when baree ventured forth from under his rock at the beginning of the next day, he was a much older puppy than when he met papayuchisew, the young owl, in his path near the old windfall. if experience can be made to take the place of age, he had aged a great deal in the last forty-eight hours. in fact, he had passed almost out of puppyhood. he awoke with a new and much broader conception of the world. it was a big place. it was filled with many things, of which kazan and gray wolf were not the most important. the monsters he had seen on the moonlit plot of sand had roused in him a new kind of caution, and the one greatest instinct of beasts—the primal understanding that it is the strong that prey upon the weak—was wakening swiftly in him. as yet he quite naturally measured brute force and the menace of things by size alone. thus the bear was more terrible than kazan, and the moose was more terrible than the bear.
it was quite fortunate for baree that this instinct did not go to the limit in the beginning and make him understand that his own breed—the wolf—was most feared of all the creatures, claw, hoof, and wing, of the forests. otherwise, like the small boy who thinks he can swim before he has mastered a stroke, he might somewhere have jumped in beyond his depth and had his head chewed off.
very much alert, with the hair standing up along his spine, and a little growl in his throat, baree smelled of the big footprints made by the bear and the moose. it was the bear-scent that made him growl. he followed the tracks to the edge of the creek. after that he resumed his wandering, and also his hunt for food.
for two hours he did not find a crayfish. then he came out of the green timber into the edge of a burned-over country. here everything was black. the stumps of the trees stood up like huge charred canes. it was a comparatively fresh “burn” of last autumn, and the ash was still soft under baree’s feet. straight through this black region ran the creek, and over it hung a blue sky in which the sun was shining. it was quite inviting to baree. the fox, the wolf, the moose, and the caribou would have turned back from the edge of this dead country. in another year it would be good hunting-ground, but now it was lifeless. even the owls would have found nothing to eat out there.
it was the blue sky and the sun and the softness of the earth under his feet that lured baree. it was pleasant to travel in after his painful experiences in the forest. he continued to follow the stream, though there was now little possibility of his finding anything to eat. the water had become sluggish and dark; the channel was choked with charred débris that had fallen into it when the forest had burned, and its shores were soft and muddy. after a time, when baree stopped and looked about him, he could no longer see the green timber he had left. he was alone in that desolate wilderness of charred tree-corpses. it was as still as death, too. not the chirp of a bird broke the silence. in the soft ash he could not hear the fall of his own feet. but he was not frightened. there was the assurance of safety here.
if he could only find something to eat! that was the master-thought that possessed baree. instinct had not yet impressed upon him that this which he saw all about him was starvation. he went on, seeking hopefully for food. but at last, as the hours passed, hope began to die out of him. the sun sank westward. the sky grew less blue; a low wind began to ride over the tops of the stubs, and now and then one of them fell with a startling crash.
baree could go no farther. an hour before dusk he lay down in the open, weak and starved. the sun disappeared behind the forest. the moon rolled up from the east. the sky glittered with stars—and all through the night baree lay as if dead. when morning came, he dragged himself to the stream for a drink. with his last strength he went on. it was the wolf urging him—compelling him to struggle to the last for his life. the dog in him wanted to lie down and die. but the wolf-spark in him burned stronger. in the end it won. half a mile farther on he came again to the green timber.
in the forests as well as in the great cities fate plays its changing and whimsical hand. if baree had dragged himself into the timber half an hour later he would have died. he was too far gone now to hunt for crayfish or kill the weakest bird. but he came just as sekoosew, the ermine—the most bloodthirsty little pirate of all the wild—was making a kill.
that was fully a hundred yards from where baree lay stretched out under a spruce, almost ready to give up the ghost. sekoosew was a mighty hunter of his kind. his body was about seven inches long, with a tiny black-tipped tail appended to it, and he weighed perhaps five ounces. a baby’s fingers could have encircled him anywhere between his four legs, and his little sharp-pointed head with its beady red eyes could slip easily through a hole an inch in diameter. for several centuries sekoosew had helped to make history. it was he—when his pelt was worth a hundred dollars in king’s gold—that lured the first shipload of gentlemen adventurers over the sea, with prince rupert at their head; it was little sekoosew who was responsible for the forming of the great hudson’s bay company and the discovery of half a continent; for almost three centuries he had fought his fight for existence with the trapper. and now, though he was no longer worth his weight in yellow gold, he was the cleverest, the fiercest, and the most merciless of all the creatures that made up his world.
as baree lay under his tree, sekoosew was creeping on his prey. his game was a big fat spruce-hen standing under a thicket of black currant bushes. the ear of no living thing could have heard sekoosew’s movement. he was like a shadow—a gray dot here, a flash there, now hidden behind a stick no larger than a man’s wrist, appearing for a moment, the next instant gone as completely as if he had not existed. thus he approached from fifty feet to within three feet of the spruce-hen. that was his favourite striking distance. unerringly he launched himself at the drowsy partridge’s throat, and his needle-like teeth sank through feathers into flesh.
sekoosew was prepared for what happened then. it always happened when he attacked napanao, the wood-partridge. her wings were powerful, and her first instinct when he struck was always that of flight. she rose straight up now with a great thunder of wings. sekoosew hung tight, his teeth buried deep in her throat, and his tiny, sharp claws clinging to her like hands. through the air he whizzed with her, biting deeper and deeper, until a hundred yards from where that terrible death-thing had fastened to her throat, napanao crashed again to earth.
where she fell was not ten feet from baree. for a few moments he looked at the struggling mass of feathers in a daze, not quite comprehending that at last food was almost within his reach. napanao was dying, but she still struggled convulsively with her wings. baree rose stealthily, and after a moment in which he gathered all his remaining strength, he made a rush for her. his teeth sank into her breast—and not until then did he see sekoosew. the ermine had raised his head from the death-grip at the partridge’s throat, and his savage little red eyes glared for a single instant into baree’s. here was something too big to kill, and with an angry squeak the ermine was gone. napanao’s wings relaxed, and the throb went out of her body. she was dead. baree hung on until he was sure. then he began his feast.
with murder in his heart, sekoosew hovered near, whisking here and there but never coming nearer than half a dozen feet from baree. his eyes were redder than ever. now and then he emitted a sharp little squeak of rage. never had he been so angry in all his life! to have a fat partridge stolen from him like this was an imposition he had never suffered before. he wanted to dart in and fasten his teeth in baree’s jugular. but he was too good a general to make the attempt, too good a napoleon to jump deliberately to his waterloo. an owl he would have fought. he might even have given battle to his big brother—and his deadliest enemy—the mink. but in baree he recognized the wolf-breed, and he vented his spite at a distance. after a time his good sense returned, and he went off on another hunt.
baree ate a third of the partridge, and the remaining two thirds he cached very carefully at the foot of the big spruce. then he hurried down to the creek for a drink. the world looked very different to him now. after all, one’s capacity for happiness depends largely on how deeply one has suffered. one’s hard luck and misfortune form the measuring-stick for future good luck and fortune. so it was with baree. forty-eight hours ago a full stomach would not have made him a tenth part as happy as he was now. then his greatest longing was for his mother. since then a still greater yearning had come into his life—for food. in a way it was fortunate for him that he had almost died of exhaustion and starvation, for his experience had helped to make a man of him—or a wolf-dog, just as you are of a mind to put it. he would miss his mother for a long time. but he would never miss her again as he had missed her yesterday, and the day before.
that afternoon baree took a long nap close to his cache. then he uncovered the partridge and ate his supper. when his fourth night alone came, he did not hide himself as he had done on the three preceding nights. he was strangely and curiously alert. under the moon and the stars he prowled in the edge of the forest and out on the burn. he listened with a new kind of thrill to the far-away cry of a wolf-pack on the hunt. he listened to the ghostly whoo-whoo-whoo of the owls without shivering. sounds and silences were beginning to hold a new and significant note for him.
for another day and night baree remained in the vicinity of his cache. when the last bone was picked, he moved on. he now entered a country where subsistence was no longer a perilous problem for him. it was a lynx country, and where there are lynx, there are also a great many rabbits. when the rabbits thin out, the lynx emigrate to better hunting-grounds. as the snowshoe rabbit breeds all the summer through, baree found himself in a land of plenty. it was not difficult for him to catch and kill the young rabbits. for a week he prospered and grew bigger and stronger each day. but all the time, stirred by that seeking, wanderlust spirit—still hoping to find the old home and his mother—he travelled into the north and east.
and this was straight into the trapping country of pierrot, the halfbreed.
pierrot, until two years ago, had believed himself to be one of the most fortunate men in the big wilderness. that was before la mort rouge—the red death—came. he was half french, and he had married a cree chief’s daughter, and in their log cabin on the gray loon they had lived for many years in great prosperity and happiness. pierrot was proud of three things in this wild world of his: he was immensely proud of wyola, his royal-blooded wife; he was proud of his daughter; and he was proud of his reputation as a hunter. until the red death came, life was quite complete for him. it was then—two years ago—that the smallpox killed his princess-wife. he still lived in the little cabin on the gray loon, but he was a different pierrot. the heart was sick in him. it would have died, had it not been for nepeese, his daughter. his wife had named her nepeese, which means the willow. nepeese had grown up like the willow, slender as a reed, with all her mother’s wild beauty, and with a little of the french thrown in. she was sixteen, with great, dark, wonderful eyes, and hair so beautiful that an agent from montreal passing that way had once tried to buy it. it fell in two shining braids, each as big as a man’s wrist, almost to her knees. “non, m’sieu,” pierrot had said, a cold glitter in his eyes as he saw what was in the agent’s face. “it is not for barter.”
two days after baree had entered his trapping-ground, pierrot came in from the forests with a troubled look in his face.
“something is killing off the young beavers,” he explained to nepeese, speaking to her in french. “it is a lynx or a wolf. to-morrow——” he shrugged his thin shoulders, and smiled at her.
“we will go on the hunt,” laughed nepeese happily, in her soft cree.
when pierrot smiled at her like that, and began with “to-morrow,” it always meant that she might go with him on the adventure he was contemplating.
still another day later, at the end of the afternoon, baree crossed the gray loon on a bridge of driftwood that had wedged between two trees. this was to the north. just beyond the driftwood bridge there was a small open, and on the edge of this baree paused to enjoy the last of the setting sun. as he stood motionless and listening, his tail drooping low, his ears alert, his sharp-pointed nose sniffing the new country to the north, there was not a pair of eyes in the forest that would not have taken him for a young wolf.
from behind a clump of young balsams, a hundred yards away, pierrot and nepeese had watched him come over the driftwood bridge. now was the time, and pierrot levelled his rifle. it was not until then that nepeese touched his arm softly. her breath came a little excitedly as she whispered:
“nootawe, let me shoot. i can kill him!”
with a low chuckle pierrot gave the gun to her. he counted the whelp as already dead. for nepeese, at that distance, could send a bullet into an inch square nine times out of ten. and nepeese, aiming carefully at baree, pressed steadily with her brown forefinger upon the trigger.
