Rolf in the Woods

Old Warren who kept the store was not partial to Indians, but he was a good friend of Hendrik and very keen to trade for fur, so the new trappers were well received; and now came the settling of accounts. Flour, oatmeal, pork, potatoes, tea, tobacco, sugar, salt, powder, ball, shot, clothes, lines, an inch-auger, nails, knives, awls, needles, files, another axe, some tin plates, and a frying pan were selected and added to Hendrik’s account.

“If I was you, I’d take a windy-sash; you’ll find it mighty convenient in cold weather.” The store keeper led them into an outhouse where was a pile of six-lighted window-frames all complete. So the awkward thing was added to their load.

“Can’t I sell you a fine rifle?” and he took down a new, elegant small bore of the latest pattern. “Only twenty-five dollars.” Rolf shook his head; “part down, and I’ll take the rest in fur next spring.” Rolf was sorely tempted; however, he had an early instilled horror of debt. He steadfastly said: “No.” But many times he regretted it afterward! The small balance remaining was settled in cash.

As they were arranging and selecting, they heard a most hideous yelping outdoors, and a minute later Skookum limped in, crying as if half-killed. Quonab was out in a moment.

“Did you kick my dog?”

The brutal loafer changed countenance as he caught the red man’s eye. “Naw! never touched him; hurted himself on that rake.”

It was obviously a lie, but better to let it pass, and Quonab came in again.

Then the rough stranger appeared at the door and growled: “Say, Warren! ain’t you going to let me have that rifle? I guess my word’s as good as the next man’s.”

“No,” said Warren; “I told you, no!”

“Then you can go to blazes, and you’ll never see a cent’s worth of fur from the stuff I got last year.”

“I don’t expect to,” was the reply; “I’ve learned what your word’s worth.” And the stranger slouched away.

“Who vas he?” asked Hendrik.

“I only know that his name is Jack Hoag; he’s a little bit of a trapper and a big bit of a bum; stuck me last year. He doesn’t come out this way; they say he goes out by the west side of the mountains.”

New light on their course was secured from Warren, and above all, the important information that the mouth of Jesup’s River was marked by an eagle’s nest in a dead pine. “Up to that point keep the main stream, and don’t forget next spring I’m buying fur.”

The drive across Five-mile portage was slow. It took over two hours to cover it, but late that day they reached the Schroon.

Here the Dutchman said “Good-bye: Coom again some noder time.” Skookum saluted the farmer with a final growl, then Rolf and Quonab were left alone in the wilderness.

It was after sundown, so they set about camping for the night. A wise camper always prepares bed and shelter in daylight, if possible. While Rolf made a fire and hung the kettle, Quonab selected a level, dry place between two trees, and covered it with spruce boughs to make the beds, and last a low tent was made by putting the lodge cover over a pole between the trees. The ends of the covers were held down by loose green logs quickly cut for the purpose, and now they were safe against weather.