In the days that followed, Thorpe cruised about the great woods. It was slow business, but fascinating. He knew that when he should embark on his attempt to enlist considerable capital in an “unsight unseen” investment, he would have to be well supplied with statistics. True, he was not much of a timber estimator, nor did he know the methods usually employed, but his experience, observation, and reading had developed a latent sixth sense by which he could appreciate quality, difficulties of logging, and such kindred practical matters.
First of all he walked over the country at large, to find where the best timber lay. This was a matter of tramping; though often on an elevation he succeeded in climbing a tall tree whence he caught bird's-eye views of the country at large. He always carried his gun with him, and was prepared at a moment's notice to seem engaged in hunting,—either for game or for spots in which later to set his traps. The expedient was, however, unnecessary.
Next he ascertained the geographical location of the different clumps and forests, entering the sections, the quarter-sections, even the separate forties in his note-book; taking in only the “descriptions” containing the best pine.
Finally he wrote accurate notes concerning the topography of each and every pine district,—the lay of the land; the hills, ravines, swamps, and valleys; the distance from the river; the character of the soil. In short, he accumulated all the information he could by which the cost of logging might be estimated.
The work went much quicker than he had anticipated, mainly because he could give his entire attention to it. Injin Charley attended to the commissary, with a delight in the process that removed it from the category of work. When it rained, an infrequent occurrence, the two hung Thorpe's rubber blankets before the opening of the driest shelter, and waited philosophically for the weather to clear. Injin Charley had finished the first canoe, and was now leisurely at work on another. Thorpe had filled his note-book with the class of statistics just described. He decided now to attempt an estimate of the timber.
For this he had really too little experience. He knew it, but determined to do his best. The weak point of his whole scheme lay in that it was going to be impossible for him to allow the prospective purchaser a chance of examining the pine. That difficulty Thorpe hoped to overcome by inspiring personal confidence in himself. If he failed to do so, he might return with a landlooker whom the investor trusted, and the two could re-enact the comedy of this summer. Thorpe hoped, however, to avoid the necessity. It would be too dangerous. He set about a rough estimate of the timber.
Injin Charley intended evidently to work up a trade in buckskin during the coming winter. Although the skins were in poor condition at this time of the year, he tanned three more, and smoked them. In the day-time he looked the country over as carefully as did Thorpe. But he ignored the pines, and paid attention only to the hardwood and the beds of little creeks. Injin Charley was in reality a trapper, and he intended to get many fine skins in this promising district. He worked on his tanning and his canoe-making late in the afternoon.
One evening just at sunset Thorpe was helping the Indian shape his craft. The loose sac of birch-bark sewed to the long beech oval was slung between two tripods. Injin Charley had fashioned a number of thin, flexible cedar strips of certain arbitrary lengths and widths. Beginning with the smallest of these, Thorpe and his companion were catching one end under the beech oval, bending the strip bow-shape inside the sac, and catching again the other side of the oval. Thus the spring of the bent cedar, pressing against the inside of the birch-bark sac, distended it tightly. The cut of the sac and the length of the cedar strips gave to the canoe its graceful shape.
The two men bent there at their task, the dull glow of evening falling upon them. Behind them the knoll stood out in picturesque relief against the darker pine, the little shelters, the fire-places of green spruce, the blankets, the guns, a deer's carcass suspended by the feet from a cross pole, the drying buckskin on either side. The river rushed by with a never-ending roar and turmoil. Through its shouting one perceived, as through a mist, the still lofty peace of evening.
A young fellow, hardly more than a boy, exclaimed with keen delight of the picturesque as his canoe shot around the bend into sight of it.
The canoe was large and powerful, but well filled. An Indian knelt in the stern; amidships was well laden with duffle of all descriptions; then the young fellow sat in the bow. He was a bright-faced, eager-eyed, curly-haired young fellow, all enthusiasm and fire. His figure was trim and clean, but rather slender; and his movements were quick but nervous. When he stepped carefully out on the flat rock to which his guide brought the canoe with a swirl of the paddle, one initiated would have seen that his clothes, while strong and serviceable, had been bought from a sporting catalogue. There was a trimness, a neatness, about them.
“This is a good place,” he said to the guide, “we'll camp here.” Then he turned up the steep bank without looking back.
“Hullo!” he called in a cheerful, unembarrassed fashion to Thorpe and Charley. “How are you? Care if I camp here? What you making? By Jove! I never saw a canoe made before. I'm going to watch you. Keep right at it.”
He sat on one of the outcropping boulders and took off his hat.
“Say! you've got a great place here! You here all summer? Hullo! you've got a deer hanging up. Are there many of 'em around here? I'd like to kill a deer first rate. I never have. It's sort of out of season now, isn't it?”
“We only kill the bucks,” replied Thorpe.
“I like fishing, too,” went on the boy; “are there any here? In the pool? John,” he called to his guide, “bring me my fishing tackle.”
In a few moments he was whipping the pool with long, graceful drops of the fly. He proved to be adept. Thorpe and Injin Charley stopped work to watch him. At first the Indian's stolid countenance seemed a trifle doubtful. After a time it cleared.
“Good! he grunted.
“You do that well,” Thorpe remarked. “Is it difficult?”
“It takes practice,” replied the boy. “See that riffle?” He whipped the fly lightly within six inches of a little suction hole; a fish at once rose and struck.
The others had been little fellows and easily handled. At the end of fifteen minutes the newcomer landed a fine two-pounder.
“That must be fun,” commented Thorpe. “I never happened to get in with fly-fishing. I'd like to try it sometime.”
“Try it now!” urged the boy, enchanted that he could teach a woodsman anything.
“No,” Thorpe declined, “not to-night, to-morrow perhaps.”
The other Indian had by now finished the erection of a tent, and had begun to cook supper over a little sheet-iron camp stove. Thorpe and Charley could smell ham.
“You've got quite a pantry,” remarked Thorpe.
“Won't you eat with me?” proffered the boy hospitably.
But Thorpe declined. He could, however, see canned goods, hard tack, and condensed milk.
In the course of the evening the boy approached the older man's camp, and, with a charming diffidence, asked permission to sit awhile at their fire.
He was full of delight over everything that savored of the woods, or woodscraft. The most trivial and everyday affairs of the life interested him. His eager questions, so frankly proffered, aroused even the taciturn Charley to eloquence. The construction of the shelter, the cut of a deer's hide, the simple process of “jerking” venison,—all these awakened his enthusiasm.
“It must be good to live in the woods,” he said with a sigh, “to do all things for yourself. It's so free!”
The men's moccasins interested him. He asked a dozen questions about them,—how they were cut, whether they did not hurt the feet, how long they would wear. He seemed surprised to learn that they are excellent in cold weather.
“I thought ANY leather would wet through in the snow!” he cried. “I wish I could get a pair somewhere!” he exclaimed. “You don't know where I could buy any, do you?” he asked of Thorpe.
“I don't know,” answered he, “perhaps Charley here will make you a pair.”
“WILL you, Charley?” cried the boy.
“I mak' him,” replied the Indian stolidly.
The many-voiced night of the woods descended close about the little camp fire, and its soft breezes wafted stray sparks here and there like errant stars. The newcomer, with shining eyes, breathed deep in satisfaction. He was keenly alive to the romance, the grandeur, the mystery, the beauty of the littlest things, seeming to derive a deep and solid contentment from the mere contemplation of the woods and its ways and creatures.
“I just DO love this!” he cried again and again. “Oh, it's great, after all that fuss down there!” and he cried it so fervently that the other men present smiled; but so genuinely that the smile had in it nothing but kindliness.
“I came out for a month,” said he suddenly, “and I guess I'll stay the rest of it right here. You'll let me go with you sometimes hunting, won't you?” he appealed to them with the sudden open-heartedness of a child. “I'd like first rate to kill a deer.”
“Sure,” said Thorpe, “glad to have you.”
“My name is Wallace Carpenter,” said the boy with a sudden unmistakable air of good-breeding.
“Well,” laughed Thorpe, “two old woods loafers like us haven't got much use for names. Charley here is called Geezigut, and mine's nearly as bad; but I guess plain Charley and Harry will do.”
“All right, Harry,” replied Wallace.
After the young fellow had crawled into the sleeping bag which his guide had spread for him over a fragrant layer of hemlock and balsam, Thorpe and his companion smoked one more pipe. The whip-poor-wills called back and forth across the river. Down in the thicket, fine, clear, beautiful, like the silver thread of a dream, came the notes of the white-throat—the nightingale of the North. Injin Charley knocked the last ashes from his pipe.
“Him nice boy!” said he.
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