第 一 章 · 第1章

A considerable number of hunting parties were out that year without

finding so much as a fresh trail; for the moose were uncommonly shy, and

the various Nimrods returned to the bosoms of their respective families

with the best excuses the facts of their imaginations could suggest. Dr.

Cathcart, among others, came back without a trophy; but he brought

instead the memory of an experience which he declares was worth all the

bull moose that had ever been shot. But then Cathcart, of Aberdeen, was

interested in other things besides moose--amongst them the vagaries of

the human mind. This particular story, however, found no mention in his

book on Collective Hallucination for the simple reason (so he confided

once to a fellow colleague) that he himself played too intimate a part

in it to form a competent judgment of the affair as a whole....

Besides himself and his guide, Hank Davis, there was young Simpson, his

nephew, a divinity student destined for the "Wee Kirk" (then on his

first visit to Canadian backwoods), and the latter's guide, Défago.

Joseph Défago was a French "Canuck," who had strayed from his native

Province of Quebec years before, and had got caught in Rat Portage when

the Canadian Pacific Railway was a-building; a man who, in addition to

his unparalleled knowledge of wood-craft and bush-lore, could also sing

the old _voyageur_ songs and tell a capital hunting yarn into the

bargain. He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular spell

which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely natures, and he loved the

wild solitudes with a kind of romantic passion that amounted almost to

an obsession. The life of the backwoods fascinated him--whence,

doubtless, his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries.

On this particular expedition he was Hank's choice. Hank knew him and

swore by him. He also swore at him, "jest as a pal might," and since he

had a vocabulary of picturesque, if utterly meaningless, oaths, the

conversation between the two stalwart and hardy woodsmen was often of a

rather lively description. This river of expletives, however, Hank

agreed to dam a little out of respect for his old "hunting boss," Dr.

Cathcart, whom of course he addressed after the fashion of the country

as "Doc," and also because he understood that young Simpson was already

a "bit of a parson." He had, however, one objection to Défago, and one

only--which was, that the French Canadian sometimes exhibited what Hank

described as "the output of a cursed and dismal mind," meaning

apparently that he sometimes was true to type, Latin type, and suffered

fits of a kind of silent moroseness when nothing could induce him to

utter speech. Défago, that is to say, was imaginative and melancholy.

And, as a rule, it was too long a spell of "civilization" that induced

the attacks, for a few days of the wilderness invariably cured them.

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.

Défago 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, Défago, 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."

Défago, 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 Défago 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.

Joseph Défago raised his eyes a moment, then dropped them again. A

breath of wind stole out of the forest and stirred the embers into a

passing blaze. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the guide's

face, and again he did not like it. But this time the nature of the look

betrayed itself. In those eyes, for an instant, he caught the gleam of a

man scared in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he cared to

admit.

"Bad Indians up that way?" he asked, with a laugh to ease matters a

little, while Simpson, too sleepy to notice this subtle by-play, moved

off to bed with a prodigious yawn; "or--or anything wrong with the

country?" he added, when his nephew was out of hearing.

Hank met his eye with something less than his usual frankness.

"He's jest skeered," he replied good-humouredly. "Skeered stiff about

some ole feery tale! That's all, ain't it, ole pard?" And he gave Défago

a friendly kick on the moccasined foot that lay nearest the fire.

Défago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted reverie, a reverie,

however, that had not prevented his seeing all that went on about him.

"Skeered--_nuthin'!_" he answered, with a flush of defiance. "There's

nuthin' in the Bush that can skeer Joseph Défago, and don't you forget

it!" And the natural energy with which he spoke made it impossible to

know whether he told the whole truth or only a part of it.

Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going to add something when

he stopped abruptly and looked round. A sound close behind them in the

darkness made all three start. It was old Punk, who had moved up from

his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just beyond the circle

of firelight--listening.

"'Nother time, Doc!" Hank whispered, with a wink, "when the gallery

ain't stepped down into the stalls!" And, springing to his feet, he

slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily, "Come up t' the fire

an' warm yer dirty red skin a bit." He dragged him towards the blaze and

threw more wood on. "That was a mighty good feed you give us an hour or

two back," he continued heartily, as though to set the man's thoughts on

another scent, "and it ain't Christian to let you stand out there

freezin' yer ole soul to hell while we're gettin' all good an' toasted!"

Punk moved in and warmed his feet, smiling darkly at the other's

volubility which he only half understood, but saying nothing. And

presently Dr. Cathcart, seeing that further conversation was impossible,

followed his nephew's example and moved off to the tent, leaving the

three men smoking over the now blazing fire.

It is not easy to undress in a small tent without waking one's

companion, and Cathcart, hardened and warm-blooded as he was in spite of

his fifty odd years, did what Hank would have described as "considerable

of his twilight" in the open. He noticed, during the process, that Punk

had meanwhile gone back to his lean-to, and that Hank and Défago were

at it hammer and tongs, or, rather, hammer and anvil, the little French

Canadian being the anvil. It was all very like the conventional stage

picture of Western melodrama: the fire lighting up their faces with

patches of alternate red and black; Défago, in slouch hat and moccasins

in the part of the "badlands" villain; Hank, open-faced and hatless,

with that reckless fling of his shoulders, the honest and deceived hero;

and old Punk, eavesdropping in the background, supplying the atmosphere

of mystery. The doctor smiled as he noticed the details; but at the same

time something deep within him--he hardly knew what--shrank a little, as

though an almost imperceptible breath of warning had touched the surface

of his soul and was gone again before he could seize it. Probably it was

traceable to that "scared expression" he had seen in the eyes of Défago;

"probably"--for this hint of fugitive emotion otherwise escaped his

usually so keen analysis. Défago, he was vaguely aware, might cause

trouble somehow ...He was not as steady a guide as Hank, for

instance ... Further than that he could not get ...

He watched the men a moment longer before diving into the stuffy tent

where Simpson already slept soundly. Hank, he saw, was swearing like a

mad African in a New York nigger saloon; but it was the swearing of

"affection." The ridiculous oaths flew freely now that the cause of

their obstruction was asleep. Presently he put his arm almost tenderly

upon his comrade's shoulder, and they moved off together into the

shadows where their tent stood faintly glimmering. Punk, too, a moment

later followed their example and disappeared between his odorous

blankets in the opposite direction.

Dr. Cathcart then likewise turned in, weariness and sleep still fighting

in his mind with an obscure curiosity to know what it was that had

scared Défago about the country up Fifty Island Water way,--wondering,

too, why Punk's presence had prevented the completion of what Hank had

to say. Then sleep overtook him. He would know tomorrow. Hank would tell

him the story while they trudged after the elusive moose.

Deep silence fell about the little camp, planted there so audaciously in

the jaws of the wilderness. The lake gleamed like a sheet of black glass

beneath the stars. The cold air pricked. In the draughts of night that

poured their silent tide from the depths of the forest, with messages

from distant ridges and from lakes just beginning to freeze, there lay

already the faint, bleak odors of coming winter. White men, with their

dull scent, might never have divined them; the fragrance of the wood

fire would have concealed from them these almost electrical hints of

moss and bark and hardening swamp a hundred miles away. Even Hank and

Défago, subtly in league with the soul of the woods as they were, would

probably have spread their delicate nostrils in vain....

But an hour later, when all slept like the dead, old Punk crept from his

blankets and went down to the shore of the lake like a shadow--silently,

as only Indian blood can move. He raised his head and looked about him.

The thick darkness rendered sight of small avail, but, like the animals,

he possessed other senses that darkness could not mute. He

listened--then sniffed the air. Motionless as a hemlock stem he stood

there. After five minutes again he lifted his head and sniffed, and yet

once again. A tingling of the wonderful nerves that betrayed itself by

no outer sign, ran through him as he tasted the keen air. Then, merging

his figure into the surrounding blackness in a way that only wild men

and animals understand, he turned, still moving like a shadow, and went

stealthily back to his lean-to and his bed.

And soon after he slept, the change of wind he had divined stirred

gently the reflection of the stars within the lake. Rising among the far

ridges of the country beyond Fifty Island Water, it came from the

direction in which he had stared, and it passed over the sleeping camp

with a faint and sighing murmur through the tops of the big trees that

was almost too delicate to be audible. With it, down the desert paths of

night, though too faint, too high even for the Indian's hair-like

nerves, there passed a curious, thin odor, strangely disquieting, an

odor of something that seemed unfamiliar--utterly unknown.

The French Canadian and the man of Indian blood each stirred uneasily in

his sleep just about this time, though neither of them woke. Then the

ghost of that unforgettably strange odor passed away and was lost among

the leagues of tenantless forest beyond.