CHAPTER VII
THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE FOREST
“My goodness, boy,” the old hunter said the next morning at breakfast, “I do wish you could handle a pair of snow-shoes. We’d start for home to-morrow, if you could. For the crust is perfect, and the weather is settled for a spell I think. But there’s no use starting until we can make good time every hour, so we’ll spend another week letting you learn to use the snow-shoes, and getting the kinks out of your legs.”
Larry made no reply but munched his bacon and biscuit, occasionally handing a bit to Kim who sat near, watching expectantly. As soon as breakfast was finished, Martin brought our two pairs of snow-shoes and strapped one pair to his own feet, instructing Larry to follow his example. Then he showed the boy how to take the swinging, gliding steps, sliding one shoe past the other with the peculiar leg motion that shot the shoe ahead without getting tangled up with its mate.
“Now watch me while I run out to that tree and back, and try to do as I do when you start,” he instructed. And with that he struck out, the two dogs running beside him, barking excitedly, for they seemed to know the significance of snow-shoes, and were eager for a run through the woods.
The tree Martin had indicated was about a hundred yards away, and the old hunter covered the distance at top speed, exhilarated as a boy trying his skates on the first ice of the winter. He did not stop when the tree was reached, but turned sharply to one side so as to circle it. As he did so Larry passed the tree on the other side, running like a veteran, trying to beat him, and bursting with suppressed laughter. “I’ll race you to the top of the hill and back,” the boy shouted exultantly.
But the old man, in his astonishment, bumped into a sapling and came to a full stop.
“Where in the world did you learn to use snow-shoes like that?” he asked, when Larry had swung around to him.
“Oh, in the Adirondacks that winter,” Larry answered, trying to seem as if knowing how to use snow-shoes was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“But why didn’t you say so?” Martin persisted, his face beaming.
“Well, you never asked me,” said Larry. “I came within one of telling you last night, but I just thought I’d save it and surprise you.”
“Well, you sure did surprise me,” the old hunter said; “the very best surprise I have had since I can remember. Why, I woke up half a dozen times last night worrying because we would have to wait so long because you had to learn to use the shoes before we could start. And here you knew how all the time. You can run like an Indian, Larry.”
“Well, I can run pretty good,” Larry admitted modestly. “I beat all the boys in the Christmas races up there last year, and one of them was an Indian boy, at that.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Martin exclaimed with admiration. “Why, I was going at a pretty good clip myself just now, and yet you were at my heels. Face about and back to the tent we go, for now we have a new day’s work before us, and to-morrow we head for home.”
Saying this Martin turned and ran for the camp, Larry doing his best to keep up; but he finished twenty feet behind. It is one thing to beat a crowd of boys on snow-shoes, but quite another to have a competitor who could show his heels to every man in the whole North Country.
And now everything was arranged exactly as if they were making their start in earnest. The sledges were loaded with infinite care, and the dogs harnessed in their places, one dog to each toboggan. Larry was to have Kim under his charge, and to pull in harness with the dog; for Kim was not only the stronger dog of the two, but also the one most easily managed.
Martin had made harnesses for himself and Larry, with broad draw straps over the shoulders and across the chest, so that the weight of the body was thrown into the harness as they bent forward in walking. The old hunter harnessed himself in front of his dog, so as to choose the course, set the pace, and break the trail all at the same time. But he instructed Larry to harness himself next his toboggan and behind Kim.
By this arrangement the old man worked out a shrewdly conceived plan. He knew that Kim would always strive to keep up with the sled just ahead of him, for that is the nature of the malamoot when sledging. This would force the boy to keep up the pace, no matter how tired and leg weary he might be. At the same time it gave Larry the benefit of a thoroughly broken-out trail every step of the way—a thing the boy learned to appreciate within an hour.
Before starting Martin built up a rousing fire to keep the camp kettle boiling, and then with a shout struck out into the forest. At first he went almost in a straight course, and at a pace that made Larry open his eyes in amazement. Was this the speed they would have to keep up hour after hour? Then the old man made wide circles, bending first one way and then the other, until they had been going about an hour and a half. Now he stopped and asked the panting, perspiring Larry, how he would take a short-cut to camp.
“Good gracious, I don’t know!” said the boy.
“Well, I didn’t expect you would,” Martin said quietly; “but I’m going to let you steer us back to it all the same. Take your compass and lead us straight northeast and you’ll land us there. It will be good practice for you. And mind you, keep up the pace.”
Larry now changed places with Kim, taking the lead as Martin had done, got out his compass, and they were off again. The country was fairly open, so that while he was guided by the little instrument, he really steered by landmarks, as Martin had instructed him. Usually the landmark was some tree some distance away that stood exactly in line with the northeast mark indicated by the compass. This tree would then be the boy’s goal until he reached it, when some other mark further on would be selected. In this way the instrument was only brought into use every half mile or so, a much easier method than constantly watching the dial.
The old hunter offered no suggestions about the route, he and Jack simply plodding along in the procession. But Larry, upon whom the brunt of everything had now fallen, had hard work to keep his flagging legs moving along at a rate that would satisfy the members of his rear guard. He was surprised that they did not come across some marks of the trail they had made on the way out even after they had been plodding for a full three-quarters of an hour. This made him apprehensive that Martin was letting him take them out of their course, for some reason of his own. He was astonished, therefore, suddenly to come in sight of their camp dead ahead, and not over a quarter of a mile away. The compass had given him a short-cut from Martin’s purposely bending course.
As soon as the dogs sighted the camp they began barking wildly and tugging at the traces in their eagerness to reach it; and Larry, whose legs were flagging sadly, felt all weariness disappear in the excitement of finishing the run. So, shouting and laughing, with both dogs leaping and barking, the two teams raced into camp neck and neck.
They rested a few minutes, and then began making final preparations for an early start the next day. They visited the yacht and found that she was packed thick in a huge bank of ice that had formed upon her, and been banked about her by the waves, so that she was practically frozen in for the winter. Then they strengthened all the fastenings of the canvas under which the provisions and supplies were stored, and Martin cut several strips of canvas and tied them with short pieces of rope to trees a few feet away and all about the heap, where they would blow about in the wind and frighten any inquisitive prowlers, particularly foxes.
“But what is the use of going to all that trouble, Martin?” Larry asked. “We will never come back to this place, and probably no one else will come here, so all this work is for nothing it seems to me.”
The old hunter smiled and shook his head. “That’s the way I should have talked at your age,” he said. “But I have learned that many things in this world turn out very differently from what we expect, and so I always plan for the very worst that can possibly happen. And it will be a comfort for me to know that there is a big cache of supplies waiting here in case we have to come back, although I haven’t the faintest idea of doing so.”
When the canvasses had been secured to Martin’s satisfaction he made the fastenings all about their camp secure in the same way. For he had decided not to take their present tent with them, but in its place a smaller one, made with a stout canvas bottom sewed fast to the rest of the tent, so that the whole thing resembled a huge bag. There were several advantages in this arrangement. It provided a dry, clean floor, kept the wind from creeping in, and obviated the likelihood of losing small articles at the camp site that might otherwise be overlooked and left behind on breaking camp. Moreover, it insured the tent not being blown from over their heads in a gale should the fastenings give way—a very important thing when passing through a barren, windswept country.
Then they made a final inspection of the toboggan loads, unpacking them and re-packing them carefully, Martin enjoining the boy to memorize every article and where it could be found on each sledge. This would save them much useless hunting, and overhauling, and disarranging of the loads. And so when night came they were all ready for the early start the next morning.
At daylight they were off on their race for life—just how grim and serious an undertaking Larry was to learn before the day was over. For now it was plod, plod, plod, Martin setting the pace and breaking the trail, keeping up an even swing forward regardless of obstacles. Long before midday Larry realized the magnitude of their undertaking; for Martin allowed no pause, no resting to catch up lost breath. It was on, and on, every step ahead being counted precious gain through the unknown stretch of wilderness.
At noon they stopped, the dogs dropping in their tracks, and Larry stretched his aching legs on his load while Martin boiled a pot of tea and heated up their lunch. But in half an hour they were back in the harness again, trudging on silently. Even the dogs seemed to realize that they must do their utmost, straining at the traces all the time, with noses pointed straight ahead, but wasting no energy in useless looking about at interesting objects along the trail as they had always done on their previous journeys.
By the middle of the afternoon even the dogs showed signs of fatigue, as the loads were heavy, and despite every effort he could make, Martin’s speed was gradually slackening. By this time Kim was obliged to haul his load practically without aid from Larry, whose legs were tottering. Yet the boy pushed his feet ahead mechanically, watching the slowly descending sun, and hoping the old hunter would soon decide to stop for the night. But it was not until just before sunset that the old man halted and selected a place for their camp.
His first provision for the night was to help Larry set up the tent; then he took his snares and went off into the woods to set them, instructing Larry to get in a good supply of wood and a big heap of boughs for their bed. “We can cook and eat after dark, you know,” he said, “but these other things have to be done in daylight.”
Fortunately for the boy boughs and wood were close at hand, for he was fagged and exhausted beyond expression. He knew what Martin had said to him about “getting accustomed to it in a few days” was probably true, and this helped him keep up his courage; but there is a limit to muscular endurance even when backed by the highest quality of will-power. He managed to collect the wood and the boughs, however, by the time Martin returned, and the old man found him lying on the heap of boughs, sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.
The six days following were practically repetitions of the first—a ceaseless grind of hard work through the timber. Martin, although a tough and seasoned veteran, began to show the effects of the strain, while Larry had become an automaton, who performed the three functions of working, eating, and sleeping mechanically. There were no talks beside the camp-fire now before turning in, neither man nor boy having enough surplus energy left at the end of the day to indulge in more conversation than was absolutely necessary. Both had settled down to their grim work, more and more of which Martin had taken upon himself as they proceeded; and every day the boy had reason to be thankful to the tough old woodsman for little acts of kindness and thoughtfulness. But his efforts left the old man too tired for useless conversation even if Larry had cared to listen.
At noon on the seventh day the woods thinned out into scraggly trees, and an hour later the travelers emerged upon a flat, and apparently treeless plain. Here Martin called a halt and left Larry and the dogs while he took observations. In a few minutes he returned, but instead of fastening on his harness he sat down beside Larry on the sled.
“It isn’t as bad as it might be,” he said, “but it is bad enough, at that. I can make out the outline of the fringe of trees on the other side from the top of a big rock over yonder, and I think it is only ten miles over to them. But I’m not sure, for distances are deceptive in this country. So we’ll camp here now and get an early start in the morning.”
Then he added, with a grim smile, “I guess you won’t mind the six hours’ extra rest.”
They made their camp accordingly in a clump of trees, and Larry and the dogs slept and rested, while the old hunter arranged for the next day’s run. This consisted in rearranging the loads, examining and mending harnesses and sled lashings, besides performing Larry’s usual task of gathering wood and boughs, not rousing the tired boy until a hot supper was ready. And when Larry had gorged himself, Martin sent him back to his sleeping bag to get more rest without waiting to help about cleaning up the supper pans and pots.