The two men settled again into their customary ways of life.Things went much as before, except that the flies and mosquitoes became thick.To men as hardened as Thorpe and the Indian, these pests were not as formidable as they would have been to anyone directly from the city, but they were sufficiently annoying.Thorpe's old tin pail was pressed into service as a smudge-kettle.Every evening about dusk, when the insects first began to emerge from the dark swamps, Charley would build a tiny smoky fire in the bottom of the pail, feeding it with peat, damp moss, punk maple, and other inflammable smoky fuel.This censer swung twice or thrice about the tent, effectually cleared it.Besides, both men early established on their cheeks an invulnerable glaze of a decoction of pine tar, oil, and a pungent herb.Towards the close of July, however, the insects began sensibly to diminish, both in numbers and persistency.
Up to the present Thorpe had enjoyed a clear field.Now two men came down from above and established a temporary camp in the woods half a mile below the dam.Thorpe soon satisfied himself that they were picking out a route for the logging road.Plenty which could be cut and travoyed directly to the banking ground lay exactly along the bank of the stream; but every logger possessed of a tract of timber tries each year to get in some that is easy to handle and some that is difficult.Thus the average of expense is maintained.
The two men, of course, did not bother themselves with the timber to be travoyed, but gave their entire attention to that lying further back.Thorpe was enabled thus to avoid them entirely.He simply transferred his estimating to the forest by the stream.Once he met one of the men; but was fortunately in a country that lent itself to his pose of hunter.The other he did not see at all.
But one day he heard him.The two up-river men were following carefully but noisily the bed of a little creek.Thorpe happened to be on the side-hill, so he seated himself quietly until they should have moved on down.One of the men shouted to the other, who, crashing through a thicket, did not hear."Ho-o-o! DYER!" the first repeated."Here's that infernal comer; over here!""Yop!" assented the other."Coming!"
Thorpe recognized the voice instantly as that of Radway's scaler.
His hand crisped in a gesture of disgust.The man had always been obnoxious to him.
Two days later he stumbled on their camp.He paused in wonder at what he saw.
The packs lay open, their contents scattered in every direction.
The fire had been hastily extinguished with a bucket of water, and a frying pan lay where it had been overturned.If the thing had been possible, Thorpe would have guessed at a hasty and unpremeditated flight.
He was about to withdraw carefully lest he be discovered, when he was startled by a touch on his elbow.It was Injin Charley.
"Dey go up river," he said."I come see what de row."The Indian examined rapidly the condition of the little camp.
"Dey look for somethin'," said he, making his hand revolve as though rummaging, and indicating the packs.
"I t'ink dey see you in de woods," he concluded."Dey go camp gettum boss.Boss he gone on river trail two t'ree hour.""You're right, Charley," replied Thorpe, who had been drawing his own conclusions."One of them knows me.They've been looking in their packs for their note-books with the descriptions of these sections in them.Then they piled out for the boss.If I know anything at all, the boss'll make tracks for Detroit.""W'ot you do?" asked Injin Charley curiously.
"I got to get to Detroit before they do; that's all."Instantly the Indian became all action.
"You come," he ordered, and set out at a rapid pace for camp.
There, with incredible deftness, he packed together about twelve pounds of the jerked venison and a pair of blankets, thrust Thorpe's waterproof match safe in his pocket, and turned eagerly to the young man.
"You come," he repeated.
Thorpe hastily unearthed his "descriptions" and wrapped them up.
The Indian, in silence, rearranged the displaced articles in such a manner as to relieve the camp of its abandoned air.
It was nearly sundown.Without a word the two men struck off into the forest, the Indian in the lead.Their course was southeast, but Thorpe asked no questions.He followed blindly.Soon he found that if he did even that adequately, he would have little attention left for anything else.The Indian walked with long, swift strides, his knees always slightly bent, even at the finish of the step, his back hollowed, his shoulders and head thrust forward.His gait had a queer sag in it, up and down in a long curve from one rise to the other.After a time Thorpe became fascinated in watching before him this easy, untiring lope, hour after hour, without the variation of a second's fraction in speed nor an inch in length.It was as though the Indian were made of steel springs.He never appeared to hurry;but neither did he ever rest.
At first Thorpe followed him with comparative ease, but at the end of three hours he was compelled to put forth decided efforts to keep pace.His walking was no longer mechanical, but conscious.
When it becomes so, a man soon tires.Thorpe resented the inequalities, the stones, the roots, the patches of soft ground which lay in his way.He felt dully that they were not fair.He could negotiate the distance; but anything else was a gratuitous insult.
Then suddenly he gained his second wind.He felt better and stronger and moved freer.For second wind is only to a very small degree a question of the breathing power.It is rather the response of the vital forces to a will that refuses to heed their first grumbling protests.Like dogs by the fire they do their utmost to convince their master that the limit of freshness is reached; but at last, under the whip, spring to their work.
