Rolf in the Woods

The hunters held still; the wise ones always do, when a dog says “Stop!” They waited. After a few minutes it came again — merely the long-drawn creak of a tree bough, wind-rubbed on its neighbour.

And yet, “Woof, woof, woof,” said Skookum, and ran ahead.

“Come back, you little fool!” cried Rolf.

But Skookum had a mind of his own. He trotted ahead, then stopped, paused, and sniffed at something in the snow. The Indian picked it up. It was the pocket jackscrew that every bear trapper carries to set the powerful trap, and without which, indeed, one man cannot manage the springs.

He held it up with “Ugh! Hoag in trouble now.” Clearly the rival trapper had lost this necessary tool.

But the finding was an accident. Skookum pushed on. They came along a draw to a little hollow. The dog, far forward, began barking and angrily baying at something. The men hurried to the scene to find on the snow, fast held in one of those devilish engines called a bear trap — the body of their enemy — Hoag, the trapper, held by a leg, and a hand in the gin he himself had been setting.

A fierce light played on the Indian’s face. Rolf was stricken with horror. But even while they contemplated the body, the faint cry was heard again coming from it.

“He’s alive; hurry!” cried Rolf. The Indian did not hurry, but he came. He had vowed vengeance at sight; why should he haste to help?

The implacable iron jaws had clutched the trapper by one knee and the right hand. The first thing was to free him. How? No man has power enough to force that spring. But the jackscrew!

“Quonab, help him! For God’s sake, come!” cried Rolf in agony, forgetting their feud and seeing only tortured, dying man.

The Indian gazed a moment, then rose quickly, and put on the jackscrew. Under his deft fingers the first spring went down, but what about the other? They had no other screw. The long buckskin line they always carried was quickly lashed round and round the down spring to hold it. Then the screw was removed and put on the other spring; it bent, and the jaws hung loose. The Indian forced them wide open, drew out the mangled limbs, a the trapper was free, but so near death, it seemed they were too late.

Rolf spread his coat. The Indian made a fire. In fifteen minutes they were pouring hot tea between victim’s lips. Even as they did, his feeble throat gave out again the long, low moan.

The weather was mild now. The prisoner was not actually frozen, but numbed and racked. Heat, hot tea, kindly rubbing, and he revived a little.

At first they thought him dying, but in an hour recovered enough to talk. In feeble accents and broken phrases they learned the tale:

“Yest — m-m-m. Yesterday — no; two or three days back — m-m-m-m-m — I dunno; I was a goin’ — roun’ me traps — me bear traps. Didn’t have no luck m-m-m (yes, I’d like another sip; ye ain’t got no whiskey no?) m-m-m. Nothing in any trap, and when I come to this un — oh-h — m-m; I seen — the bait was stole by birds, an’ the pan — m-m-m; an’ the pan, m-m-m — (yes, that’s better) — an’ the pan laid bare. So I starts to cover it with — ce-ce-dar; the ony thing I c’d get — m-m-m-w — wuz leanin’ over — to fix tother side — me foot slipped on — the — ice — ev’rything was icy — an’—m-m-m-m — I lost — me balance — me knee the pan — O Lord — how I suffer! — m-m-m it grabbed me — knee an’—h-h-hand” — His voice died to a whisper and ceased; he seemed sinking.

Quonab got up to hold him. Then, looking at Rolf, Indian shook his head as though to say all was over; the poor wretch had a woodman’s constitution, and in spite of a mangled, dying body, he revived again. They gave him more hot tea, and again he began in a whisper:

“I hed one arm free an’—an’—an’—I might — a — got out — m-m — but I hed no wrench — I lost it some place — m-m-m-m.”

“Then — I yelled — I dun — no — maybe some un might hear — it kin-kin-kinder eased me — to yell m-m-m.”

“Say — make that yer dog keep — away — will yer I dunno — it seems like a week — must a fainted some M-m-m — I yelled — when I could.”

There was a long pause. Rolf said, “Seems to me I heard you last night, when we were up there. And dog heard you, too. Do you want me to move that leg around?”

“M-m-m — yeh — that’s better — say, you air white — ain’t ye? Ye won’t leave me — cos — I done some mean things — m-m-m. Ye won’t, will ye?”

“No, you needn’t worry — we’ll stay by ye.”

Then he muttered, they could not tell what. He closed his eyes. After long silence he looked around wildly and began again:

“Say — I done you dirt — but don’t leave me — don’t leave me.” Tears ran down his face and he moaned piteously. “I’ll — make it — right — you’re white, ain’t ye?”

Quonab rose and went for more firewood. The trapper whispered, “I’m scared o’ him — now — he’ll do me — say, I’m jest a poor ole man. If I do live — through — this — m-m-m-m — I’ll never walk again. I’m crippled sure.”