louder and, turning his eyes, the Hermit beheld a strange spectacle. Coming slowly between the trees was something which resembled a huge burr covered with brown leaves. The Hermit stared for a moment, scarce believing the evidence of his eyes; then, as the queer object came nearer, his face relaxed in a broad grin. The apparition was Kagh, the porcupine, who had apparently been enjoying a nap in a bed of dry leaves which had adhered thickly to his spiky covering. He was indeed an odd looking object as he blundered along. The Hermit had much ado to keep from chuckling aloud, especially as he watched the lynx who seemed interested but altogether puzzled. The animal peered out from behind the tree trunk, round eyes fixed unwaveringly upon this stranger who advanced, calmly indifferent to the scrutiny.

As the porcupine passed, the lynx came cautiously forth from his concealment and padded after him, his curiosity still unsatisfied. Kagh had not gone far when some whim caused him to turn about as if to retrace his steps. The lucivee was close behind, but with a motion like the bounding of a rubber ball he quickly vacated the spot and again stood peering from behind a tree.

And now the Hermit witnessed an amusing performance. Some strange freak seemed to possess the porcupine, for he slowly circled the tree behind which the lynx crouched, stopping every few steps to sniff at the bark or to peer up into the branches. For a moment the big cat held his ground, but the sight of the queer apparition bearing down upon him was too much for his high-strung nerves. With a snarl he scrambled up the tree, where he crouched upon a branch, glaring down at the animated leaf-pile. Kagh shambled around the tree, his nose to the ground as if hunting for something. Then he continued on his placid way, disappearing down the gray vista of the forest, apparently ignorant of the fact that there was a lucivee in the woods.

A sudden puff of wind now carried the scent of the man to the crouching lynx. By a stiffening of the animal's muscles the Hermit knew that his presence had been detected. As the branch was close enough to bring the cat within springing distance, he deemed it time to assert himself. Accordingly, he sprang to his feet with a shout, while the lynx, horrified at the sudden clamor, dropped to the ground. Shrinking off into the shadows the lucivee vanished as completely as if swallowed up by the earth.

The setting sun was casting long shadows among the trees and the air was fast growing chill with the coming of night when the Hermit climbed the rail fence into his clearing, to be met by an enthusiastic Pal. The man had learned what it was that had been haunting his trail and, his mind at rest, he felt no further uneasiness. He did not believe that the lynx would attack him, at least while food was abundant. Though he rarely carried a gun, he always bore his mattock or something which could be used as a weapon in case of need.

The big cat, too, had come to know all he desired of the man whose footsteps he had been dogging for days. His savage nature craved the deeper solitudes and the next evening found him journeying northward, away from the settlements with their danger from men and guns. Wood mice were plentiful and once the lynx caught a deer, dropping upon it from an overhanging branch. In this feast he was joined by another lynx, smaller but more savage, and thereafter the two traveled together, selecting their home among the ledges of a heavily wooded country.

Autumn passed. The wild geese drifted southward in search of open waterways, and the moon of snowshoes was ushered in. For days a fierce storm raged, the keen wind lashing the branches of the forest trees and piling the drifts deep. Few indeed of the forest folk ventured abroad, most of them keeping to their dens until the storm should pass. When the sun again appeared, it shone upon a world of pure, glistening white, where the frost particles in the air sparkled like diamond dust.