“When a man begins talkin’ ’bout himself, it seems as tho’ he’d never run down.”–Old Cy Walker. All fellow-sojourners in the wilderness awaken keen interest, and the unbroken silence and solitude of a boundless forest make a fellow human being one we are glad to accost. A party of lumbermen wielding axes causes one to turn aside and call on them. A sportsman’s camp seen on a lake shore or near a stream’s bank always invites a landing to interview whoever may be there. All this interest was now felt by Old Cy and Ray, and with it an added sense of danger. No friendly hunter or trapper would thus ignore them in the woods. This piratically minded thief must have seen them, for the spruce-clad oval, perhaps half a mile in width, was comparatively free from undergrowth where they had been working. He had crossed it within fairly open sight of them, had found the otter hanging from a limb, had taken it, and thence on to rob their canoe, daub it with that hideous emblem, world-wide in meaning, and then had Old Cy knew that bordering this oval ridge on its farther side was a swamp, that a stream flowed through it, and surmising that this fellow might have come up or down this stream, he left their cabin prepared for a two or three days’ sojourn away from it, which meant that food, blankets, and simple cooking utensils must be taken along. No halt was made to visit traps. Old Cy was trailing bigger game now; and when the point where they had left the canoe the day previous was reached, the canoe was pulled out on the stream’s bank, the rifles only taken, and the trailing began. He followed up the brook valley a little way, to find that only one track came down; he then circled about the canoe, until, like a hound, he found where the clearly defined trail left the swamp again. Here in the soft carpet under the spruce trees one could follow this trail on the run, and here also Old Cy found where this enemy had halted beside trees evidently while watching them, as the tracks indicated. When the bordering swamp was reached, the trail turned in a westerly direction, skirting thus Another trail was now come upon, but leading directly over the ridge, and just beyond this juncture both the trails now joined, entered the swamp, and ended at a lagoon opening out from the stream. Here, also, evidences of a canoe having been hauled up into the bog were visible. “That sneakin’ pirate come up this stream,” Old Cy observed to Ray, as the two stood looking at these unmistakable signs. “He left his canoe here ’n’ crossed the ridge above us ’n’ down to whar we left the otter ’n’ on to our canoe. Then he come back the way we follered, ’n’ my idee is he had his eye on us most o’ the time. I callate he has been laughin’ ever since at what we’d say when we found that mud daub on our canoe, durn him!” But their canoe was now a half-mile away, and for a little time Old Cy looked at the black, currentless stream and considered. Then he glanced up at the sun. “I’ve a notion we’d best fetch our canoe over here,” he said at last, “an’ follow this thief a spell farther. We may come on to suthin’.” “Won’t he shoot at us?” returned Ray, more impressed by this possible danger than was Old Cy. But when their canoe had been carried over and launched in this lagoon, Ray’s spirits rose. It was an expedition into new waters, somewhat venturesome, and for that reason it appealed to him. Then they had two rifles, Old Cy had taught him to shoot, he had already killed one deer and some smaller game, and the go-west-and-kill-Indian impulse latent in all boys was a part of Ray’s nature. Besides, he had an unbounded faith in Old Cy’s skill with the rifle. And now began a canoe journey into and through a vast swamp, the upland border of which could scarce be seen. The stream they followed was black, and so absolutely motionless that it was a guess which way they were going. The mingled hack-matack and alder growth along each bank was so dense that no view ahead could be seen, and they must merely follow the winding pathway of dark waters and hope to come out somewhere. For two hours they paddled along this serpentine highway, and then the vastness of this morass began to impress them. No sign of current had been met. “I’m goin’ to find which way we’re goin’,” Old Cy exclaimed at last, as they neared a small dead cedar that pointed out over the stream, and seizing a projecting limb of this, he broke off bits of dry twigs, and tossed them into the stream. For a long moment not one stirred, and then at last a movement backward could be discovered. “We’re goin’ up-stream, anyhow,” he added, glancing at the sun, now marking mid-afternoon; “but we’ve got to git out o’ this ’fore dark, or we’ll be in a bad fix, an’ hev to sleep in the canoe.” No halt for dinner had yet been made. They were both faint from need of food, and so Old Cy reached for a small wooden pail containing their sole supply of provisions. Neither was it a luxurious repast which was now eaten. A couple of hard-tacks munched by each and moistened with a cup “Hain’t been built long,” Old Cy exclaimed, after they had landed to examine it. “I’ve a notion it’s the doin’s of our pirate friend, an’ he’s trappin’ round about this swamp. He’s had good luck lately, anyhow, for he’s got six o’ our pelts to add to his string.” From here onward signs of human presence in this swamp became more visible. Now and then an opening cut through the limbs of a lopped-over spruce was met; a spot where drift had been pushed aside to clear the stream was found at one place; signs of a canoe having been nosed into the bog grass were seen; and here were also the same footprints they had followed. Another bit of hard bottom was reached, and here again was another deadfall. Tracks evidently made “The scent’s gettin’ warm,” Old Cy muttered, as he examined these signs of a trapper’s presence, and then, mindful of the sun, he paddled on again. And now an upland growth of tall spruce was seen ahead, the banks became in evidence, and a slight current was met. One more long bend in the stream was followed, then came curving banks and large-bodied spruce. They were out of the swamp. Soon a more distinctive current opposed them, a low murmur of running water came from ahead, and then a pass between two abutting ledges was entered. Here the stream eddied over sunken rocks, and pushing on, the forest seemed suddenly to vanish as they emerged from the gloom of this short caÑon, and the next moment they caught sight of a long, narrow lakelet. The sun, now almost to the tree-tops, cast a reddish glow upon its placid surface, and so welcome a change was it from the ghostly, forbidding swamp just left, that Old Cy halted their canoe at once to look out upon it. It was seemingly a mile long, but quite a narrow lake. A bold, rocky shore rising in ledges faced them just across, and extended along This strip of water, for it was not much more, seemingly filled an oblong gorge in these mountains, only one break in them, to the left of this bare peak; and as Old Cy urged their canoe out of the alder-choked stream, now currentless once more, a margin line of rushes and reeds was seen to form that shore. Back of these, also, rose the low ledge they had passed. “Looks like a good hidin’ spot fer a pirate,” he exclaimed, glancing up and down the smiling lakelet. “Thar ain’t many folks likely to tackle that swamp–it took us ’most all day to cross it. I’ll bet no lumberman ever tried it twice, ’n’ if I wanted to git absolutely ’way from bein’ molested, I’d locate here. I dunno whether we’d best cross ’n’ make camp ’mong them ledges, or go back into the woods. Guess we’d best go back ’n’ take a sneak round behind the ledge. I noticed a loggin But now something was discovered that proved Old Cy’s wisdom, for as they, charmed somewhat by First a faint haze, rising in the still air, then a burst of white, until the fleecy pillar was plainly outlined as it ascended and drifted backward into the green forest. Lagoon. |