Part 3

Chapter 34,293 wordsPublic domain

A coon can remain under water for a marvelously long time. A dog knows it, and will never attack them in or near a stream. The ghost coon sank, taking his enemy with him. In the foreign element the cur, confused, strangled, and frightened, loosed his hold, came to the surface and struck out for the shore. But the tables had turned, and the valiant old boar knew it. Rising also, he received the grateful rush of air into his strained lungs, and in another moment he was on the back of his opponent and forcing him under. Fastening his teeth in the loose folds of skin at the base of the skull he sank again, dragging the cur down with him. The water boiled like a caldron, and though a leg, or even a shoulder at times appeared, no head came into view. Soon the pool grew quiet. Then, near the bank, a sharp muzzle came up, slowly followed by the dripping form of the victor. His den-tree stood quite near the other end of the hollow, and as he painfully began his march towards it, leaving a trail of water and blood behind him as he went, his body swayed and his steps were uncertain. At last he stood among the roots which he knew so well, and with eyes which scarcely saw, looked up the bare trunk which he had been wont to climb with perfect ease. Feebly he reared, and began the ascent. Six feet from the ground he stopped, gently let his head fall forward upon the bark, quivered from end to end, and dropped to the earth, dead.

THE SPOILER OF THE FOLDS

HIGH over the crest of Bald Knob the storm clouds had gathered. A dull, uncertain, ghostly light lay upon the land, for the moon was at its full, though hidden by the driving wrack. Directly in the mouth of Devil’s Gorge, where it debouched upon the low-lying pastures of the hill-farmers, a gaunt figure was standing. It was neither fox, nor wild-cat, nor dog, for it was bigger than any of these. In the fantastic shadows which the wild night cast the figure seemed monstrous, grisly. Its eyes burned with a basilisk glare; its head was broad, with a long, tapering muzzle; its shoulders were strong, and its lean legs stood firmly upon the earth. Moment by moment the storm grew fiercer. It rushed among the great trees on the knob-side, and tore the leaves hissing from the tossing branches. A blinding flash of lightning corkscrewed the gloom, followed by a terrible peal of thunder. Immediately there was a crash from far up the slope. An oak tree had fallen before the wind. The figure standing in the mouth of Devil’s Gorge crouched as under a blow, turned its head and glared in the direction of the sound, then glided out into the open with lowered muzzle and drooping tail.

The gray wolf knew his mind and his business well. Depending largely on guile for success in his hunting, yet there were times when wit and fleetness were of no avail, and his great strength alone had won him through. His ribbed sides bore many a scar, black and hairless, where a dog’s tooth had furrowed its way through his hide. So, with added craft on account of his many battles, he had come to skulk more, holding meat won by stealth equally as good as that fought for, and realizing as he grew older that in time he would be overcome. This was new territory he was treading now; a virgin field wherein he hoped to find rich harvest. Nor was disappointment in store for him.

Guided by that precious instinct which is the eternal heritage of all the wood-kind, the spectre-like shape moved briskly across some gullied foot-hills, climbing, slipping, leaping, and crept through a brush-fence just as the lowering clouds opened, and the rain began to pour in driving torrents. As the water beat upon his back and plastered the hair to his lean sides, the old forager began to move faster and with less desire for concealment, for well he knew that human beings would not dare thrust their noses out on such a night. It was all his own, and he could work his will unhampered. Through coarse clumps of wire-grass and stray patches of clover he went, casting his sharp eyes neither to right nor left, for he was fully aware that his gentle prey would never wander around in an open field on such a night as this. Near a corner in the farther end of the pasture rose a great black bulk; when the lightning flashed the gray wolf could see it, and something white at its base besides. It was a straw rick, the result of last year’s wheat harvest, and it afforded some protection from the wrath of the elements. Towards this the marauder went, relentlessly, steadily. Some two rods from it he stopped, crouched, and waited. Presently a vivid glare lit up the drenched landscape, and there, huddling in the lee of the rick, was a flock of sheep, crowded together and shivering from the wet. Dense darkness followed the lightning’s flash, and under its cover the robber drew nearer, nearer, nearer. Now, through the gloom and the sheets of rain he could make out the cowering forms—for they had already scented danger, though powerless to resist it. Closer yet crept the shape of death, his empty stomach dragging the ground so low had his body sunk. The sheep pressed with short, jerky movements against their straw shelter, wild-eyed, helpless. They felt the danger, but did not know how to combat it. Then the climax came, as swiftly as a bolt from the sky. A dim shape was projected through the night; there was a bleat choked short off and a wild scurry of feet flying blindly from danger. One ewe alone remained, prostrate upon the ground, while at her soft throat keen fangs tore, and a curved red tongue lapped up the warm blood as it flowed. The gray wolf was skilled in strategy. He knew that when a sheep-dog turned traitor and began to harry the flocks, he never went beyond the throats of his victims, and took only one a night. So the killer lay and drank the rich life-current as it came; drank until even his ravenous hunger was appeased. Then gnawing tentatively at the draggled wound he had made, he arose and turned his besmeared visage towards the dark line of knobs which was his hiding-place and his home. A short time later, when the summer storm was dying away in the east and the thunder was but a growling echo, a gaunt figure entered the mouth of Devil’s Gorge and became engulfed in the black shadows which hung over it.

Five hours later the sun came up into a sky of purest blue. With it arose the hill-farmers, strong from their long night’s rest for the day of toil. One there was who mounted his piebald saddle mare, with a bucket balanced on his saddle-bow, and went to salt his sheep. At the bars one was missing; an unusual thing. He called and called again, the cry which had never failed to bring her before. But there was no answer. Then the farmer urged his horse forward and began the search. Around the field he went, and at last drew up at the straw rick. There lay the lost one, dead. He dismounted and made an examination. Her throat was wofully mangled and torn, but there was no other hurt upon her. “A sheep-dog’s gone wrong!” was the man’s audible comment, as he arose and mounted his horse again to summon his fellow-farmers.

They came to the scene of the slaughter, one and all, for sheep-raising was their most paying industry, and sheep-murder was a crime to which there was attached one penalty and one only—death. The ewe lay as the killer had left her, limbs straight and stiffened, head back, and that awful, damning wound in her white throat. One by one they came and looked, those rugged, gnarled, horny-handed hill-men. One by one they shook their heads. “A sheep-dog done it,” was the one remark; “an’ be he mine, I’ll kill ’im myself!” Then arose the question, how to detect the culprit? Each dog had followed his master and each was called up and examined, but nothing was proven. Every mouth was clean and fresh; there were no clots of wool nor blood-stained noses. And each man breathed a sigh of relief when his favorite was exonerated, for “Love me, love my dog” is never more exemplified than in the sheep-raising districts, where, with almost human intelligence, the four-footed retainers care for the flocks entrusted to their care. The meeting was preparing to break up when some one discovered a track in the rain-soaked ground. It was fully four inches across, and the claw to each toe was plainly marked. It was useless to fit a dog’s foot to that colossal track. Some strange animal had assaulted the flock, and there was not a heart but beat easier when they found this out. For a farmer to kill his dog required a sacrifice almost as great as that which Abraham made when he prepared to offer up Isaac.

So, amid wild conjectures and impossible theories, the farmers dispersed. That very night another flock was visited and one taken from it. The raider left no clue. He came, slew one sheep and drained its blood, then went his way and the darkness hid him. The farmers met again and held council. It must be a dog, they said, for it killed like a dog. Anything else would do away with half a dozen sheep, or more. But the meeting resulted in nothing, because there was nothing to do except keep a sharp lookout. The next night the same thing happened, and the next, and the next, and so on for a week. Always a different flock, but always one sheep was claimed, one only. Then it was the farmers took to sitting up of nights and gathering their flocks under shelter. This invisible scourge bade fair to devastate their folds, and strenuous action must needs be taken. That first night of watching one went to sleep at his post along towards morning, and when the call of a neighboring cock awakened him at sunrise, it was to find one of his yearlings dead not ten feet from him. The destroyer had crept in while he slept and laughed at the loaded gun across his knees, while proceeding to feast on the choicest of his flock. Then alarm changed to terror. What was this dreadful thing which came at night and which left no trace behind? No one could answer, and the deeper the mystery grew, the more the farmers quaked and wondered.

But later, upon a night when the moon was waning, another had seen a huge gray object gliding towards the lot in which his sheep were corralled. Then haste got the better of judgment, and the man fired before the marauder got within good range. The result was only a handful of coarse drab hair found upon the ground the next morning. Then hounds were brought and put upon the trail. They followed it, mouthing, to the entrance of Devil’s Gorge, and there lost the scent on the boulders and the pebbly soil. But this gave a clue to the men. Their enemy dwelt somewhere within the gloomy recesses of that mighty cleft in the hills. So thither they came, night by night, and watched the entrance of that dismal place. But when they returned, unsuccessful, to their homes in the morning, it was to discover that one of their unguarded flocks had been entered, and a member of it lifeless. So dismay seized them, for it seemed that they were helpless before the subtlety of this mysterious assassin. Their nicest plans were frustrated, and their schemes brought to naught.

Then traps were laid, cunning devices of wood, and pitfalls, screened with leaves and dry limbs. Sometimes these were found sprung, sometimes unmolested, but sprung or set, they never claimed a prey. Whatever it was that worried their sheep seemed proof against all their wiles. Still the nightly visits continued, and dead mutton lay everywhere, and the buzzards darkened the sky in their circling flight. It was as though a plague had come upon the land. Driven to desperation, the farmers took their guns and fell to patrolling the dark ravines, especially Devil’s Gorge, whither it was surely known the destroyer had at one time gone. They found nothing, though day by day they went in numbers and scoured the defiles of the knobs. That for which they sought remained in hiding, and came forth only when the generous mantle of night covered his movements.

Among the many who had suffered from the nocturnal prowler’s depredations was one of sterner mould than his fellows. A tall, bony-faced, austere man, who talked little and thought much. And his thinking led him to this. When, in the ceaseless round of slaying, three of his sheep had been taken, he mounted his horse one day without a word to any one, and rode into town. When he came back after nightfall, he brought with him a huge steel trap, big enough to hold a bear. The next morning he arose while the stars were yet shining, whistled his dog, and started on foot to Devil’s Gorge, taking the trap with him. The dog went in advance and after him the man, struggling through the damp hollow with his heavy burden over his shoulder. Day dawned on the peaks above them, and filtered faintly down into the depths through which they toiled. Suddenly the dog came rushing back to his master, his bushy tail between his legs and his whole body a-quiver from fright. The man quickened his pace and pushed forward grimly, drawing a large revolver from his pocket at the same time. Rounding a bend in the gorge, he came upon that which had sent the shepherd dog cowering back. Perched upon a large boulder was a monstrous wolf, gray and grim in the half light. Raising his arm the man fired, but the wolf leaped just before the flash and ran in the other direction. The man followed as quickly as he could, and presently saw the big form disappear in a hole up the sloping side of the cliff. The entrance of this den was worn as by the constant passing of feet, and the man felt that he had found the home of his enemy. So he set his trap, right under the lip of the crevice, cunningly hiding it with dead leaves and the rubbish of the woods, and securing the strong chain to the trunk of a dwarfed black oak. The first step the monster took on his next raid would make him a prisoner; the steel gyves would hold him fast until his foes came and killed him.

In the dead of night, when the moon had climbed the towering peak of Bald Knob, and the hill-farmers below kept silent watch for the coming of the raider, a face appeared in the cleft on the side of Devil’s Gorge. There was the craft of a lifetime in the burning eyes as they suspiciously swept the ground immediately in front of his den. There was nothing to awaken distrust except the tumbled condition of the earth, but the old wolf hesitated. Then hunger, the one law which the wood-folk know not how to disobey, drove him out. He rested one foot gingerly upon a bed of leaves, leant a little more weight to it as he prepared to draw the other one forward, and just then two bands of steel arose up out of the ground and gripped him nearly to the knee. With a deep howl of wrath and terror the old warrior fought for his freedom. Around and around he tore, gnashing with impotent teeth at that awful thing which held him like a vise. For the space of an hour he wrenched and struggled, then suddenly realizing the futility of his efforts, he crouched upon his belly to rest. It was near morning when he accepted the last resort, and began the heroic task of freeing himself.

Before sunup, the man who had set the trap came with exultation on his face, confident of victory. He found the trampled ground, the sprung trap, and fastened in it the fore foot of a large wolf with part of the leg, which had been gnawed in two just below the knee. The spoiler of the folds had baffled them to the end, but the flocks were never more disturbed.

THE FIGHT ON THE TREE-BRIDGE

THE forest lay black in the close embrace of the odorous young night. Soft, balsamic waves of air rose strata above strata, stealing between roughly corrugated boles and smooth trunks, and the satin-soft stems of the young saplings who had yet to win their spurs as knights of the wood against the mighty winds; permeating every dell and dingle, every copse and tangled covert. The nostrils which these air-waves touched tingled with delight, and the lungs which were bathed and invigorated by this life-giving essence from nature’s laboratory expanded with a conscious strength, and sent the red blood bounding from them on its ceaseless errand. The season was early summer. Beneath the interlacing boughs it was black—black as the night of Egypt’s curse. A solid bank of gloom which bore no outline and no shape. So might it have been just before God uttered his first command to things terrestrial. Here and there a tree arose above its army of fellows, and the delicate tracery of spreading branch, and even of tapering leaf, was etched upon the vastness overhead. In the sky the faithful stars were burning. Not the smallest speck of cloud veiled their earnest faces, and the mellow radiance which their united power shed fell like a blessing upon the glad earth. But the forest baffled the star rays—those gentle messengers which came so timidly upon their missions of light. The leaves at the tops of the trees gleamed glossy and green, but they were a numberless multitude of shields to the solitude below.

The forest went off to the gullied hills in one direction; in another it sloped sharply down a bluff to the river, with an accompaniment of running briers and rotting, lichen-covered stumps and an occasional fallen warrior of the wood which some storm had overcome. The river was not wide—a half-grown rabbit might have swum it with ease had the water been stagnant—but here it ran swift and deep between its high, rock-bound banks. It flowed silently, though, except for a low purling where a drift had formed and a sucking gurgle where a ledge let down the bed.

This river was a source of much worry and concern to the wood-people. All of them could swim, some well and some very badly, but more than one family circle had been bereft by reason of the treacherous stream, for in addition to the velocity with which it wound its way through the wood, shifting whirlpools lurked within it, against which the strongest swimmer’s power was as naught. There was a second forest across the river, not as large as the first, it is true, but still wide enough to shelter many a tiny dweller, as well as give him food. So when friend wanted to visit friend, or cousin to call upon cousin, there was this black, whispering barrier stretching between, mocking them with its insinuating murmurs, and seeking to lure them to its faithless and fatal bosom with low cooings and shining, siren arms. And on certain moonlit nights in spring there had been those who heard the mating call wafted through the stillness. Coming in answer, they had suddenly found themselves standing on the brink of that taunting river, while from the other shore the cry would come again, tender and appealing. Then hot blood and the madness of the season would have their way, and the young buck, belong to what family he may, would put discretion behind him and glide out into the stream with the echo of his mistress’ call as a beacon and a guide. On rare occasions one would make the passage safely. More often, as he battled with the current, snaky fingers would shoot up from beneath and grip him, whirl him around and around in maddening circles, and finally drag him down with a hiss of victory, and his lifeless carcass might have been seen afloat the next day, miles away.

All this was before the great storm. After that had come and gone things were different with the forest-people.

It was at the close of a day in mid-summer. For weeks there had been no rain. Day after day the sun had come up, had scorched and burned and seared, and had gone down. The leaves curled upon the trees; the grass blades became brittle; the rabbit runs were so hot at midday that they hurt the pads of the cottontails, and they lay panting in their burrows, waiting for night. Then it was that the wood-people blessed the river, for there was no water anywhere else. The river sank foot by foot, leaving cracked, baked stretches of yellow clay as it receded. Still it ran doggedly, and breathed defiance. It would take more than one dry summer to rob it of its terror and strength. At last there came a day which was born with portents of some awful thing to come. The sun rose hazy, like a ball of blood. The air, which had been hot, became stifling. It pressed on the chest and burned in the throat. The chipmunks and the squirrels sought their nests wildly; the birds went deeper into the forest. By noon all of the little people who had a home were in it. But so far nothing had happened. Mid-afternoon a growl of wrath came from the west, and a long, leaden band pushed its edge over the horizon. A terrible silence hung over the forest; the unnatural calm which precedes some great calamity. Then a chill breath stirred the upper leaves, followed by gusts of wind almost icy. Night came long before its time, and the sky which for weeks had been a shining surface of blinding light became a seething, tossing caldron of billowy clouds and murky vapors, and threading through all the tumbled mass was a vivid network of flame. The chariots of the storm came thundering down the slopes of the sky, and the forest shivered, and bent, and tossed its thousands of arms in agony. Thick limbs were rent from writhing, groaning bodies, and cast furiously down. Some veteran giants, weakened by the natural decay of years, mingled their death-cry with the hoarse bellow of the destroying wind and fell crashing and quivering to the earth. Then came rain, and a cessation of the demoniac fury.

It was a night which the wood-dwellers never forgot. Birds were killed by the dozens, and the lives of many of the four-footed kind were given up as well. The secret trails were obliterated and blocked, and the runways of the weasel and the rabbit became a trackless wilderness.

Long before the sun arose the next morning, an old raccoon cautiously poked his black nose out of a hole in a maple tree, near the first fork. This raccoon was the oldest and the wiliest of the wood-folk that lived in the forest. An old boar coon was he, and many years had passed over his wise little head. Once before, in his youth, such a storm as this had swept over the forest. His mother had him out teaching him how to stalk ground sparrows, and the storm came so suddenly that they had no time to reach home, so had taken shelter under a shelving rock on the bluff by the river. He had weathered that storm successfully, and in later years had paid scant heed to nature’s bursts of anger. A raccoon, of all things, was surely smart enough to keep out of the way of a falling limb. The whiskers about the muzzle of the old coon were gray; his eyes were black and beady, and some wonderment was expressed in them as he rolled them around on the once familiar scene. He had not slept the night before, for his house had shook and creaked its warnings hour after hour, and the hungry voice of the wind had howled down at him from the hole above his head. Everything was changed outside. A neighbor tree lay prostrate at the foot of his own; a broken limb sagged at the side of his door, and everywhere was disorder and destruction. A trifle dazed by it all in spite of his superior wisdom, the old fellow slid back into his den and fell to crunching the bones of a chicken he had captured two nights before.

Though the storm had hopelessly tangled the secret ways which had been nosed out and trodden with so much care, and had been the death of many of their kind, yet it had brought its blessing, too, in that it had conquered for the people of the wild their enemy, the river. It was in this way.