course, there was nothing else for it but to make another jump; and in the result there was no perceptible variation. The inexorable brute left me no leisure to sit down and plan a diversion. I was conscious of a burning anxiety to get home, and I tried to calculate how much of this sort of thing it would take to discourage my tireless foe. Not arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, I continued to make a shuttle-cock of myself for some minutes longer.
“Immediately below me I saw that the sides of the gully retained their steepness, but so widened apart as to make the leap a doubtful one. At a considerable distance beyond, however, they drew together again, and at last I convinced myself that a change of base would be justified. By such a change, supposing it safely accomplished, it was evident that I would gain much longer breathing-spells, while my antagonist would be forced to such detours as would surely soon dishearten him.
“At the next chance, therefore, I broke at the top of my speed for the new position. I had but a scant moment to spare, for the bull was closing upon me with his terrific gallop. I made my jump, nevertheless, with deliberation. But, alas for the ‘best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men’! I had planted my pole in a spot of sticky clay, and after a slow sprawl through the air I landed helplessly on hands and knees about half-way up the opposite bank.
“Seeing my mishap, the bull forgot his late-learned caution, and, charging headlong, brought up not a couple of yards below me. Without waiting to pull my pole out of the mud I scrambled desperately to the top. It was a sick moment for me as the brute recovered his footing, and made up the steep so impetuously that he almost conquered it; but I threw myself flat on my face and reached for the pole, knowing well that without it the game was pretty well up for me. As I succeeded in wrenching it from the clay, my pursuer’s rush brought him so close that I could almost touch his snorting and miry nostrils. But this was his best effort, and he could come no nearer. Realizing this, he did just what I expected him to do, – gave his tail an extra twist of relentless malice, and swept off up the bed of the creek to his former place of transit. I now breathed more freely; and having prodded the bottom till I found a firm foundation for my pole, I began to feel secure.
“When the bull had gained my side of the creek, and had come so far as to insure his coming all the way, I sprang across; and a moment later saw him tearing up the soil on the very spot my feet had just forsaken. This time he shirked the plunge, and stood on the bank bellowing his challenge. I patted my good spruce pole. Then I threw some sods across at him, which resulted in a fresh tempest, a new rush to the old crossing, and another ‘over’ for my leaping-pole and me.
“Meanwhile I had concocted a plan for check-mating my antagonist. I saw that from this point forward to the dike the gully became more and more impassable, and I thought if I could lure the bull into following me but for a little way down the opposite bank, I could gain such a start upon him that to reach the dike would be an easy matter. With this design then, when the bull again repeated his angry challenge, I shouted, threw another sod, and started on a trot down the creek. But the cunning brute was not to be deceived in such fashion. He turned at once to repeat his former tactics, and I was fain to retrace my steps precipitately.
“The brute now resolved, apparently, upon a waiting game. After pawing his defiance afresh, he proceeded to walk around and eat a little, ever and anon raising his head to eye me with a sullen and obstinate hatred. For my own part, now that time had ceased to be an object, I sat down and racked my brains over the problem. Would the brute keep up this guard all through the night? I felt as if there was a sleuth-hound on my trail. That now silent presence across the creek began to weigh upon me like a nightmare. At last, in desperation, I resolved upon a straight-away race for the dike. As I pondered on the chances, they seemed to grow more and more favorable. I was a good runner, and though handicapped with the pole, would have a fair start on my enemy. Having made up my mind to the venture I rose to my feet, ready to seize the smallest advantage.
“As I rose, the bull wheeled sharply, and sprang to the edge of the bank with a muffled roar. But seeing that I stood leaning idly on my pole and made no motion to depart, he soon tossed away in the sulks and resumed his grazing. In a few moments a succulent streak of clover so engrossed him that he turned his back fairly upon me – and like a flash I was off, speeding noiselessly over the grass.
“Not till several seconds had been gained did I hear the angry bellow which told of the detection of my stratagem. I did not stop to look back, and I certainly made some very pretty running; but the dike seemed still most dismally remote when I heard that heavy gallop plunging behind me. Nearer, nearer it drew, with terrible swiftness; and nearer and nearer drew the dike. I reached it where it was perhaps about seven feet high. Slackening up to plant my pole squarely, I sprang, and had barely time to steady myself on the summit when the beast brought up with a roar at my very feet. It was a narrow, a very narrow escape.
“With a sigh of relief and gratitude I sat me down to rest, and took some satisfaction in poking the ribs of the baffled brute below. Then, lightly balancing my pole in one hand, I turned my face toward the ‘bito,’ and made my way thoughtfully homeward. It was altogether too literally a ‘hair’s-breadth’ adventure.”
When Ranolf concluded there was a general stir. Pipes were refilled, and a “snack” (of biscuits, cheese, and liquids to taste) was passed around. Then Stranion said, —
“It’s your turn, O. M.”
“But it’s bedtime,” pleaded I; “and besides, as I have the writing to do, let others do the speaking!”
My arguments were received with a stony stare, so I made haste to begin.
“Like Magnus,” said I, “modesty forbids me to be my own hero. I’ll tell you a story which I picked up last fall, when I was alleged to be pigeon-shooting twenty miles above Fredericton. We will call the yarn —
“I was talking to an old farmer whom I had chanced to come across, and who had passed me a cheery good-day. After I had spoken of the crops, and he had praised my new gun, I broached a subject of much interest to myself.
“How do you account for the fact, if it is a fact,” said I, slipping a cartridge into my right barrel, “that the caribou are getting yearly more numerous in the interior of New Brunswick, while other game seems to be disappearing. As for the wild pigeons, you may say they are all gone. Here I have been on the go since before sunrise, and that bird is the only sign of a pigeon I have so much as got a glimpse of.”
“‘Well,’ replied my companion, as for the pigeons, I can’t say how it is. In old times I’ve seen them so plenty round here you could knock them down with a stick; that is, if you were anyways handy with a stick. But they do say that caribou are increasing because the wolves have disappeared. You see, the wolves used to be the worst enemy of the caribou, because they could run them down nice and handy in winter, when the snow was deep and the crust so thin that the caribou were bound to break through it at every step. However, I don’t believe there has been a wolf seen in this part of the country for fifty years, and it’s only within the last ten years or so that the caribou have got more plenty.”
“We had seated ourselves, the old farmer and I, on a ragged snake-fence that bounded a buckwheat-field overlooking the river. The field was a new clearing, and the ripened buckwheat reared its brown heads among a host of blackened and distorted stumps. It was a crisp and delicious autumn morning, and the solitary pigeon that had rewarded my long tramp over the uplands was one that I had surprised at its breakfast in the buckwheat. Now, finding that my new acquaintance was likely to prove interesting, I dropped my gun gently into the fence corner, loosened my belt a couple of holes, and asked the farmer if he had himself ever seen any wolves in New Brunswick.
“‘Not to say many,’ was the old man’s reply; ‘but they say that troubles never come single, and so,
