CHAPTER I.
JACKING FOR DEER.
"Now, Neal Farrar, you've got to be as still as the night itself,remember. If you bounce, or turn, or draw a long breath, you won't havea rag of reputation as a deer-hunter to take back to England. Sneezeonce, and we're done for. That means more diet of flapjacks and pork,instead of venison steaks. And I guess your city appetite won't rally topork much longer, even in the wilds."
Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that.
"But, you know, it's just when an unlucky fellow would give his lifenot to sneeze that he's sure to bring out a thumping big one," he saidplaintively.
"Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt," wasthe reply with a muffled laugh. "When you know that the canoe is glidingalong somehow, but you can't hear a sound or feel a motion, and youbegin to wonder whether you're in the air or on water, flying orfloating, imagine that you're the ghost of some old Indian hunter whoused to jack for deer on Squaw Pond, and be stonily silent."
"Oh! I say, stop chaffing," whispered Neal impetuously. "You're enoughto make a fellow feel creepy before ever he starts. I could bear theworst racket on earth better than a dead quiet."
This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a youngman of about one and twenty, and a lad who was apparently five years hisjunior, while they waded knee-deep in water among the long, rank grassesand circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of Squaw Pond,a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine.
The hour was somewhere about eleven o'clock. The night was intenselystill, without a zephyr stirring among the trees, and of that waveringdarkness caused by a half-clouded moon. On the black and green waterclose to the bank rocked a light birch-bark canoe, a ticklish craft,which a puff might overturn. The young man who had urged the necessityfor silence was groping round it, fumbling with the sharp bow, in whichhe fixed a short pole or "jack-staff," with some object--at present noone could discern what--on top.
"There, I've got the jack rigged up!" he whispered presently. "Step innow, Neal, and I'll open it. Have you got your rifle at half-cock?That's right. Be careful. A fellow would need to have his hair parted inthe middle in a birch box like this. Remember, mum's the word!"
The lad obeyed, seating himself as noiselessly as he could in the bow ofthe canoe, and threw his rifle on his shoulder in a convenient positionfor shooting, with a freedom which showed he was accustomed to firearms.
At the same time his companion stepped into the canoe, having firsttouched the dark object on the pole just over Neal's head. Instantly itchanged into a brilliant, scintillating, silvery eye, which flashedforward a stream of white light on a line with the pointed gun, cuttingthe black face of the pond in twain as with a silver blade, and makingthe leaves on shore glisten like oxidized coins.
The effect of this sudden illumination was so sudden and beautiful thatthe boy for a minute or two held his rifle in unsteady hands while thecanoe glided out from the bank. An exclamation began in his throat whichended in an indistinct gurgle. Remembering that he was pledged tosilence, he settled himself to be as wordless and motionless as if hisliving body had become a statue.
From his position no revealing radiance fell on him. He sat in shadowbeside that glinting eye, which was really a good-sized lantern, fittedat the back with a powerful silvered reflector, and in front with aglass lens, the light being thrown directly ahead. It was provided alsowith a sliding door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glasswith a touch, causing the blackness of a total eclipse.
This was the deer-hunters' "jack-lamp," familiarly called by Neal'scompanion the "jack."
And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work thesecanoe-men are engaged as they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish ofpaddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath, disturbing thebrooding silence through which they glide. They are "jacking" or"floating" for deer, showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack toattract any antlered buck or graceful doe which may come forth from thescreen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangledgrasses and lily-pads at the pond's brink.
Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand asif moonstruck, if it hears no sound; to gaze at the lantern, studyingthe meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer mightinvestigate a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for thesportsman's bullet, if he can glide near enough to discern its outlineand take aim. There is one exception to this rule. If the wary animalhas ever been startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust himnever to watch a light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor.
As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part ofmidnight hunter; and I am bound to say that--being English born andcity bred--he found the situation much too mystifying for his peace ofmind.
He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines alongthe shore, looking solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by him asif theirs were the motion, with an effect indescribably weird. Now andagain a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it, twice itsreal size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not the slightesttremor of advance, heard no swish or ripple of paddle.
A moisture oozed from his skin, and gathered in heavy drips under thebrim of his hat, as he began to wonder whether the light bark skiff wasworking through the water at all, or skimming in some unnatural wayabove it. For the life of him he could not settle this doubt. And,fearful of balking the expedition by a stir, he dared not turn his headto investigate the doings of his comrade, Cyrus Garst.
Cyrus, though also city bred, was an American, and evidently an old handat the present business. The Maine wilds had long been his playground.He had studied the knack of noiseless paddling under the teaching of askilled forest guide until he fairly brought it to perfection. And, inperfection, it is about the most wizard-like art practised in thenineteenth century.
The silent propulsion was managed thus: the grand master of the paddlegripped its cross handle in both hands, working it so that its broadblade cut the water first backward then forward so dexterously that noteven his own practised hearing could detect a sound; nor could he anymore than Neal feel a sensation of motion.
The birch-bark skiff skimmed onward as if borne on unseen pinions.
To Neal Farrar, who had been brought up amid the tumult of rival noisesand the practical surroundings of Manchester, England, who was astranger to the solitudes of primitive forests, and almost a stranger toweird experiences, the silent advance was a mystery. And it began to bea hateful one; for he had not even the poor explanation of it which hasbeen given in this record.
It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friendCyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had refrainedfrom explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising himselfconsiderable fun from the English lad's bewilderment.
Neal's hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beatingabout amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but nonereached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller, asthey glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet startedstrange, imaginary noises.
There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in hishead, and a drumming at his heart.
He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy thebrooding silence.
Another--a midnight watchman--broke it instead.
"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"
It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel toits death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity.
"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"
Neal started,--who wouldn't?--and joggled the canoe, thereby nearlyending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle.
He had barely regained some measure of steadiness, though he felt as ifneedles were sticking into him all over, when at last there was acrashing amid the bushes on the right bank, not a hundred yards distant.
Noiselessly as ever the canoe shot around, turning the jack's eye inthat direction. A minute later a magnificent buck, swinging his antlersproudly, dashed into the pond, and stooped his small red tongue todrink, licking in the water greedily with a soft, lapping sound.
Neal silently cocked his rifle, almost choking with excitement; thenpaused for a few seconds to brace up and control the nervous terrorswhich had possessed him, before his eye singled out the spot in thedeer's neck which his bullet must pierce. But he found his operationsfurther delayed; for the animal suddenly lifted its head, scatteredfeathery spray from its horns and hoofs, and retired a few steps up thebank.
In its former position every part of its body was visibly outlined underthe silver light of the jack. Now a successful shot would be difficult,though it might be managed. The boy leaned slightly forward, trying tohold his gun dead straight and take cool aim, when the most curious ofall the curious sensations he had felt this night ran through him,seeming to scorch like electricity from his scalp to his feet.
From the stand which the deer had taken, its body was in shadow. Allthat the sportsman could discern were two living, glowing eyes,staring--so it appeared to him--straight into his, like starrysearch-lights, as if they read the death-purpose in the boy's heart, andbegged him to desist.
It was all over with Neal Farrar's shot. He lowered his rifle, while thespeech, which could no longer be repressed, rattled in his throat beforeit broke forth.
"I'll go crazy if I don't speak!" he cried.
At the first word the buck went scudding like the wind through theforest, doubtless vowing by the shades of his ancestors that he neverwould stand to gaze at a light again.
"And--and--I can't shoot the thing while it's looking at me like that!"the boy blurted out.
"You dunderhead! What do you mean?" gasped Cyrus, breaking silence in agusty whisper of mingled anger and amusement. "You won't get a chance toshoot it or anything else now. You've lost us our meat for to-night."
"Well, I couldn't help it," Neal whispered back. "For pity's sake, whathas been moving this canoe? The quiet was enough to set a fellow mad!And then that buck stared straight at me like a human thing. I couldsee nothing but two burning eyes with white rings round them."
"Stuff!" was the American's answer. "He was gazing at the jack, not atyou. He couldn't see an inch of you with that light just over your head.But it would have been a hard shot anyhow, for his nose was towards you,and ten to one you'd have made a clean miss."
"Well," he added, after five minutes of acute listening, "I guess we maygive over jacking for to-night. That first cry of yours was enough toset a regiment of deer scampering. I'm only half mad after all at yourlosing a chance at such a splendid buck. It was something to see him ashe stooped to drink in the glare of the jack, a midnight forest picturesuch as one wants to remember. Long may he flourish! We wouldn't havestarted out to rid him of his glorious life if we weren't half-starvedon flapjacks and ends of pork. Let's get back to camp! I guess you felta few new sensations to-night, eh, Neal Farrar?"
Camp and Trail: A Story of the Maine Woods Page 2
