Fur Pirates/Chapter 13

there was nothing to be gained by remaining longer, we went back to the shore and our canoe. By that time the afternoon was far gone. The low sun hid itself behind threatening clouds, and a rising wind, coldly edged, began to strain through the treetops. The surface of the lake darkened and soon began to run in little, choppy, white-topped waves. Toft's prediction of a blow seemed to be coming true.

With the darkness we made a fire and had a hot meal. Afterward Toft told us more of Nitche McNab.

"He was too durn cute to camp on that creek when he was shifting the furs," he said. "He must have worked day and night till he got it done, and I guess it would take him about a dozen trips. The only place he built a fire was at the cache he was lifting. It fooled us all. We combed that country till the weasels got to know us. After the others had quit, I sorter nanitched round by myself for a while. I figgered Nitche or some of 'em might come back, and I was lookin' for 'em, specially Nitche. There was a thousand dollars on his scalp. It wasn't that so much, but I'd got it straight that it was him killed a tillikum of mine. So I was lookin' for him. Yes, I prospected this country pretty gen'ral. That's how I come to this here creek. I went up her to the cañon, and I thought I saw sign of a trail, but I couldn't make sure. I was within ten feet of that cache, and I didn't know it. That's nigh twenty years ago. Funny I should be here now, ain't it?"

While it was quite early, I spread my blankets a little distance from the fire, behind a clump of black birch, where I was in the shadow. After a while the men drew closer together. Toft seemed to be explaining something by means of a diagram which he drew on the ground with a stick. Finally I caught my own name.

"We'll leave him to keep camp," said Pack.

I grinned to myself in the shadow. Keep camp! Nothing was farther from my thoughts. I waited till they had turned in and were sleeping, and then I rolled softly out of my blankets and made my way carefully to the canoe. From it I took a coil of light line, and then I stole cautiously along the shore toward the creek.

Now the idea which had come to me. and which I considered exceptionally brilliant, was to steal Ballou's canoes. And because Dunleath and Pack had chosen to treat me as a child I would accomplish it alone. As I think it over now, I can see that the plan was not only foolhardy, but foolish; but at the time I considered it a Heaven-born conception.

I followed the shore until I came to the creek, and it was not by any means a stroll on a beach. Most of the way the water lapped right up on the rocks, and there was brush and fallen trees. However, by taking my time and going carefully I got along very well, and at last I could see the distant glimmer of a fire and hear the sound of voices.

This rather upset my calculations, for I had thought they would all be asleep. But I heard a snatch of song and loud laughter, and I thought of the keg of rum, or whatever was in it. No doubt they were celebrating their luck. Well, the more noise they made the less they would hear. And so I went ahead.

Now I do not want to give the impression that I was a young Leatherstocking, or any wonder in the woods. I had merely learned, by still hunting, to move quietly and feel the ground for crackling sticks and so on before I put my weight on it. Also I had learned infinite patience. This was a new kind of still-hunting, and it sent delicious thrills up and down my spine and in the roots of my hair. This was a real adventure, such as I had read of and longed for, and it was all my own. I relished it with the keen zest of boyhood which invariably overlooks and minimizes difficulty and danger, because life runs then so redly and strongly.

Finally I came to the bank above the little shingly beach where the canoes lay. I slid down, and, using great care to avoid noise, turned them over. Then I eased them, inch by inch, into the water, fearful of the grate of stones on their bottoms, though the wind was roaring through the trees. When they all lay with their noses to the beach I took the coil of light line and made the bow of one fast to the stern of the next, so that they would ride in a string behind me when I got into the leading one. I shoved them out so that they rode in deep water. But instead of getting in and going, as I should have done, I hesitated.

Now that I had the canoes—or as good as had them—I wanted to hear what the fur thieves were talking about. They thought they had everything their own way. It would be rich to hear them. I only regretted that I could not be there when they missed the canoes. Finally this foolish desire got the better of prudence, and I made the leading canoe fast, stowed my rifle in it carefully, and crawled up the bank and toward the fire.

Many writers who describe a camp fire speak of the "circle of light" cast by it. You would think there was a definite ring, beyond which nothing was visible. And, of course, if you sit facing a fire you cannot see very far or very much. But if you turn your back to it you can distinguish a man's face or a blazed tree for a surprising distance. Knowing this, I took no chances. They had a big fire, and I kept close to the ground, moving in the shadows, and brought up in a little hollow behind a bush where I could see and hear.

The first thing I saw was that there was a woman in camp. She was a squaw, and she sat a little apart from the rest, mending gloves or moccasins by the firelight. I could not tell much about her, except that she looked like a young woman, and no doubt she belonged to Nootka Charlie or Siwash George. Nor did I derive any satisfaction from the talk I overheard. It had nothing to do with the furs or with their plans. They were telling stories principally, and these were either lewd or blasphemous, and sometimes both. I don't know whether the woman understood them or not, and nobody seemed to care. There was no profit in listening to that sort of thing, and I should have gone anyway. But just then somebody proposed another drink, and Conover discovered that the water bucket was empty.

"I can't down this hooch straight," he complained.

"Who was your nigger last year?" said McGregor. "Get water yourself if you want it."

That settled my listening. I slid back into the shadows and made for the canoes. I cast off with hands that fumbled with eager hurry, jumped into the leading craft, and shoved off into deep water.

In an instant the current took the bow and whirled it out and around. I paddled hard, striving to straighten out my unwieldy string, and as I did so I heard the clank of the bucket bale as Conover came down to the landing. The gravel grated beneath his feet, and then his startled oath burst like shrapnel.

"Canoe is gone!" he yelled. And, an instant after: "I see them. Come on, boys, get a move on! Bring my gun!"

Sudden uproar in the camp answered him. I paddled as quietly as I could, merely keeping the canoe straight and letting the current do the rest. It was taking me lakeward rapidly. I did not know whether Conover had really seen me or not, but no accurate shooting was possible in that darkness. I was willing to take a chance on that. In the excitement of the moment I did not consider the possibility of being hit.

The next moment I did consider it, for a slender shaft of fire lanced the night, and a bullet whined behind me; and, deflected by some branch on the farther side of the creek, it keyholed and wailed away into the darkness in a high-pitched note like some ghostly violin.

I ducked promptly and automatically, though by that time the bullet was far past me. I squatted low in the canoe, but I kept my paddle going. Another bit of lead tore above my head, and a third hit the water in front of me. The man behind the gun was evidently spraying the channel with lead on general principles.

The lake loomed in front of me. I threw every ounce of power into my paddle to gain it, because when I emerged from the background of the creek's bank, although the night was as dark as a cord of black cats, my string of canoes would probably be visible. And of course the men would make for the mouth of the creek on that chance.

Suddenly my paddle jarred and was almost torn from my hand. Bullets sang all around me, spatted and richochetedricocheted [sic] on the water, buzzed through the air above my head. Half a dozen rifles blended in a rattling fire. Apparently they were all unhooking their guns straight downstream in the hope of hitting any one who might be there. I dropped flat in the canoe, and waited till the fusillade ceased.

My paddle blade had been split, but I had a second paddle in the canoe, and, working furiously, I emerged from the creek to the lake. In spite of the wind it was calm enough there because the long, narrow point sheltered the creek's mouth. But on the other side of the point I could hear the waves swashing against the shingle, and the trees were bending with the gale.

I drove my heavy string straight out, because there was nothing else for it. I had to get clear of the land before I was seen, wind or no wind, and I had made perhaps more than a hundred yards from the creek's mouth when I heard a yell behind.

After that one yell they wasted no time in hailing, but began to shoot. They could not have seen me more than dimly, and of course they could not see their rifle sights at all. Their shooting was entirely guess as to elevation. Nevertheless, it was close enough to be unpleasant. Several times I heard bullets strike the canoes behind me. They seemed to buzz all around. But this time, with no current to assist me, I had to keep paddling to get out of range as soon as possible. I think they lost sight of me almost immediately. At any rate, their bullets began to go wide, and they stopped firing as the nose of my canoe lifted to the first surges which came around the point.

Intent on getting out of shot, I was out of shelter before I knew it. Then for the first time I realized the strength of the wind. It ramped down on me like a stampede, took my string of canoes, and blew them to leeward like the tail of a kite, and they dragged me after them. In fact, it was only the drift of the light canoes that enabled me to keep head to wind at all. I was traveling stern first, and all my efforts with the paddle barely sufficed to hold the bow on.

At first the sea was not bad. It was short and choppy, and the canoes jumped and tugged, but as we drifted farther it rose alarmingly, in crested rollers which I did not like at all. I had to shift my weight for'ard of amidships to keep the bow to the wind, for the gale took it and flung it sideways, and I had all I could do to drag it back with the paddle. All the time I was being swept out and down the lake, and the sea got worse. Of course I had intended to bring the canoes triumphantly into shore by our camp, but I soon saw that I could do nothing of the sort, even with one canoe, let alone the lot. I was quite helpless so far as directing my course was concerned. All I could do was to drift and try to do that right side up.

I began to tire with the continued exertion. I was a strong boy; but, after all, I was only a boy with only a boy's endurance. My arms began to weaken with the dig and drag of the paddle. Once the canoe swung and almost broached, and a wave broke inboard, drenching me. I realized that it was impossible to continue head to wind, and the only thing to do was to turn and run before it. This involved abandoning the other canoes, and no doubt they would drive down on one another in the seas and smash like eggshells. However, I could not help that. I should be lucky if I could slash through the rope which made me fast, without a capsize.

But just then something happened. Instead of the canoes blowing out behind me, they were swinging around, tail first, and dragging me with them. And then I saw what caused it. The rear canoe of the string was water-logged. Probably it had been struck by bullets and filled gradually. Being water-logged, it did not drift as fast as the others, which blew past it, and, pivoting on it, were turning, stern first, to the seas. My canoe, which had been first, would, by this reversal of things, be last.

For a moment we were broadside on, rolling and tumbling in the trough, jamming together frightfully. White water creamed up yeastily in the darkness, broke, and flung its sprayheads at me. I was hit in the teeth by the top of a wave and almost choked. For a moment I thought I was certainly capsized, but I found myself afloat, digging hard, with my paddle, not to keep bow on, but to turn stern to. And then by sheer luck the canoes swung past, straightened out with a succession of jerks, and there I rode to an accidental sea anchor.

With the change I shifted my weight to the other end and went to bailing, for I had shipped considerable water. I got the most of it out, and lay down with my back against a thwart. The canoe tossed and pitched, but the motion was fore and aft, and in that way a canoe will stand almost anything. All the time I was drifting down the lake, and pretty well in the middle of it as nearly as I could judge. It began to rain, in slashing squalls that blotted out the dim shore line, but as I was thoroughly soaked already that made little difference. The wind searched my wet clothes, with a chill like November. By contrast the water overside seemed almost warm.

After a while the sky cleared partially, and a few stars showed through the driving clouds. But though I had hopes that the rain would have killed the wind it had not done so. If anything, it blew stiffer than ever.

Suddenly, in the ceaseless surge and boil of water, my ear caught a new note. To starboard rose a black bulk against which the water broke solidly. It was one of the small, rocky islands, and I was being driven past it within a few yards. Grabbing my paddle, I worked frantically, but the black shore slid by, and I could see the end of it and the gouts of the tossing waters beyond. And so I bent what was left of the line around a thwart, took the other end in a loop over my arm, and jumped in.

Of course I knew that I could get ashore myself, but I was afraid that the wet line might foul or snarl. Luckily it did neither, and, before it was all paid out, I got my feet on bottom. It was round, slippery bowlders, and the waves threw me off my first footing. But I got ashore just at the lower end of the little island, and snubbed my drifting flotilla so that it swung in with the send of the seas under the lee. Then I emptied out the water they had shipped and drew them up high and dry out of harm's way. And thus, so far, I considered that honors were even. For if Ballou had the furs we had the canoes, without which he could not move his plunder.