The Young Woodsman by J. McDonald Oxley

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But Frank possessed a double source of strength. He was valiant by
nature, and he had implicit faith in God's overruling providence. He felt
specially under the divine care now, and resolutely putting away all
thoughts of personal danger, addressed himself, mind and body, to the one
thing--the relief of Johnston from his perilous position.

With arms braced at his sides and head bent forward, he set out at a
jog-trot, which was better suited for getting through the deep snow than
an ordinary walk. Fortunately he was in the very pink of condition. The
steady, hard work of the preceding months, combined with the coarse but
abundant food and early hours, had developed and strengthened every
muscle in his body and hardened his constitution until few boys of his
age could have been found better fitted to endure a long tramp through
heavy snow than he. Moreover, running had always been his favourite form
of athletic exercise, and the muscles it required were well trained for
their work.

"I'll do it all right inside the hour," he said to himself. And then, as
a sudden thought struck him, he gave a nervous little laugh, and added,
"And perhaps make a good deal better time if I hear anything of the
wolves."

Try as he might, he could not get the wolves out of his head. He had not
himself seen any signs of them, but several times the choppers working
farthest from the camp had mentioned finding their tracks in the snow,
and once they had been heard howling in the distance after the men had
all come into the shanty for the night.

On he went through the snow and night, now making good progress at his
brisk jog-trot, now going more slowly as he dropped into a walk to rest
himself and recover breath. Although the moon rode high in the heavens,
the trees which stood close to the road allowed few of her beams to light
his path.

"If it was only broad daylight I wouldn't mind it a bit," Frank
soliloquized; "but this going alone at this time of night is not the sort
of a job I care for."

And then the thought of poor Johnston lying helpless but uncomplaining in
the snow made him feel ashamed of his words, and to ease his conscience
he broke into a trot again. Just as he did so a sound reached his ear
that sent a thrill of terror to his heart. Hoping he might be mistaken,
he stopped and listened with straining senses. For a moment there was
absolute silence. Then the sound came again--distant, but clear and
unmistakable. He had heard it only once before, yet he felt as sure of it
now as if it had been his mother's voice. It was the howl of the timber
wolf sounding through the still night air from somewhere to the north;
how far away he could not determine.

At the sound all his strength seemed to leave him. How helpless he was
alone in that mighty forest without even so much as a knife wherewith to
defend himself! But it would not do to stand irresolute. His own life as
well as the foreman's depended upon his reaching the shanty. Were he to
climb one of the big trees that stood around, the wolves, of course,
could not get at him; but Johnston would be dead before daylight came to
release him from his tree citadel, and perhaps he would himself fall a
victim to the cold in that exposed situation. There was no other
alternative than to run for his life, so, breathing out a fervent prayer
for divine help and protection, he summoned all his energies to the
struggle. He was more than a mile from the shanty, and his exertion had
told severely upon his strength; but the great peril of his situation
made him forget his weariness, and he started off as if he were perfectly
fresh.

But the howling of the wolves grew more and more distinct as they drew
swiftly nearer, and with agony of heart the poor boy felt his breath
coming short and his limbs beginning to fail beneath him. Nearer and
nearer came his dreaded pursuers, and every moment he expected to see
them burst into the road behind him.

Fortunately, be had reached a part of the road which, being near the
camp, was much used by the teams drawing logs to the river-bank, and was
consequently beaten hard and smooth. This welcome change enabled him to
quicken his steps, which had dropped into a walk; and although he felt
almost blind from exhaustion, he pushed desperately forward, hoping at
every turn of the road to catch a glimpse of the shanty showing dark
through the trees. The cry of the disciples caught in the sudden storm on
Galilee, "Lord, save us; we perish!" kept coming to his lips as he
staggered onward. Surely there could not be much further to go! He turned
for a moment to look behind him. The wolves were in sight, their dark
forms showing distinctly against the snow as in silence now they gained
upon their prey. Run as hard as he might, they must be upon him ere
another fifty yards were passed. He felt as if it were all over with him,
and so utter was his exhaustion that it seemed to benumb his faculties
and make him half willing for the end to come.

But the end was not to be as the wolves desired. Just at the critical
moment, when further exertion seemed impossible, he caught sight of some
one approaching him rapidly from the direction of the shanty, and
shouting aloud while he rushed forward to meet him. With one last supreme
effort he plunged toward this timely apparition, and a moment later
fell insensible at his feet.

It was Baptiste--good-hearted, affectionate Baptiste--who, having awaited
the travellers' return and grown concerned at their long delay, had gone
out to look along the road to see if they were anywhere in view. Catching
sight of Frank's lonely figure, he had made all haste to meet him, and
reached him just in time to ward off the wolves that in a minute more
would have been upon him.

When the wolves saw Baptiste, who swung a gleaming axe about his head, as
he shouted, "_Chiens donc!_ I'll split your heads eef I get at you!" they
stopped short, and even retreated a little, drawing themselves together
in a sort of group in the middle of the road, snapping their teeth and
snarling in a half-frightened, half-furious manner. But Baptiste was not
to be daunted. Lifting his axe on high, he shouted at them in his
choicest French, and charged upon the pack as though they had been simply
a flock of marauding sheep. Wolves are arrant cowards, and without
pausing to take into consideration the disparity of numbers, for they
stood twelve to one, they fled ignominiously before the plucky Frenchman,
not halting until they had put fifty yards between themselves and him.
Whereupon Baptiste seized upon the opportunity to pick up the still
senseless Frank, throw him over his broad shoulder, and hasten back to
the shanty before the wolves should regain their self-possession.

They were all asleep in the shanty when the cook returned with his
unconscious burden; but he soon roused the others with his vigorous
shouts, and by the time they were fully awake, Frank was awake too, the
warm air of the room quickly reviving him from his faint. Looking round
about with a bewildered expression, he asked anxiously,--

"Where is Mr. Johnston? Hasn't he come back too?"

Then he recollected himself, and a picture of his good friend lying
prostrate and helpless in the snow, perhaps surrounded by the same wolves
that brave Baptiste had rescued him from, flashed into his mind, and
springing to his feet he cried,--

"Hurry--hurry! Mr. Johnston is in Deep Gully, and he can't move. The
bridge broke under us, and he was almost killed. Oh, hurry, won't you, or
the wolves will be after him!"

The men looked at one another in astonishment and horror.

"Deep Gully!" they exclaimed. "That's five miles off. We must go at
once."

And immediately all was bustle and excitement as they prepared to go out
into the night. As lumbermen always sleep in their clothes, they did not
take long to dress, and in a wonderfully short space of time the
teamsters had a sleigh with a pair of horses at the door, upon which
eight of the men, armed with guns and axes, sprang, and off they went
along the road as fast as the horses could gallop. Frank wanted to
accompany them, but Baptiste would not allow him.

"No, no, _mon cher._ You must stay wid me. You tired out. They get him
all right, and bring him safe home."

And he was fair to lie back, so tortured with anxiety for the foreman
that he could hardly appreciate the blessing of rest, although his own
exertions had been tremendous.

Not sparing the horses, the rescuers sped over the road, ever now and
then discharging a gun, in order to let Johnston know of their approach
and keep his courage up. In less than half-an-hour they reached the
gully, and peering over the brink, beheld the dark heap in the snow below
that was the object of their search. One glance was sufficient to show
how timely was their coming, for almost encircling the hapless man were
smaller shapes that even at that distance could be readily recognized.

"We're too late!" cried one of the men; "they're wolves." And with a wild
shout he flung himself recklessly down the snowy slope, and others
followed close behind.

Before their tumultuous onset the wolves fled like leaves before the
autumn wind, and poor Johnston, almost dead with pain, cold, and
exhaustion, raising himself a little from the snow, called out in a faint
but joyful tone,--

"Thank God; you've come in time! I thought it was all over with me."

CHAPTER IX.

OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE.

Great was the joy of the men at finding Johnston alive and still able to
speak, and at once their united strength was applied to extricating him
from his painful position. The poor horse, utterly unable to help
himself, had long ago given up the vain struggle, and in a state of
pitiful exhaustion and fright was lying where he first fell, the snow all
about him being torn up in a way that showed how furious had been his
struggles. Johnston had by dint of heroic exertion managed to withdraw
his leg a little from underneath the heavy jumper; but he could not free
himself altogether, so that had the wolves found out how completely both
horse and man were in their power, they would have made short work of
both. Fortunately, by vigorous shouting and wild waving of his arms, the
foreman had been able to keep the cowardly creatures at bay long enough
to allow the rescuing party to reach him. But he could not have kept up
many minutes more, and if strength and voice had entirely forsaken him
the dreadful end would soon have followed.

Handling the injured man with a tenderness and care one would hardly have
looked for in such rough fellows, the lumbermen after no small exertion
got him up out of the gully and laid him upon the sleigh in the road.
Then the horse was released from the jumper, and, being coaxed to his
feet, led down the gully to where the sides were not so steep and he
could scramble up, while the jumper itself was left behind to be
recovered when they had more time to spare.

Before they started off for the shanty one of the men had the curiosity
to cross the gully and examine the bridge where it broke, in order to
find out the cause of the accident. When he returned there was a strange
expression on his face, which added to the curiosity of the others who
were awaiting his report.

"Both stringers are sawed near through!" he exclaimed. "And it's not been
done long, either. Must have been done to-day, for the sawdust's lying
round still."

The men looked at one another in amazement and horror. The stringers
sawed through! What scoundrel could have done such a thing? Who was the
murderous traitor in their camp? Then to the quickest-witted of them came
the thought of Damase's dire threat and consuming jealousy.

"I know who did it," he cried. "There's only one man in the camp villain
enough to do it. It was that hound Damase, as sure as I stand here!"

Instantly the others saw the matter in the same light. Damase had done it
beyond a doubt, hoping thereby to have the revenge for which his savage
heart thirsted. Ill would it have gone with him could the men have laid
hands on him at that moment. They were just in the mood to have inflicted
such punishment as would probably have put the wretch in a worse plight
than his intended victim, and many and fervent were their vows of
vengeance, expressed in language rather the reverse of polite. Strict
almost to severity as Johnston was in his management of the camp, the
majority of the men, including all the best elements, regarded him with
deep respect, if not affection; and that Damase Deschenaux should make so
dastardly an attempt upon his life aroused in them a storm of indignant
wrath which would not soon be allayed.

They succeeded in making the sufferer quite comfortable upon the sleigh;
but they had to go very slowly on the return journey to the shanty, both
to make it easy for Johnston, and because the men had to walk now that
the sleigh was occupied. So soon as they came in sight, Frank ran to meet
them, calling out eagerly,--

"Is he all right? Have you got him?"

"We've got him, Frank, safe enough," replied the driver of the sleigh.
"But we wasn't a minute too soon, I can tell you. I guess you must have
sent your wolves off to him when you'd done with them."

"Were the wolves at you, sir?" exclaimed Frank, bending over the foreman,
and looking anxiously into his face.

Johnston had fallen into a sort of doze or stupor but the stopping of the
sleigh and Frank's anxious voice aroused him, and he opened his eyes with
a smile that told plainly how dear to him the boy had become.

"They weren't quite at me, Frank, but they soon would have been if the
men hadn't come along," he replied.

With exceeding tenderness the big helpless man was lifted from the sleigh
and placed in his own bunk in the corner. The whole shanty was awake to
receive him, a glorious fire roared and crackled upon the hearth, and the
pleasant fragrance of fresh-brewed tea filled the room. So soon as the
foreman's outer garments had been removed, Frank brought him a pannikin
of the lumberman's pet beverage, and he drank it eagerly, saying that it
was all the medicine he needed. Beyond making him as comfortable as
possible, nothing further could be done for him, and in a little while
the shantymen were all asleep again as soundly as though there had been
no disturbance of their slumbers. Frank wanted to sit up with Johnston;
but the foreman would not hear of it, and, anyway, thoroughly sincere as
was his offer, he never could have carried it out, for he was very weary
himself and ready to drop asleep at the first chance.

Of Damase there was no sign. Some of the men had noticed him quitting
work earlier than usual in the afternoon, and when he did not appear at
supper-time had thought he was gone off hunting, which he loved to do
whenever he got the opportunity. Whether or not he would have the
assurance to return to the shanty would depend upon whether he had waited
in ambush to see the result of his villany; for if he had done so, and
had witnessed the at least partial failure of his plot, there was little
chance of his being seen again.

The next morning a careful examination of Johnston showed that, while no
bones were broken, his right leg had been very badly twisted and strained
almost to dislocation, and he had been internally injured to an extent
that could be determined only by a doctor. It was decided to send a
message for the nearest doctor, and meanwhile to do everything possible
for the sufferer in the way of bandages and liniments that the simple
shanty outfit afforded. By general understanding Frank assumed the duties
of nurse; and it was not long before life at the camp settled down into
its accustomed routine, Johnston having appointed the most experienced
and reliable of the gang its foreman during his confinement. In due time
the doctor came, examined his patient, made everybody glad by announcing
that none of the injuries were serious, and that they required only time
and attention for their cure, wrote out full directions for Frank to
follow, and then, congratulating Johnston upon his good fortune in having
so devoted and intelligent a nurse, set off again on the long drive to
his distant home with the pleasant consciousness of having done his duty
and earned a good fee.

The weeks that followed were the happiest Frank spent that winter. His
duties as nurse were not onerous, and he enjoyed very much the importance
with which they invested him. So long as his patient was well looked
after, he was free to come and go according to his inclinations, and the
thoughtful foreman saw to it that he spent at least half the day in the
open air, often sending him with messages to the men working far off in
the woods. Frank always carried his rifle with him on these tramps, and
frequently brought back with him a brace of hares or partridges, which,
having had the benefit of Baptiste's skill, were greatly relished by
Johnston, who found his appetite for the plain fare of the shanty much
dulled by his confinement.

As the days slipped by the foreman began to open his heart to his young
companion and to tell him much about his boyhood, which deeply interested
Frank. Living a frontier life, he had his full share of adventure in
hunting, lumbering, and prospecting for limits, and many an hour was
spent reviewing the past. One evening while they were thus talking
together Johnston became silent and fell into a sort of reverie, from
which he presently roused himself, and looking very earnestly into
Frank's face, asked him,--

"Have you always been a Christian, Frank?"

The question came so unexpectedly and was so direct that Frank was quite
taken aback, and being slow to answer, the foreman, as if fearing he had
been too abrupt, went on to say,--

"The reason I asked was because you seem to enjoy so much reading your
Bible and saying your prayers that I thought you must have had those good
habits a long time."

Frank had now fully recovered himself, and with a blush that greatly
became him, answered modestly,--

"I have always loved God. Mother taught me how good and kind he is as
soon as I was old enough to understand; and the older I get the more I
want to love him and to try to do what is right."

A look of ineffable tenderness came into Johnston's dark eyes while the
boy was speaking. Then his face darkened, and giving vent to a heavy
sigh, he passed his hand over his eyes as though to put away some painful
recollection. After a moment's silence, he said,--

"My mother loved her Bible, and wanted me to love it too. But I was a
wild, headstrong chap, and didn't take kindly to the notion of being
religious, and I'm afraid I cost her many a tear. God bless her! I wonder
does she ever up there think of her son down here, and wonder if he's any
better than he was when she had to leave him to look after himself."

Not knowing just what to say, Frank made no reply, but his face glowed
with sympathetic interest; and after another pause the foreman went on,--

"I've been thinking a great deal lately, Frank, and it's been all your
doing. Seeing you so particular about your religion, and not letting
anything stop you from saying your prayers and reading your Bible just
as you would at home, has made me feel dreadfully ashamed of myself, and
I've been wanting to have a talk with you about it. Would you mind
reading your Bible to me? I haven't been inside a church for many a year,
and I guess I'd be none the worse of a little Bible-reading."

Frank could not restrain an exclamation of delight. Would he mind? Had
not this very thing been on his conscience for weeks past? Had he not
been hoping and praying for a good opportunity to propose it himself, and
only kept back because of his fear lest the foreman should think this
offer presumptuous?

"I shall be very glad indeed to read my Bible to you, sir," he answered
eagerly. "I've been wanting to ask if I mightn't do it, but was afraid
that perhaps you would not like it."

"Well, Frank, to be honest with you, I'd a good deal rather have you read
to me than read it for myself," said Johnston; "because you must know it
'most by heart, and I've forgotten what little I did know once."

The reading began that night, and thenceforward was never missed while
the two were at Camp Kippewa. Young as Frank was, he had learned from
his parents and at the Sunday school a great deal about the Book of
books, and especially about the life of Christ, so that to Johnston he
seemed almost a marvel of knowledge. It was beautiful to see the big
man's simplicity as he sat at the feet, so to speak, of a mere boy, and
learned anew from him the sublime and precious gospel truths that the
indifference and neglect of more than forty years had buried in dim
obscurity; and Frank found an ever-increasing pleasure in repeating the
comments and explanations that he had heard from the dear lips at home.
Even to his young eyes it was clear that the foreman was thoroughly in
earnest, and would not stop short of a full surrender of himself to the
Master he had so long refused to acknowledge. Above all things, he was a
thorough man, and therefore this would take time, for he would insist
upon knowing every step of the way; but once well started; no power on
earth or beneath would be permitted to bar his progress to the very end.

And this great end was achieved before he left his bunk to resume his
work. He lay down there bruised and crippled and godless; but lie arose
healed and strengthened and a new man in Christ Jesus! If Frank was proud
of his big convert, who can blame him? But for his coming to the camp,
Johnston might have remained as he was, caring for none of those things
which touched his eternal interests; but now through the influence of his
example, aided by favouring circumstances, he had been led to the
Master's feet.

But Damase--what of Damase? There is not much to tell. Whether or not he
was watching when the bridge fell, and how he spent that night, no one
ever knew. The next morning he was seen at the depot, where he explained
his presence by saying that the foreman had "bounced" him, and that he
was going back to his native town. Beyond this, nothing further was ever
heard of him.

CHAPTER X.

A HUNTING-TRIP.

The hold of winter had begun to relax ere Johnston was able fully to
resume his work, and a good deal of time having been lost through his
accident, every effort had to be exerted to make it up ere the warm
sunshine should put an end to the winter's work. Frank was looking
forward eagerly to the day when they should break camp, for, to tell the
truth, he felt that he had had quite enough of it for one season, and he
was longing to be back in Calumet and enjoying the comforts of home once
more. He was not exactly homesick. You would have very much offended him
by hinting at that. He was simply tired of the monotony of camp fare and
camp life, and anxious to return to civilization. So he counted the days
that must pass before the order to break camp would come, and felt very
light of heart when the sun shone warm, and correspondingly downcast when
the thermometer sank below zero, as it was still liable to do.

"Striving" was the order of the day at the lumber camp--that is, the
different gangs of choppers and sawyers and teamsters vied with each
other as to which could chop, saw, and haul the most logs in a day. The
amount of work they could accomplish when thus striving might astonish
Mr. Gladstone himself, from eighty to one hundred logs felled and trimmed
being the day's work of two men. Frank was deeply interested in this
competition, and enjoying the fullest confidence of the men, he was
unanimously appointed scorer, keeping each gang's "tally" in a book, and
reporting the results to the foreman, who heartily encouraged the rivalry
among his men; for the harder they worked the better would be the showing
for the season, and he was anxious not to lose the reputation he had won
of turning out more logs at his shanty than did any other foreman on the
Kippewa.

As the weeks passed and March gave way to April, and April drew toward
its close, the lumbermen's work grew more and more arduous; but they kept
at it bravely until at last, near the end of April, the snow became so
soft in the woods and the roads so bad that no more hauling could be
done, and the whole attention of the camp was then given to getting the
logs that had been gathering at the river-side all through the winter out
upon the ice, so that they might be sure to be carried off by the spring
floods. This work did not require all hands, and Johnston now saw the way
clear to giving Frank a treat that he had long had in mind for him, but
had said nothing about. They were having their usual chat together before
going to bed, when the foreman said,--

"Is there anything you would like to do before we break up camp?"

Frank did not at first see the drift of the question, and looking at
Johnston with a puzzled sort of expression, replied, questioningly,--

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