|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 1
This, then, was the party of four that found themselves in camp the last
week in October of that "shy moose year" 'way up in the wilderness north
of Rat Portage--a forsaken and desolate country. There was also Punk, an
Indian, who had accompanied Dr. Cathcart and Hank on their hunting trips
in previous years, and who acted as cook. His duty was merely to stay in
camp, catch fish, and prepare venison steaks and coffee at a few
minutes' notice. He dressed in the worn-out clothes bequeathed to him by
former patrons, and, except for his coarse black hair and dark skin, he
looked in these city garments no more like a real redskin than a stage
Negro looks like a real African. For all that, however, Punk had in him
still the instincts of his dying race; his taciturn silence and his
endurance survived; also his superstition.
The party round the blazing fire that night were despondent, for a week
had passed without a single sign of recent moose discovering itself.
D�fago had sung his song and plunged into a story, but Hank, in bad
humor, reminded him so often that "he kep' mussing-up the fac's so, that
it was 'most all nothin' but a petered-out lie," that the Frenchman had
finally subsided into a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely to
break. Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after an exhausting
day. Punk was washing up the dishes, grunting to himself under the
lean-to of branches, where he later also slept. No one troubled to stir
the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in a sky quite
wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already forming
stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The silence
of the vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them.
Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.
"I'm in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, Doc," he observed with
energy, looking across at his employer. "We don't stand a dead Dago's
chance around here."
"Agreed," said Cathcart, always a man of few words. "Think the idea's
good."
"Sure pop, it's good," Hank resumed with confidence. "S'pose, now, you
and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us ain't
touched that quiet bit o' land yet--"
"I'm with you."
"And you, D�fago, take Mr. Simpson along in the small canoe, skip across
the lake, portage over into Fifty Island Water, and take a good squint
down that thar southern shore. The moose 'yarded' there like hell last
year, and for all we know they may be doin' it agin this year jest to
spite us."
D�fago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing by way of reply. He
was still offended, possibly, about his interrupted story.
"No one's been up that way this year, an' I'll lay my bottom dollar on
_that!_" Hank added with emphasis, as though he had a reason for
knowing. He looked over at his partner sharply. "Better take the little
silk tent and stay away a couple o' nights," he concluded, as though the
matter were definitely settled. For Hank was recognized as general
organizer of the hunt, and in charge of the party.
It was obvious to anyone that D�fago did not jump at the plan, but his
silence seemed to convey something more than ordinary disapproval, and
across his sensitive dark face there passed a curious expression like a
flash of firelight--not so quickly, however, that the three men had not
time to catch it.
"He funked for some reason, _I_ thought," Simpson said afterwards in the
tent he shared with his uncle. Dr. Cathcart made no immediate reply,
although the look had interested him enough at the time for him to make
a mental note of it. The expression had caused him a passing uneasiness
he could not quite account for at the moment.
But Hank, of course, had been the first to notice it, and the odd thing
was that instead of becoming explosive or angry over the other's
reluctance, he at once began to humor him a bit.
"But there ain't no _speshul_ reason why no one's been up there this
year," he said with a perceptible hush in his tone; "not the reason you
mean, anyway! Las' year it was the fires that kep' folks out, and this
year I guess--I guess it jest happened so, that's all!" His manner was
clearly meant to be encouraging.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|