They Who Walk in the Wilds/In the Moose-yard
From across the wide, wooded valley of the lone Tin Kettle, borne clearly on the frosty and sparkling air, came the sharp sounds of axe-strokes biting rhythmically into solid timber.
The great moose bull, who had been drowsing in the dusky depths of the fir thicket, beside his hump-shouldered cow and her two long-muzzled, leggy calves, shot his big ears forwards like an apprehensive rabbit, lifted his huge, ungainly head, distended his moist nostrils, and sniffed anxiously. They were so super-sensitive, those expert nostrils, and the wilderness air was so clean, that even across the wide expanse he could detect the acrid tang of wood-smoke. Heaving up his black bulk with no more noise than if he had been a shadow, he parted the branches cautiously with his long muzzle and peered forth.
It took him but very few moments to realize what had happened. The lumbermen had come back to the old, long-deserted camp across the valley. All winter through, the valley would ring with rough voices, with the sharp percussion of the axe-strokes, the jangle of chains and harness, and the snorting of busy teams. It would be a bad neighbourhood for the moose. Therefore, though the valley was a comfortable one for his winter quarters, the wise old bull wasted no time in coming to a decision. In a few throaty rumblings this decision was conveyed to the cow and calves. And with fierce resentment in his heart he led the way back into the depths of the forest, back, far back from the place of sudden peril. He would find his family a new home, remote and secure from the hungry pot-hunters of the camp.
The snow had held off unusually late that season, and even now, at the beginning of December, it was hardly a foot deep on the level. Moreover it was dry and light, so the going was easy for the migrant family. Travelling at a long, effortless trot, which seemed slow but nevertheless covered ground amazingly, the little procession pushed, in ghostly silence, deeper and deeper into the white, colonnaded glades of the fir forest. From time to time some drooping branch, snow-burdened, stirred at their shadowy passing and shook down its thick white powder upon their dark hides. Sometimes a startled snow-shoe rabbit leaped into the air almost beneath the great black leader's nose, bounded aside, and sat up, unafraid, on his haunches, with waving ears, to watch the inoffensive travellers go by. And once a big grey lynx, meeting them suddenly, clawed up into a tree with a snarl and glared down upon them with round, moon-like, savage eyes, itching to drop upon the neck of the smaller calf, but well aware of the doom which would follow such rashness.
By sunset the travellers had put leagues of difficult country between themselves and the dreaded lumbermen. The wise old bull was not content, however, for he knew that the trail behind them was plain as a beaten highway. But he judged it time for a halt. While the shadows crept long and level and violet-black across the snowy glades, and the westward sides of the tree-tops were stained red-gold with the wash of the flaming sky, the travellers browsed hungrily on the fragrant twigs of the young birch and poplar trees and the sweet buds of the striped-maple saplings. Then in the fast-gathering dusk they all lay down to rest and ruminate for an hour or two, under the branches of a wide-spreading hemlock. A morose old porcupine, hunched up in a crotch above their heads, squeaked crossly and grated his long yellow teeth at this intrusion upon his solitude. But they had no quarrel with the porcupine, and only the two inquisitive calves took the trouble to glance up at the source of the strange noises.
Two or three hours later, when the moon rose, the forest became all black and silver and ethereal blue; and under the spectral gleams and through the sharp, distorting shadows the fugitives resumed their flight. Presently they emerged from the wooded country and crossed a low, bleak ridge of granite and scrub where the snow had been swept away, except from the clefts and hollows, by a recent gale. Traversing this harsh region in haste, the great bull led the way down the further slope, and reached once more the shelter of a belt of fir woods.
The night-sky by this time had become thickly overcast, till the only light was from the wide, vague glimmer of the sheeted earth. And now snow began to fall,—a thick still fall of small flakes, which the weather-wise bull knew was the kind of snowfall that would last for many hours, if not for days. He knew that it would speedily cover up the trail behind him. The immediate danger from the pot-hunters of the lumber camp—who care little for the game-laws—being thus removed, he led the way into the shelter of the trees; and once more the little party, this time with unanxious hearts, lay down to sleep in the soft and muffled dark.
Not yet, however, was the crafty bull content with his distance from the lumber-camp. His destination was clear in his mind's eye,—a region of low-lying land, of mixed swampy barren and stunted birch-woods, dotted with shallow ponds, and producing no timber of a growth to tempt the axes of the lumbermen. All the following morning he pressed on with his tiny herd, keeping his direction unerringly though the snow fell so thickly that no landmarks could be detected. Early in the afternoon the snow ceased, the white-grey sky changed to a sharp and steely blue, and the sun shone dazzlingly, bringing not warmth, however, but an intense and snapping cold. The dead-white wastes flashed into a blinding sparkle of diamond points. And then, when the first thin rose of approaching sunset was beginning to flush the shining glades, he reached the place of his desire.
Close in the hollow, southward-facing curve of a dense fir copse, overtopped by a group of tall hemlocks, the bull proceeded to establish his new winter home. Here, beneath the wide branches of the hemlocks, was a dry shelter shielded from the fiercest winds by the thick, surrounding screen of young firs; and here, too, was abundant forage, in the stunted birch, poplar and willow which dotted the levels outside the copse. For the moment the moose family chose to pasture on the low berry bushes and coarse herbage, which they could still get at easily by pawing away the snow. But they knew that it was now only a matter of days before the great winter storms would set in, and the snow would gather to a depth of five or six feet on the level, making all movement slow and toilsome for their heavy bulks.
It was with forethought of these storms to come that the prudent bull, aided by his cow, set about the establishment of their winter quarters. To the woodman these winter quarters of the moose are known as a "moose-yard." In the lay mind a "moose-yard" is pictured as a sort of wild farm-yard, surrounded by walls of the deep untrodden snow instead of farm buildings, the snow within it all trodden flat or pawed clear, wherein the moose family passes the winter pasturing precariously on such branches as hang within reach. But it is nothing of the sort. Except for the clear space under the trees, serving as sleeping quarters, it is rather a maze than a yard. It consists of an intricate labyrinth of deeply trodden, narrow paths, winding this way and that to touch every bush, every sapling, every thicket which affords the moose suitable browsing. These paths are trampled free after each heavy snowfall, and extended, laboriously as the supply of provender nearest home begins to run short. Threading these labyrinths the moose move freely and at ease; and only under sternest compulsion will they break out into the soft, six-foot deeps of the snow, where they flounder to their bellies and are at the mercy of foes whom at other times they would utterly scorn.
For a couple of days now, the little moose family had fine weather, giving them time to settle down, and to tread out their trails to all the choicest thickets. Then the snow set in, in earnest. For four whole days it snowed, steadily, thickly, blindingly, as it only can snow when it tries on the high barrens of northern New Brunswick. All the wilderness world was muffled in a white silence. The moose were kept busy trampling out the paths that they might not be utterly obliterated. In the course of this task the great bull shed his mighty and magnificent but no longer needed antlers. He had grown them, in all their formidable splendour, during the past summer, for the sole purpose of battling with his rivals in the mating season; for against other adversaries he used no weapons except his knife-edged, pile-driving fore-hoofs. For weeks, the network of copious blood vessels at the roots of his antlers, which had nourished their marvellous growth, had been shrinking and drying up. And now, whether of their own weight or at the pull of an overhanging branch, they dropped off, painlessly, and were buried in the snow. The bull merely shook his huge head for a moment or two, as if surprised; and then went on with his trail-breaking, glad to be relieved of the useless burden.
Winter, having started so late and so half-heartedly, now seemed to repent its irresolution, and set itself with redoubled rigour to make up for lost time. Storm succeeded furious storm, with intervals of clear, still weather and cold of an intensity that appeared to draw down unmitigated from the spaces of Polar night. Never had the old bull known so savage a winter. But for him and his little family, hardy, well-sheltered from all the winds, and with abundant provender always in reach, neither driving storm nor deathly frost had any special terrors. They fed, grunted, ruminated, slept, blew great clouds of steamy breath from their hot red nostrils, and patiently abided the far-off coming of spring.
Not so, however, the other dwellers of the wilderness,—excepting always, of course, the supremely indifferent porcupine, who, so long as he can find plenty of hemlock twigs and bark to stuff his belly with, pays little heed to cold or heat, to sunshine or black blizzard. The weasels, foxes, lynxes, fishers, all were famishing; for the rabbits, their staple food, were scarce that year, and the grouse and ptarmigan, appalled at the bitterness of the cold, took to burrowing their way deep into the snow-drifts for warmth,—so deep that their scent was lost, and they slept secure from the fiercely digging paws of their hunters. As for the bears, most of them had "holed up" discreetly at the first of the storms, and now, in little rocky caves, or dens hollowed beneath the roots of some great fallen tree, under a six-foot blanket of snow were comfortably sleeping away the evil time. But a few old males, morose and restless, had as usual refrained from hibernating; and these now, gaunt and savage with hunger, prowled the smitten waste incessantly, ripping rotten tree-trunks open for a poor mouthful of wood-grubs or frost-numbed ants, and filling their paunches with twigs and bitter lichens. One of these fierce wanderers, maddened with his pangs, so far forgot his woods-lore as to pounce upon a plump porcupine and, in spite of its stinging spines, wolf it down greedily. It was his last meal of any sort. His mouth, nose, throat and paws were stuck full of the deadly spines, so barbed that, although he could rub them off, the long needle points remained and swiftly worked their way inwards. These would presently have caused his death, a lingering one; but two or three of the quills which had got down into his stomach were merciful and did their work more quickly. A few days later his lean body, frozen stiff, was found, doubled up in the heart of a spruce thicket, by a pair of prowling lynxes, who thereafter fared sumptuously every day until rumour of the prize got abroad; when foxes, wolverenes and fishers came flocking to the feast and made short work of the huge carcass.
It was this same hunger-madness, too, which drove another bear to the perilous venture of an attack upon the moose-yard. Seeking a new hunting-ground, he had wandered unhappily out to the edge of the barrens, hoping that there he might have better luck than in the deep of the woods. As he drew near the moose-yard he was thrilled to see some signs of life in the otherwise lifeless waste. There were fresh fox tracks and weasel tracks, with now and again the great pad-marks of a foraging lynx. The unconcerned moose-family, well-fed and comfortable in their sheltered quarters, had a vain fascination for all the ravenous wanderers. The moose-yard afforded asylum to half a dozen pairs of impudent little Canada jays, or "moose-birds," who hopped and pecked fearlessly about the trodden ground, and frequently roosted on the backs of their lordly hosts, warming their toes in the long, coarse hair and exploring it with their beaks for insect-prey. Once in a while a reckless weasel or fox would dart down into the "yard" and try to catch one of these self-confident birds. But the jays, screaming derision, would fly up into the branches overhead; the cow moose, more nervous and short of temper than the great bull, would strike out angrily at the intruder; and one of the calves, always ready for a diversion, would rush at him and chase him from the sanctuary. For the moose disliked the smell of all the hunting beasts.
Stealing warily up-wind, the famished bear at last caught the smell of moose, and knew that he was approaching a moose-yard. Now in an ordinary winter, with food fairly abundant, and hunting reasonably easy, he would have turned aside at this smell to avoid tantalizing himself with the unattainable. But now, when he was close on starving, it was another matter. His lean jaws watered at the thought of warm red meat. For merely one taste of it what risk would he not face? And the bull presiding over this particular moose-yard might, possibly, be a weakling.
But however rash his venture, he did not go about it rashly. His desperation only made him the more cautious. There was so infinitely much at stake. Sinking himself deep into the snow he wound his way forwards soundlessly, and, behind the screen of a thick fir bush lifted his black head to reconnoitre. In a flash, however, he sank down again and shrank back deep into the snow, every nerve quivering with fierce hope. The long muzzle of the younger moose-calf had appeared over the edge of the snow wall a few feet away, and was pulling vigorously at the branches of a poplar sapling.
The bear knew something of moose-yards. He knew that, while he himself was hampered by the deep, soft snow, his intended prey had the well-trodden paths to move in, and could make swift escape, at the least alarm, back to the protection of its mother and the gigantic bull. As he could see by the violent rocking of the poplar the calf was very busy and engrossed. He worked his way stealthily a little to one side, still shielded by the dense fir bush, till he was within five or six feet of the unsuspecting calf. Then, gathering beneath him all the force of his mighty haunches, he hurled himself forwards and burst into the deep pathway. From the corner of its eye the calf glimpsed a huge and dreadful black form looming over it, and with a squeal of terror turned to flee. But in the same fraction of a second it was struck down, with its frail back broken at a single blow.
Famished as he was, the bear could not resist the temptation to delay for one brief instant, while he tore a throbbing mouthful from the victim's throat and gulped it down. Then he dragged his prize back behind the shelter of the fir bush, and went floundering off with it in desperate haste through the snow, hoping that he had not been seen.
But the hope was a vain one. The bull and the cow had been lying down. At the calf's cry they had shot to their feet. Their furious eyes had marked the slaughter. In deadly silence, ignoring the paths and breasting down the barriers of snow irresistibly, they came charging to the vengeance, the stiff black hair of their necks on end with rage.
The bear, hampered though he was by the depth of the snow and by his unwieldy burden, had wallowed onwards for some forty yards or so before the avengers overtook him. The cow, in her outraged mother fury, was a little in advance of her huge mate. What she lacked in stature she made up in nimbleness and in swift hate. When she was almost upon him the bear wheeled like a flash upon his haunches and struck at her,—a terrific, sweeping blow which, had it reached its mark, would have shattered her slim fore-leg like a pipe-stem. But she swerved, and it flew past her; and in the next breath she struck. It was a long-range stroke, and she was away again, lightly, out of reach; but the fierce thud upon his ribs jerked a squealing cough from his throat, and the knife-edged hoof tore a long red gash down his flank. Before he could retaliate the bull was towering over him, from the other side. With a desperate leap he evaded that onslaught, hurling himself clear over the body of his victim. Then, realizing himself overmatched, he fled, his tremendous muscles driving him through the snow like a steam-plough.
The cow stopped short at the body of her calf, sniffing at it anxiously, and licking it, and trying to coax it back to life. But the bull plunged onwards in pursuit of the fleeing slayer. With his great length of stride he had the advantage of the bear in that depth of snow, and speedily overtook him. The latter whirled about once more to meet the attack, but as he did so the snow beneath him, upborne on the spreading tops of a clump of flat juniper bushes, gave way treacherously, and he fell sprawling backwards, clawing wildly, into a little hollow. Before he could recover, the bull was upon him. One great hoof pounded down upon him irresistibly, catching him fair in the defenceless belly and knocking the wind clean out of him. The next stroke smashed his forearm. As he surged and heaved beneath those deadly strokes, in an agonized struggle to regain his feet, the cow arrived. And there in the dreadful smother of snow and branches his life was slashed and trampled out of him. Not until the thing lying in the trodden and crimsoned snow bore no longer any resemblance to a bear did the victorious moose feel their vengeance satiated. Then at length they turned, and slowly, in the reaction from their rage, ploughed their way back to their home yard, avoiding, as they went, the spot where the dead calf lay stiffening in the snow. The moose-birds, chattering approval, fluttered down from the hemlock, and hopped about them, scrutinizing their blood-stained legs with dark, impudent, bright eyes. And the elder calf, a lanky female now approaching the dignity of a two-year-old, who had watched with startled gaze the progress of the battle, greeted them with delighted snorts and nuzzlings. Her mother received these demonstrations with indifference. But the great black bull, in his triumph, accepted and returned them with lordly condescension, dimly sensing a time when the youngster would be grown up. Had she been of his own sex, a possible future rival, he would have haughtily ignored her transports, or brusquely rebuffed them. Except in mating season the moose is little apt to be demonstrative.
In a magically short time—so swiftly through the frozen silences travels the news of food,—the solitude around the moose-yard was broken up. The neighbourhood became a place of resort. First arrived the hungry red foxes and the snakily darting white weasels, to gnaw and tear at the great carcasses in the snow, and snarl at each other with jealous hate. These small marauders, though not often in evidence, had never been far from the moose-yard, for they had instinctively anticipated some tragedy which they might profit by. Soon afterwards came three gaunt grey lynxes, driven by hunger, in spite of their morose and solitary instincts, to hunt together with a view to attacking quarry otherwise too powerful for them. Thev drove off the foxes and weasels while they gorged themselves. But one fox, a late arrival, venturing too near in his eagerness to share the feast, was pounced upon and devoured. At length appeared another famished bear; and all the feasters, great and small alike, sullenly made way for him, knowing the lightning swiftness of his clumsy-looking paw. He sniffed ravenously at the mangled body of his kinsman, but being no cannibal, turned away in disappointment and disgust. The moose-calf, on the other hand, was just what he wanted. Squatting over it jealously he made a sumptuous, meal. Then, ignoring the other darting and prowling banqueters, he lugged away the substantial remnants of the calf, to hide them in his far-off lair in the heart of a cedar swamp.
To all this hungry stir, to all this yapping and snarling, the moose in their sheltered yard paid no attention whatever, but went on browsing or drowsing as their mood dictated. Only when the bear arrived did they take notice, and grow angrily alert. As long as the bear remained upon the scene they kept to the centre of the yard, the great bull stamping and snorting from time to time to show his readiness for battle. But when the bear waddled off with his prize, the stiff-legged, mutilated thing which had been a moose-calf, they once more fell unconcernedly to their browsing.
Days later, when at last nothing was left in that trodden snow-hollow but scattered tufts of black fur and a pinky-white skeleton gnawed and polished clean, silence once more descended upon the glittering white spaces about the moose-yard. By night the cold was still of a savage intensity; but the days were growing longer, and in the sun's rays at noon-time there was a perceptible warmth. The result was a hard crust upon the surface of the snow,—a crust so strong that all but the heavier creatures of the wild could move about upon it easily and swiftly. And now, ravaging down across it from their famine-stricken north, came the wolves. Not for nearly fifty years had these fierce and crafty slayers been seen in New Brunswick. They came not in great packs, as in lands where they expect to hunt great game, but rather in small bands of four or five, or at most eight or ten, scattering over a wide range of country, and disdaining no quarry, however humble. Before them, on every side, spread panic. Only the moose family, sequestered and indifferent, knew nothing of it.
Then, one still and bitter morning, a band of four of the grey invaders caught scent of the moose-yard, and swept down upon it with their dreadful, quavering hunting-cry. At sight of these strange galloping beasts, with their long jaws and deadly fangs, the first impulse of the moose family was to flee. But the old bull, though he knew nothing of wolves, saw at once that flight would be instantly fatal. Conveying this in some way to his two charges, so effectively that they steadied themselves at once and closed up to him, he wheeled with a loud snort and stood to face the terrible attack. The cow promptly ranged herself beside him, while the trembling two-year-old thrust herself in between them.
The wolves, for all their hunger, were wary. They halted abruptly at the edge of the yard, impressed by the tall and lowering bulk of the bull and by the dangerous calm of his defiance. After a moment's hesitation they divided, two to the right and two to the left, and went loping stealthily around the rim of the central space, leaping the deep paths and, obviously, awaiting some sign of irresolution before dashing in. But presently one of them caught sight or scent of that heap of fresh-picked bones in the blood-stained hollow, and all together they galloped over to investigate. They knew very well that if, in the meantime, those defiant beasts in the moose-yard should take to flight, it would be a simple matter to trail them and run them down.
But nothing was further from the proud old bull's thought than any such madness. Shaking his massive head angrily with ever growing confidence he watched the wolves as they fell with zest upon the bones of his ancient foe.
To the powerful jaws of the wolves the bare bones were a feast. All but the very biggest they cracked and crunched up, gulping down great morsels with the marrow and fresh juice. But, of course, even for them it was comparatively slow work, for a bear's bones are hard and tough. Not till well along in the afternoon had they finished the job; and then, though no longer famished, they were still healthily hungry. One after another they returned to the moose-yard, and began stealthily prowling about it, more deliberate now, but not less murderously determined. The moose, now even more defiant than before, faced them sullenly and watchfully, the bull fronting one way, the cow the other, with the unwarlike two-year-old between them.
To the wolves it was clear that the vulnerable point in the moose-family's defense was this trembling youngster. If they could stampede her off from her formidable protectors they could make an easy kill of her out in the snow. Suddenly they darted down into the yard from three sides at once. Two made a cunning feint at the bull, one at the cow,—while the fourth sprang straight at the youngster's throat. But the cow, quicker than thought, met the latter's charge with a side slash full in the face, which shattered both his jaws; and in the same instant she swung lightly to confront her own more wary assailant.
The stricken wolf, half-stunned, and wounded to the death, picked himself up, scrambled dazedly forth upon the snow, and staggered off. His three companions, taken aback at this evidence of a moose's fighting powers, sprang discreetly out of reach. They paused for a moment to glare at their hoped-for victim, then galloped after their wounded fellow, threw themselves upon him, and tore him to pieces. A wounded wolf, in their eyes, was of no use whatever except to afford his kinsmen a meal. Having finished their cannibalistic repast they turned their tails upon the moose-yard, and loped away through the gathering violet dusk to look for hunting less perilous and more profitable. ****** When spring drew near, heralded by melting rains and swift thaws and ardent noonday suns, the deep snow shrank with amazing speed. The air grew musical with the sound of myriad unseen rivulets, mining their tunnels beneath the vast white overlay. The buds on poplar, willow and birch grew succulent and aromatic, waiting the hour to burst into a film of green. The moose became restless, breaking new paths ever wider and wider afield to sample the freshening provender. Presently their impudent little pensioners, the moose-birds, forsook them, pair by pair, intent on new enterprise in the reawakening world. Soon afterwards, when the grey, decaying snow was no longer more than foot deep anywhere on the levels, the tall bull, suddenly tiring of the charges whom he had so valiantly protected the winter through, strode off without so much as a grunt of farewell, and disappeared in the fir woods. The cow and her two-year-old daughter lingered on in the yard, food being abundant, for yet another couple of weeks. Then the cow, too, was seized with the wandering fever. And as she was not going to have a calf that spring,—having borne one for three seasons in succession,—she lazily permitted the anxious two-year-old to accompany her. Through the wet, earth-scented, swiftly greening world they wandered on, aimlessly, till they came to a little, secluded lake, with dense coverts and good browsing about its shores, and the promise of abundant water-lilies along its oozy brink. And here, well content with the comfortable solitude, they took up their dwelling for the summer.