Part 12 (2/2)
”How far is it to Number 7?” the young man inquired, despondently.
”They call it fifty miles from the other end of the carry. Ye needn't walk a step if ye don't want to. There's a moose sled an' plenty of men to haul ye.”
After a breakfast of hot beans, biscuits and steaming tea at the camp, the procession moved. Parker was wrapped in tattered bunk blankets and installed in state on a long, narrow sledge. He was given the option of getting off and walking whenever he needed the exercise to warm himself.
The march was brisk all that day, for the brawny woodsmen followed the snowy trail unflaggingly. After the six miles of the carry tote-road, their way led up the crooked West Branch on the ice. There were detours where the open waters roared down rough gorges fast enough to dodge the chilling hand of Jack Frost; there were broad dead waters where the river widened into small lakes. Parker was oppressed by the nervous dread of one who enters a strange new country and faces a danger toward which a fate stronger than he is pressing him.
At noon they ate a lunch beside a crackling fire which warmed the cooked provisions they had brought from the carry camp.
Parker walked during the afternoon to ease his cold-stiffened limbs.
Toward dusk the party left the river and turned into a tote-road that writhed away under snow-laden spruces and hemlocks, coiled its way about rocky hummocks, and curved in ”whip-lashes” up precipitous hillsides.
There was not a break in the forest that stretched away on either hand.
Late in the evening they saw in a valley below them a group of log huts, their snowy roofs silvered by the moonlight. Yellow gleams from the low windows showed that the camp was occupied.
”That's the Sourdanheunk baitin'-place,” Connick explained, in answer to a question from his captive. ”One o' Ward's tote-team hang-ups an'
feedin'-places.”
The cook, a sallow, tall man encased in a dirty canvas shroud of an ap.r.o.n, was apparently expecting the party. More beans, more biscuits, more steaming tea--and then a bunk was spread for Parker. His previous night of vigil and his day spent in the wind had benumbed his faculties, and he speedily forgot his fears and his bitter resentment in profound slumber.
The next morning the cook's ”Whoo-ee!” called the men before the dawn, and they were away while the first flushes presaged the sunrise. It seemed that day that the tortuous tote-road would never end. Valley succeeded to ”horseback” and ”horseback” to valley. Woods miles are long miles.
Parker's railroad eye and engineer's discernment bitterly condemned the divagations of the wight who wandered first along that trail and imposed his lazy dodgings on all who might come after him. The young man amused himself by reflecting that the tote-road was an excellent example of the persistence of human error, and in these and other philosophical ponderings he was able to draw his mind partially from its uncomfortable dwellings on the probabilities awaiting him at the hands of Gideon Ward.
The sun was far down in the west and the road under the spruces was dusky, when a singular obstacle halted the march. A tremendous thras.h.i.+ng and cras.h.i.+ng at one side of the road signaled the approach of some large animal. A network of undergrowth hid the ident.i.ty of this unknown, and the men instinctively huddled together and displayed some uncertainty as to whether they should remain or run. But the suspense was soon over, for the nearer bushes parted suddenly and out upon the tote-road floundered an immense moose, his bulbous nose wagging, his bristly mane twitching, his stilted fore legs straddled defiantly.
The next moment a great bellow of laughter went up from the crowd.
”The joke's on us!” cried a woodsman, who had been among the first to retreat.
”Hullo, Ben Bouncer!” Connick shouted.
”What do you mean by playin' peek-a-boo with your friends in that manner?”
The moose uttered a hoa.r.s.e _whuffle_.
”This is Ben Bouncer, the mascot of Number 7 camp,” the foreman announced. He pushed Parker to the front rank of the group. ”He won't hurt ye,” he added. ”He has got used enough to men to be a little sa.s.sy, an' he's got colty on Gid Ward's grain, but he's mostly bluff.”
The engineer gazed on the moose with considerable interest, for the spectacle was entirely new.
”Ben went to loafin' round 7 camp early this winter. He yarded down here two miles or so. You understand, of course, that a moose picks out a good feedin'-place in winter, when the deep snows come, a place where he can reach a lot of twigs and yards there, as they call it in the woods.”
”When the snow got crusty and sc.r.a.ped his legs, Ben seemed to have a tired fit come over him, and began to come closer an' closer to the horse hovels to steal what loose hay he could. No one round the camp wanted to hurt him. After a time we all became sort of interested in him, and toled him up to the camp by leavin' hay an' grain round where he could get at it. You can see what a big fat fellow we've made of him.
Our feedin' him makes the colonel mad, for hay is worth something by the time ye get it in here to camp. I bet if ye put it all together the colonel has chased him more'n forty miles with a bow whip.
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