CHAPTER V
THE STORY OF WEEWAH THE HUNTER
It had been a hard day’s work for both of them, and strange as everything was to Larry, and awful as the black woods seemed as he peeped out beyond the light of the fire, he had a strange feeling of security and contentment. It might be that there were terribly hard days of toil and danger and privations ahead, but he was too cozily situated now to let that worry him.
Besides he was feeling the satisfaction that every boy feels in the knowledge that he has done something well. And even the exacting old Martin, always slow to praise or even commend, had told him over his cup of tea and his soup at supper, that he “would make a hunter of him some day.” And what higher praise could a boy hope for?
“Nobody knows just how old Weewah was when he became a mighty hunter,” Martin began presently, without looking up from his sewing, “because Indians don’t keep track of those things as we white folks do. But he couldn’t have been any older than you are, perhaps not quite so old.
“He was old enough to know how to handle his bow and arrows, though, to draw a strong enough bow to shoot an arrow clean through a woodchuck or a muskrat, or even a beaver, although he had never found the chance to try at the beaver. He carried his own tomahawk, too—a new one that the factor at Hudson Bay Post had given him,—and was eager to show his prowess with it on larger game.
“But the hunting was done by the grown up men of the village, who thought Weewah too small to hunt anything larger than rabbits. Yet there were other boys of his own age who found more favor in the hunters’ eyes because they were larger than he. ‘Some day you will be a hunter,’ they told him, ‘but now you are too small.’
“Weewah’s heart was big, even if his body was small. And so one day he took all his long arrows, his strongest bow, and his tomahawk and resolved to go into the big woods at some distance from the village, and do something worthy of a hunter.
“It was winter time, and the snow on the ground was knee-deep with just a little crust on it. On his snow-shoes Weewah glided through the forest, noticing everything he passed and fixing it in his memory instinctively so that he could be sure of finding the back trail. For this day he meant to go deep, deep into the spruce swamp in his hunting. There he would find game worthy of the bow of the mighty hunter he intended to prove himself.
“The tracks of many animals crossed his path, little wood dwellers such as rabbits and an occasional mink. But these did not interest him to-day. He had brought his snares, of course, for he always carried them; but to-day his heart was too full of a mighty ambition to allow such little things as rabbit snares to interrupt his plans.
“Once he did stop when he saw, just ahead of him on the snow, a little brown bunch of fur with two big brown eyes looking at him wonderingly. In an instant he had drawn the poised arrow to his cheek and released it with a twang. And a moment later the little brown bunch of fur was in Weewah’s pouch, ready for making into rabbit stew in the evening.
“Weewah took it as a good omen that he had killed the rabbit on the very edge of the spruce swamp that he had selected for his hunting ground. Soon he would find game more worthy of his arrows or his axe. And so he was not surprised, even if his heart did give an extra bound, when presently he came upon the track of a lynx. It was a fresh track, too, and the footprints were those of a very big lynx.
“Weewah knew all this the moment he looked at the tracks, just as he knew a thousand other things that he had learned in the school of observation. He knew also that in all probability the animal was not half a mile away, possibly waiting in some tree, or crouching in some bushes looking for ptarmigan or rabbit. He was sure, also, that he could run faster on his snow-shoes than the lynx could in that deep soft snow.
“So for several minutes he stood and thought as fast as he could. What a grand day for him it would be if he could come back to the village dragging a great lynx after him! No one would ever tell him again that he was too small to be a hunter.
“But while he was sorely tempted to rush after the animal with the possibility of getting a shot, or a chance for a blow of his axe, he knew that this was not the surest way to get his prey. He had discovered the hunting ground of the big cat, and he knew that there was no danger of its leaving the neighborhood so long as the supply of rabbits held out. By taking a little more time, then, Weewah knew he could surely bring the fellow into camp. And so he curbed his eagerness.
“Instead of rushing off along the trail, bow bent and arrow on the string, he opened his pouch and took out a stout buckskin string—a string strong enough to resist the pull of the largest lynx. In one end of this he made a noose with a running knot. Next he cut a stout stick three inches thick and as tall as himself. Then he walked along the trail of the lynx for a little distance, looking sharply on either side, until he found a low-hanging, thick bunch of spruce boughs near which the animal had passed. Here the boy stopped and cut two more strong sticks, driving them into the ground about two feet apart, so that they stood three feet above the snow and right in front of a low-hanging bunch of spruce boughs.
“At the top of each he had left a crotch, across which he now laid his stick with the looped string dangling from the center. The contrivance when completed looked like a great figure H, from the cross-bar of which hung the loop just touching the top of the snow.
“Now Weewah carefully opened the loop of the noose until it was large enough for the head of any lynx to pass through, and fastened it deftly with twigs and blades of dead grass, so as to hold it in place firmly. From its front the thing looked like a miniature gallows—which, indeed, it was.
“Next Weewah took the rabbit from his pouch, and creeping under the thicket carefully so as not to disturb his looped string, he placed the still warm body an arm’s length behind the loop, propping the head of the little animal up with twigs, to look as lifelike as possible. In an hour, at most, the rabbit would freeze and stiffen, and would then look exactly like a live rabbit crouching in the bushes.
“Then the little Indian broke off branches, thrusting them into the snow about the rabbit, until he had formed a little bower facing the snare. Any animal attempting to seize it would thrust its own head right through the fatal hangman’s loop.
“When Weewah had finished this task he gathered up his tomahawk and bow and arrows, and started back along his own trail. He made no attempt to cover up the traces of his work, as he would if trapping a fox; for the lynx is a stupid creature, like all of his cousins of the cat family, and will blunder into a trap of almost any kind.
“The little Indian hurried along until he reached the point from which he had first crossed the lynx tracks. Here he turned sharply, starting a great circle, which would be about a mile in diameter. He did this to make sure that the lynx had not gone on farther than he thought. If he found no sign of fresh tracks he could feel certain that the animal was still close at hand.
“This took him several hours, and it was almost dark when he pulled back the flap and entered his home lodge in the village. He was tired, too, but his eyes shone with suppressed emotion.
“As soon as he entered his mother set before him a smoking bowl of broth without a word of comment or a question as to what his luck might have been in his rabbit hunting. His father was there, gorging himself on fat beaver meat that he had just brought in; but neither he, nor Weewah’s brothers and sisters, offered any comment at the little boy’s entrance.
“It is not correct etiquette, in Algonquin families, to ask the hunter what luck he has had until he has eaten. Even then a verbal question is not asked. But when the repast is finished the Indian woman takes a pouch of the hunter and turns its contents out upon the floor.
“The emptiness of Weewah’s pouch spoke for itself, for he had flung it upon the floor on entering, where it lay flat. His father scowled a little when he noticed it; for he wanted his son to be a credit to him as a hunter. But his scowl turned into a merry twinkle when he saw how radiant his son’s face was despite his ill luck, and what a small, delicately formed little fellow he was. Besides the old warrior was in an unusually good humor. Had he not killed a fat beaver that day? And was not beaver tail the choicest of all foods?
“In a few hours Weewah’s brothers and sisters, rolled in their warm Hudson Bay blankets, were breathing heavily, and his father and mother were far away in dreamland. Weewah was in dreamland, too; but not the land that comes with sleep. He was in the happy state of eager expectation that comes when to-morrow is to be a great day in one’s life. And so he lay, snugly wrapped in his blanket, his black eyes shining as he watched the embers of the fire in the center of the tepee slowly grow dim and smoulder away. Meanwhile the very thing he was dreaming about was happening out in the dark spruce swamp.
“The great lynx, whose tracks Weewah had seen, started out just at dusk on his nightly rabbit and grouse hunt. He had spent the day curled up under the protecting boughs of a drooping spruce almost within sound of Weewah’s hatchet where the snare was being set. Now he took his way leisurely along his former trail, sniffing the air, and examining every likely looking nook that might hide the material for his supper. His great, fur-padded feet gave out no sound as he glided along over the now frozen crust, and he was the embodiment of stealth as he glided forward with ears erect, and stubby tail straight out.
“Suddenly he stopped, raised his head and distended his nostrils, drinking in the familiar odor wafted to him from some point near at hand. Then he dropped low, his long fur dragging noiselessly on the snow crust, as he wormed snake-like along toward a clump of low-hanging spruces. His keen, yellow eyes had caught sight of the crouching rabbit held in place at first by the twigs that Weewah had placed there, but now stiff and rigid as iron.
“Closer and closer crept the lynx, until he was within six feet of his victim. And still the rabbit did not move. The great body, quivering with suppressed energy, now slowly lowered itself and the hind legs were carefully drawn under for the spring. Then like a flash the gray body shot forward and with a snarl the dagger-like teeth closed upon the bunch of fur.
“At the same time the lynx felt a violent tug at his throat, and a heavy club dealt him a sharp blow across the back as it fell from overhead. In amazement the great brute dropped the rabbit, springing violently backward as he did so. But the leather thong about his neck and the club attached to it followed him in the spring, the noose tightening about his neck.
“With a scream of rage he pulled violently to free himself, bracing with his great fore feet against the club as he did so. But instead of freeing himself he felt a quick tightening of the noose at his throat. Frantic with rage and fright he continued to jerk and pull, sometimes changing his attack to viciously biting the stick. But the only effect produced was to gradually tighten the noose, which was now tangled with the thick throat hair, and did not relax.
“Time and again he returned furiously to the attack, bracing his feet against the stick, and pulling with all his strength. Inevitably he would have choked himself to death, as Weewah had planned he should, but for the fact that the little Indian had made the loop a little too long, so that the pulling produced a violent but not fatal choking. Many a lynx commits suicide in this way just as the trapper plans it.
“For hours the lynx wrestled vainly to free itself, varying the attacks on the club by trying to run away from it. But running away from it was quite as much out of the question as tearing it loose. For when the animal attempted to run the club was jerked about its limbs, tripping it, and frequently becoming entangled in brush and bushes. At last, exhausted, and thoroughly sulky, the great cat laboriously climbed a tree, and extended itself along one of the lower limbs, the club still dangling at one side from its neck. In all its struggles it had not gone more than two hundred yards from where the trap had been set.
“An hour before daylight the next morning, Weewah, who had been waiting for the first indications of morning, stole silently out of the tepee without awakening even the light-sleeping members of his family. He carried with him his own tomahawk, and his bow and arrow; but also he carried the heavy axe that his mother used for cutting the wood for the fire. She would miss it, he knew, and also he knew that he would be in for a solid whack from the first stick that lay handy when he returned; but he was willing to brave all this. The axe must be had at any cost.
“The sun was just pushing its blood red rim above the low hills in the east when he reached the edge of the spruce swamp. And it was still only an oval, fire red ball when the little Indian approached the place where he had set the snare the day before. He had swung along lightly and swiftly over the beginning of the trail, but now as he approached the goal his heart beat hard against his chest, just as any white boy’s would have done under the circumstances. But long before he actually reached the spot where the trap had been left he knew that he had been successful. Successful, at least, in having lured the prey into his snare.
“He could tell this by the condition of the snow, which had been dug up and thrown about by the wild struggle of the lynx. He loosened his tomahawk, therefore, held his arrow in readiness on the string, and approached the scene of turmoil.
“One glance at the trampled snow, the dead rabbit still lying where the lynx had dropped it, and the broad twisting trail leading further into the swamp, told him the story of what had taken place more completely than any white man could write it. And almost without pausing he began following this trail cautiously forward, his arrow still poised; for one never knows what a captive animal may do when driven to desperation.
“Suddenly the little Indian stopped, his eyes snapping as he drew the arrow to the head with every ounce of strength in his arms and back. There, crouching on an upper limb of a tree perhaps a foot in diameter, was the huge lynx, watching him with curling lips, crouching ready to spring.
“Weewah’s first impulse was to send the finishing shaft through the great body on the limb. It would be a great triumph for Weewah—the little Indian boy, too small yet to be a hunter—to drag into his father’s tepee early that morning a great forest cat killed with his own bow and arrow. But after all, would a really great hunter feel much pride in killing a captive lynx from a safe distance with an arrow?
“He knew very well that doing such a thing would not mark him as a great hunter. And he was determined that he should be called a great hunter before he was a day older.
“So he lowered his arrow, removed it from the string, and laid the bow down beside the tree. He loosened his own tomahawk, also, and laid that close at hand near the tree trunk. Then he seized the big axe of his mother that he had brought with him and began chopping at the trunk, making the chips fly rapidly under his skillful aim.
“At the first blow of the axe against the trunk the lynx had half risen, giving a fierce growl of rage. For a moment it hesitated, ready to spring on the boy. But that moment of hesitancy was decisive. And as the strokes of the axe continued uninterruptedly the great animal gradually settled down sulkily on the branch, cowed by its fruitless battle with the cord and stick.
“Meanwhile Weewah was swinging his axe to good purpose. Nor was he directing his blows in a haphazard manner. With practiced eye he had selected a clear spot where he wished the tree to fall, and now by cutting half way through the trunk on the side facing in that direction, and then cutting on exactly the opposite side a little higher up he knew that the tree would fall precisely as he wished.
“Presently the tree began to waver slightly. It was sufficient, however, to make the great cat on the bough crouch and whine with fright. A few more sharp blows of the axe made the top limbs tremble ominously. A puff of wind now would have toppled it over; but there was not a breath of air stirring. Another axe stroke or two and it would bring it to the ground.
“But before delivering the finishing strokes Weewah paused long enough to replace his snow-shoes which he had removed before he began chopping. He also picked up his tomahawk and thrust it half way into his belt, where he could seize it instantly. Then he took the axe and gave three vigorous, carefully directed finishing blows.
“And still the lynx did not leap. When the creature felt the limb quivering beneath it, it rose as if to jump; then, confused and uncertain, it crouched low again, clinging tightly to the branch as if for protection. Just before the limb reached the ground, however, it sprang far out into the snow, making violent leaps with the club whirling about it, and quickly becoming entangled.
“Weewah, with tomahawk raised, was close upon its heels. Another stride and he would have buried the blade in the animal’s skull. But at that moment the lynx wheeled suddenly, dodging the blow aimed at its head, and sprang toward its pursuer. Its great claws as it struck at him cat fashion, scratched Weewah’s cheek, and cut two deep grooves in his shoulder. It was a blow that would have been disastrous had not the entangled club jerked the animal to one side.
“With a yell the little Indian sprang toward the crouching, snarling animal, thrusting out his right snow-shoe as he did so. Instantly the frame and lacings of the shoe were crushed in the savage jaws of the lynx. But at the same moment the tomahawk blade flashed through the air and buried itself deep in the thick skull.
“Without a sound the great fur-covered body relaxed, quivered, and then lay still with the teeth still buried in the snow-shoe frame only an inch from Weewah’s foot.
“The little Indian stood for a few moments looking at his victim. Then he reached down and tried to pry loose the fixed jaws. It was no easy task. For the muscles had set in the last convulsive death grip and it was only with the aid of his tomahawk blade that they could finally be relaxed.
“Weewah now lashed the forepaws to the dead animal’s lower jaw to prevent them from catching against things as he dragged the body over the snow. Then he unfastened the strap from the club, and taking the line over his shoulder started for home, scuffing along as best he could on his broken snow-shoe, towing the big cat after him.
“All that morning Weewah’s mother had scolded about the missing axe. Weewah was missing too, but she felt no solicitude about that. With the axe it was different: people who took away axes were not always particular about returning them, whereas boys always came back. It hadn’t occurred to her that the boy and the axe had gone away together.
“She had grumblingly gathered wood for the fire without the aid of her usual implement, and now was busily engaged in boiling roots and meat in a great pot, while her husband smoked his pipe, paying no attention to his spouse’s complaints. Some of the smaller children were playing noisy games, running in and out of the tepee, shouting and laughing like a pack of white school children.
“Presently one of Weewah’s younger sisters, squatted on a stump, raised a shrill cry, ‘Weewah, Weewah is coming!’
“The playing stopped at once, the children gathering in front of the tepee to gaze in mute astonishment at their older brother. Tired as he was from dragging the load, and leg weary from stumbling along with his broken snow-shoe, he now held his head erect and his chin high. Without a word he strode into the open flap of the tepee, dragging the dead lynx after him. In front of his father he stopped and dropped his burden; then he drew the blood-stained tomahawk from his belt and laid it beside the dead animal, and stood silently before his parent with folded arms.
“For several minutes the warrior smoked his pipe in silence. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction, laid his pipe aside, and ran his hand deliberately over the body of the dead animal. He found no arrow holes. Next he turned the great head and examined the clean wound, and then the blood-stained blade of the tomahawk, and the tightened cord of buckskin about the neck.
“His examination told him the story of what had happened out there in the woods. He knew that Weewah had first caught the lynx in his snare, and then had killed it with a blow from his tomahawk instead of shooting it with an arrow. And he was proud of his son. But no one but an Indian would have known it.
“With another grunt of satisfaction, however, he drew his hunting knife from the sheath in his belt. By a few deft strokes he severed two toes from the forepaw of the lynx, with the long curved claws protruding, leaving a strip of fur at the back. Then he quickly fashioned a loop in the skin so that the claws hung as a pendant from it. When this was finished to his satisfaction he stood up and beckoned to the boy; and when Weewah stepped forward the old Indian placed the fur string about his neck with the lynx claws suspended in front.
“Then he placed his hands on the little fellow’s shoulders and looked sharply into his eyes, the little Indian returning the gaze with quiet dignity.
“‘Weewah, the mighty hunter,’ the old Indian said slowly.
“Then he seated himself and resumed his pipe as if nothing had happened.”
Martin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and threw an extra chunk of wood on the fire.
“Time we were turning in,” he said.
“But tell me,” Larry asked; “did Weewah’s mother give him the beating for taking her axe?”
“What, beat a mighty hunter like Weewah?” Martin asked in feigned surprise. “No indeed! No more beatings for him. From that day on no woman, not even his mother, would ever give him a blow. And his father would now take him with him on his hunting trips, even into the most dangerous places, just as he would any other hunter. For he had proved his title, you see.”
Then the old man took his pipe from his lips, and said to the boy earnestly:
“You see I am the old Indian and you are Weewah in this case. Only you haven’t had a chance to kill your lynx yet. But we are going right into that country where the lynx lives, and sooner or later you’ll have a chance to show your metal. When that time comes remember the story of little Weewah.
“And now you must turn in for the night.”