Book: The Shagganappi

E >> E. Pauline Johnson >> The Shagganappi




And one night something happened of real import. It was just sunset one
beautiful August day, and Mr. Ellis, wearied with a long, hard run, lay
drinking in the wild beauty of the lonely lake, with its forest-covered
shores and its rocky islands. Over on the mainland the McKenzie's camp
gleamed white in the sunset. One could discern every movement in the
clear air, although the tents were a full mile, if not more, from where
the wearied engineer lay, grateful for the stillness, after hours of
the heated convulsions of the great steed he drove, day after day.

"There go the McKenzie boys for a swim, Benny," called out his father.
"Too bad you're not with them, but you and I'll go in together here,
if you like."

"All right, dad," answered Benny, leaving his fishing tackle to watch
his young neighbors. Then, "Say, the boys have a dandy beach there. I
wish ours was as good. The only trouble is you've got to swim around
that big rock to it. There's no climbing over it, and there's only one
resting place on the way, but we always go. It's great! See, dad, there
they go!" as the two white, gleaming young bodies plunged into the
lake. No sooner were they well out than right at the base of the rock,
and along the very beach they were heading for, came, stealthily and
ponderously, a huge black bear and two woolly cubs. Straight for the
water's edge they paddled their way; then stood drinking, drinking,
endlessly.

"Great Caesar! Benny, look, look!" yelled Mr. Ellis, sitting upright and
rigid. "The boys, the McKenzie boys are heading right round that rock.
They'll head on right into that she-bear!" Benny stood, perfectly
voiceless, paralyzed with the sight. "The animal's savage with heat and
thirst. They always are when they have cubs along, and there are those
naked boys making straight for her."

Then he sprang to his feet, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Take care!
Go back! Go back!" But the boys still swam on. They either could not
hear him, or else his voice carried no warning. "Quick, Benny!" he
shouted, "get my revolver on the shelf. I'll get the boat out. We must
go to help them. They're dead boys, as sure as anything."

But Benny had found his tongue and his wits. "There they go, climbing on
to the resting-place. They'll stay a second there, and--"

But at that instant he broke off, and dashing into the shack, seized the
white tablecloth, scattering the supper dishes far and wide. With a rush
he was at a point of rock which the dying sun flooded with a brilliant
red light. In this radiance the boy stood, swinging about his head the
white cloth until it circled five times, then dropped to his feet.
Seizing it again, he held it at arm's length in his right hand, then
dexterously tossed it over his head and caught it in his left.

"Oh, I wonder if they see me!" he cried, shakily, then once more went
through the signals. A faint, far whistle reached his ears. Then, in a
weakness of relief, he dropped down on the rocks, shouting, "They'll
never budge, dad. They understand."

But Mr. Ellis was already in the boat, revolver in hand, and three
seconds later he and Benny were pulling for all they were worth towards
the shivering swimmers, who crouched on the resting-place, unconscious
of why they must remain there, or what danger threatened.

Very little was said until Benny and his dad had them safely in the
boat, and had rowed them round the rock and pointed silently at the bear
and cubs, which still lapped the water at the edge of the beach. As
she caught sight of the boat, the mother growled sullenly, and her red
tongue dripped saliva as she started for them until she was breast high
in the water. But strong arms pulled the boat out far beyond danger, and
the tragedy that might have been was averted by a boy's invention and
quick wit. It was very late when the Ellis family had supper that night,
but Mrs. Ellis did not mind the broken and scattered dishes when she saw
what a rescue Benny had accomplished. They all talked until they were
tired, just as the McKenzie boys talked at their camp. Later Mr. and
Mrs. McKenzie rowed across the lake in the dark, to tell their gratitude
to Benny and his father. But Mr. Ellis would have none of it. "You just
owe it to Benny, here," he laughed. "But what he did with that white
tablecloth beats me."

"That's part of my signal code," said the boy, a little shyly. "I
invented it; it's our Scout Society Code, but I don't mind telling you,
after all this, that three circles of any white cloth above one's head
means 'Danger,' five circles means 'Great Danger,' and a toss from one
hand to the other up through the air means 'Don't move. Stay where you
are.'"

"Well, I never knew that child's play would save my boys' lives," said
Mr. McKenzie gratefully. "I knew these kiddies had some fool 'code' they
played at, but this beats me, as well as you."

"It's no 'fool' code, friend Mack," answered the engineer. "It's what an
engine whistle or the swing of a lantern is to us trainmen, and I'm glad
our boys play at something so sensible. It's a mighty good thing once in
a while, as we saw to-day--this 'Signal Code.'"

* * * * * * * *

It was late in September when the little colony on the lake struck camp
and pulled into town. The hunting season was well on, and sportsmen
were out after deer and partridge, and Benny and his friends had been
fortunate enough to shoot two birds and a jack rabbit. This, of course,
meant that every Saturday they took to the woods, with the one little
shotgun the crowd possessed, for in the wild, new railway districts it
is a good thing for boys to learn to be good shots while yet young.
Often in the snowbound winters meat is scarce, and one's food is
frequently the result of being a dead shot, so guns in the hands of
boys of ten and twelve are nothing unusual. One wonderful autumn day
six of "the gang" had prowled the forest for hours, and had succeeded
in bugging some plump partridges, and late in the afternoon they all
sprawled out in the Indian summer sunshine, finishing the remnants of
their luncheon, and looking about the marvellous cavern that, formed by
the pine-crowned hills, lay like a cup at their feet. In and out wound
the railroad track, a lonely, isolated bit of man's handiwork threading
through the vastness of nature. It was the only sign of human life
visible, until, after a long, lazy hour, Benny sat up staring with round
eyes into the valley below. A thin scarf of blue smoke was indolently
curling up from a spot apparently in the forest. He called the attention
of the boys to it, and for want of something else to do they lay and
watched it. Presently a puff arose more rapidly. Then another.

"That's a real fire, sure enough," said Benny. "Bet you it will burn
among the timber for a month this dry season."

"Doesn't look among the timber," said another boy. "Looks as if it was
along the track."

"Let's go down there and see," said someone else, and forthwith "the
gang" scrambled to their feet, grabbed their gun and ammunition bag and
birds, and proceeded to slip and slide and scramble down the steeps,
until a half-hour brought them to the railroad, along which they ran
towards the direction from where they had seen the smoke. They ran
through a big cut, rounded an abrupt curve, and dashed right into a
cloud of smoke, while the crackle of flame spit and sparkled, bringing
them up short with speechless horror. The huge, wooden railroad trestle
spanning Whitefish Creek was in flames. For an instant the entire gang
gazed at it dumbly. Then a boy yelled:

"Great Scott, fellows, isn't it good there's no train due? She'd plunge
round this curve right into it."

Then Benny Ellis went white. "Who's got a watch?" he asked very quietly.

"My Ingersoll says five-fifteen, and she's right, too," replied Joe
McKenzie.

Benny gulped; he seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, but the words
finally came. "My dad went down to Grey's Point to bring up a special
to-night, the Divisional Superintendent's private car and some fast
freight. They're--they're--they're due about now."

"Thanks be! Grey's Point is this side of the trestle. We can stop them,"
shouted Joe, and without argument "the gang" turned, tearing at a
breakneck pace around the curve, and through the cut, in a hopeless
effort to make their home town before the special reached it.

Breathlessly they ran for ten minutes, stumbling along the sleepers,
recovering, then forging ahead, until, cutting the evening air, came
a long, thin whistle, and immediately afterwards the black nose of an
engine and a ribbon of smoke rounded a distant curve, and came bearing
down on them at the rate of forty-five miles an hour.

"The gang" paused, standing rock still for an instant, then five of them
danced up and down, waving their arms wildly, to signal the train to
stop. But the sixth boy--Benny Ellis--white as a sheet, was tearing
madly at his collar, and dragging off his coat. Then quick as a flash he
skinned from his narrow shoulders his blue cotton shirt, faded almost
white by the summer suns, and dashing down the track towards the
oncoming engine, whirled it high above his head in five distinct
circles, while his young voice, hoarse with a frenzy of fear, shrieked,
"Father, father! Oh, dad, try to remember. Try, try!"

And from the cab of the great mogul, Engineer Ellis was peering out with
his keen eyes piercing the track ahead, his hand at the throttle.

"Jim," he called abruptly to his fireman. There was something in his
tone that made Jim fling himself to the window. Then both men exclaimed
simultaneously, "It's a hold-up."

"There's six of them, and one's got a gun," gasped the engineer. "We'll
have to crowd on steam and rush them, unless they've wrecked the track."
Then, as the huge iron monster lifted itself to greater speed, Mr. Ellis
saw something like a white flag wave in the air then fall. Once more it
circled, one, two, three, four, five times above someone's head, fell
again, then was tossed from one hand high in the air and caught in the
other.

"Jim, I've seen that signal somewhere. It means something." Then, like a
photograph, he seemed to see a lake, two boys swimming, and a black bear
and cubs on a far shore, while Benny's voice rang in his ears: "Five
circles means 'Great danger,' and a toss from one hand to the other up
through the air means 'Don't move; stay where you are.'"

"It's the boys, Jim," gasped the engineer. "There's something wrong."
Before the words had left his lips the shrill whistle was shrieking for
"brakes"--"double brakes" at that--and the gigantic engine almost leaped
from the rails as the halter was thrown about her neck. On she rushed,
slipping, grinding, rocking in her restraint. The train crew and
passengers in the rear car pitched almost on their faces with the
violent checking of speed, until, snorting and pulsing and belching,
the great mogul came to a standstill.

"Oh, daddy, you _did_ remember, you _did_, after all!" cried a very
white-faced little boy who peered up into the cab window with horrified
eyes, while his naked shoulders heaved, and his hand clutched a torn,
faded blue shirt.

"What's the meaning of this nonsense, Ellis?" thundered an angry voice
behind him, and the superintendent, black with scowling, glared at first
the boy, then the engineer. "What's this stop for, when you know I
haven't a minute to spare getting to Dubuc? You nearly broke my neck,
too, downing brakes. What does it mean, I say?"

But when the boys, bold with excitement, dragged the great man around
the curve, and pointed to the doomed trestle, with its already falling
timbers, it was another story altogether. From the engineer's white lips
he listened to the history of Benny's "signal code." Then for a long
time the great man stood looking at the burning trestle. Once he
muttered aloud, "All our lives, a priceless engine, valuable freight,
rolling stock, _all saved_!" Then, whirling rapidly on his heel, he
said, "Ellis, we want your boy on the road when he's bigger. The boy
who can invent a useful plaything and keep his head in an emergency is
the boy we want to make into a man on the great Transcontinental. Will
you let us have him?"

"Ask Benny what he wants to do!" smiled the engineer.

"Well, little 'Signal Code' man, what do you want to do?" asked the
superintendent. "Speak, old man."

The boy was looking him directly in the eyes. "Go on the great
Transcontinental, if I get the chance," he replied.

"You'll get the chance all right," said the superintendent. "_I'll_ see
that you get it. Ellis, you may back the train down into town now.
There's lots to see to about reconstructing the trestle." Then under his
breath he added: "That's the sort of boy we want on the railroad. That's
the sort of boy!"



The Shadow Trail

A Christmas Story


Peter Ottertail was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian, who, notwithstanding
his almost eighty years, still had the fine, thin features, the upright
shoulders, and the keen, bright eyes of the ancient, warlike tribe to
which he belonged. He was a great favorite with Mr. Duncan, the earnest
Scotch minister, who had made a personal companion of Peter all through
the years he had been a missionary on the Indian Reserve; and as for the
two Duncan boys, they had literally been brought up in the hollow of the
old Indian's hands. How those boys had ever acquired the familiar names
of "Tom" and "Jerry" no one seemed to remember; they really had been
christened Alexander and Stuart by their own father in his own church.
Then Peter Ottertail had, after the manner of all Indians, given them
nicknames, and they became known throughout the entire copper-colored
congregation as "The Pony" and "The Partridge." Peter had named
Alexander, alias "Tom," "The Pony," because of his sturdy, muscular back
and firm, strong little mouth, that occasionally looked as if it could
take the bit right in its teeth and bolt; and Stuart, alias "Jerry,"
was named "The Partridge," because of his truly marvellous habit of
disappearing when you tried to drum him up to go errands or carry wood.
Fortunately for the boys themselves, they were made of the good stuff
that did not mind nicknames and jests; and when, at the ages of ten and
twelve, they were packed off to school in a distant city, they were
the very first to tell their schoolfellows Peter's pet names, which,
however, never "took root" on the school playground, "Tom" and "Jerry"
being far more to the taste of young Canadian football and lacrosse
players.

During the school terms, old Peter Ottertail would come to the parsonage
every Sunday after church, would dine seriously with Mr. and Mrs.
Duncan, and, when saying good-bye, would always shake his head solemnly,
and say, "I'll come no more until my Pony and Partridge come home." But
the following Sunday saw him back again, and the first day of vacation
was not hailed with greater delight by the boys than by their old friend
Peter. The nearest railway station was eleven miles distant, but rain or
shine, blood-heat or zero, Peter always hitched up his own team and set
out hours too early to meet the train. On arriving at the station, he
would tie up his horses and sit smoking his black stone pipe for a long
time. The distant whistle of the incoming train alone aroused him from
rapt thought, and presently his dark old face was beaming on his boys,
who always surprised him by having grown greatly during the term, and
who made as much fuss and hilarious welcome over him as if Mr. Duncan
himself had come to drive them home. So this delightful comradeship went
on, year in, year out. The boys spent every day of their holidays in the
woods or on the river with Peter. He taught them a thousand things few
white boys have the privilege of learning. They could hollow canoes,
shape paddles, make arrows and "feather" them, season bows, distinguish
poisonous plants from harmless ones, foretell the wind and the weather,
the various moons, and the habits of game and fish, and they knew every
tale and superstition on the reserve.

One day, just before the Christmas holidays old Peter appeared at the
parsonage. Mrs. Duncan herself opened the door, smiling, sweet and a
little younger-looking than when he had seen her the previous Sunday.

"Come in! Come in, Peter!" she cried, brightly. "We're all in a turmoil,
but happy as kittens! Tom and Jerry are coming to-morrow, and bringing
two friends with them, nice boys from Jamaica, who are too far away from
their home to return for Christmas. They've never seen snow in their
lives until this winter, and we must all try to give the little fellows
a good time, Peter. I'm busy already with extra cooking. Boys must eat,
mustn't they?"

"Yes, Mis' Duncan," answered the old man, slowly, "and these snow-seers
will eat double in the north country. Yes, I'll go and fetch them with
my big lumber sleigh, and take plenty of buffalo robes and wolf skins to
keep these children of the sun warm."

Mrs. Duncan smiled. She could already hear Peter nicknaming the little
chaps from Jamaica "The Snow-Seer" and "The Sun Child," in his own
beautifully childlike and appropriate fashion. And she was quite right.
Peter had hardly shaken hands and tucked the four boys snugly into his
big bob-sleigh, before the names slipped off his tongue with the ease of
one who had used them for a lifetime.

Tom and Jerry had fully prepared their Southern friends for everything.
They had talked for hours with great pride of their father's devotion
to his Indian congregation, of their mother's love for the mission, of
the Indians' responsive affection for them, of the wonderful progress
the Mohawks had made, of their beautiful church, with its city-like
appointments, its stained windows, its full-toned organ and choir of all
Indian voices, until the Jamaica boys began to feel they were not to see
any "wild" Indians at all. Peter, however, reassured them somewhat, for,
although he was not clad in buckskin and feathers, he wore exquisitely
beaded moccasins, a scarlet sash about his waist, a small owl feather
sticking in his hat band, and his ears were pierced, displaying huge
earrings of hammered silver. Yes, they decided that Peter Ottertail was
unmistakably a Mohawk Indian.

Tom and Jerry had never entertained any boys before, and, after the
first day at home, they began to fear things would be dull for their
friends at Christmas, who always spent such gay city holidays. They
need not have worried, however, for the boys found too much novelty even
in this forest home ever to feel the lack of city life. They of course,
fell in love with old Peter at once, and not a day passed but all four
of them could be seen driving, snowshoeing, tobogganing, skating,
with the old Mohawk looming not very far distant; and, as Christmas
approached, with all its church interests, they swung into the
festivities of the remote mission with all the zest that boys in their
early teens possess.

The young Southerners had never visited at a minister's house before,
and at first they were very sedate, laughed not too loudly, and carried
themselves with the dignity of little old gentlemen; but within a day
they learned that, because a man was a great, good, noble missionary, it
did not necessarily mean that he must look serious and never enjoy any
fun with the boys. Mr. Duncan always made it a rule that no house in
existence must be more attractive to Tom and Jerry than their own home,
and that it depended very largely upon their father as to whether they
longed to stay in their own home and bring their young friends in, too,
or whether they longed to go outside their father's house to meet their
playfellows. Needless to say that, with such a father, Tom and Jerry had
a pretty good time at home, and it was only what they expected when, the
day before Christmas, as all four boys were racketing around the kitchen
and nearly convulsing Mrs. Duncan with laughter by their antics, while
she tried almost vainly to finish cooking the last savory dainties for
the morrow, that Mr. Duncan should suddenly appear in the doorway, and
say:

"Now, boys, to-night will be Christmas Eve. You know in the heart of the
forest we can't get much in the way of entertainment, and I don't want
our young Jamaica friends to feel homesick for their beautiful, Southern
country to-night of all nights. I've racked my brains to think of some
amusement after supper this Christmas Eve, but I seem to have failed.
Can't you, Tom and Jerry, help me out?"

There was a brief silence; then, of course, the sweet busy mother spoke:

"Peter Ottertail and I have schemed together for that. I have invited
him to supper, and we are to have a roaring fire built here in the
kitchen, and Peter is to tell the four boys some Indian stories, while
you and I, father, finish the Christmas tree in the parlor. What do you
think of my idea?"

She need not have asked, for such a clamor of delight went up that her
own words were drowned.

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Duncan, when finally he could be heard.
"Excellent, for we don't want you young mischiefs in the parlor at all,
seeing your presents the day before; and the only one I know who could
keep you out is Peter. Splendid idea of yours, Mary. Boys, it's these
mothers who have the real Christmas things in their hearts."

"Yes, and in the oven, too!" laughed Mrs. Duncan, extracting therefrom a
big pan of deliciously light cake, whose spicy fragrance assailed the
boys' nostrils temptingly. "This," she continued, "is to be eaten here
in the kitchen to-night. It goes with Peter's stories."

"Jolly!" said someone, and the four youthful voices immediately swung
into:

"For mother's a jolly good fellow,
For mother's a jolly good fellow,
For mother's a jolly good fellow,
Which nobody can deny!"

And, joining in the last line, there boomed a fifth voice which sounded
suspiciously like Mr. Duncan's.

* * * * * * * *

A crackling wood fire was roaring up the chimney from the large stove
in the kitchen. On the spotlessly white pine floor were spread soft,
grey lynx skins, one or two raccoon skins with their fluffy, ringed
tails, and a couple of red fox pelts. On these sprawled the four boys
in various and intricate attitudes. In the corner back of the stove
lounged Peter Ottertail, on a single brown buffalo robe. With a bit of
sharp-edged flint he scraped tiny curls of shavings from a half-formed
ashwood arrow, which, from time to time, he lifted even with one eye to
look along its glimmering length toward the light, to see that it was
straight and flawless, his soft, even voice warbling out the strangely
beautiful Indian tradition of

THE SHADOW TRAIL

"You young palefaces that are within my heart know well what a path
through the forest is, or what a track across the valley means, but
the Indian calls these footways 'a trail,' and some trails are hard to
follow. They hide themselves in the wilderness, bury themselves in the
swamps and swales, and sometimes a man or a buffalo must beat his own
trail where never footstep has fallen before. The Shadow Trail is not of
these, and at some time every man must walk it. I was a very small, very
young brave when I first heard of it. My grandsire used to tell me, just
as I tell you now, of the wonder country through which it led, of the
wise and knowing animals that had their lairs and dens beside it, of the
royal birds that had their nests and eyries above it, of the white stars
that hovered along its windings, of the small, whispering creatures of
the night that made music with their cobweb wings. These things all talk
with a man as he takes the Shadow Trail; and the oftener they speak and
sing to him, the higher climbs the trail; and, if he listens long enough
to their voices, he will find the trail has lifted its curving way aloft
until it creeps along the summit of the mountains, not at their base.
It is here that the stars come close, and the singing is hushed in the
great, white silence of the heights; but only he who listens to the wise
animals and the eagles and the gauzy-winged insects will ever climb so
high. This is the Shadow Trail the wild geese take on their April flight
to the north, as, honking through the rain-warm nights, they interweave
their wings with the calling wind. They leave no footprints to show
whither they go, for the northing bird is wise.

"This is the Shadow Trail that countless buffaloes thundered through
when, hunted by the white men, they journeyed into the great unknown.
Wise men who are nearing the height of the trail say they can hear the
booming of myriad hoofs, and see the tossing of unnumbered horns as
the herds of bison yet travel far ahead. This is the Shadow Trail the
Northern Lights dance upon, shimmering and pale and silvery. We Indians
call them the 'Dead Men's Fingers,' though sometimes they pour out in
great splashes of cold blue, of poisonous-looking purple, of burning
crimson and orange. We speak of them then as the 'Sky Flowers of the
North,' that scatter their deathless masses along the lifting way.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.