492 
FOREST AND STREAM 
while I lived I never would let slip an opportu¬ 
nity for taking a wolf scalp. They soon finished 
the elk, and after that kept up a hullabaloo at 
intervals all night, to the extreme terror of 
Pete, who shivered and watched incessantly. 
Some time after midnight it commenced rain¬ 
ing most furiously, the wind blowing almost a 
hurricane at the same time, and it was with the 
greatest difficulty that I could keep the fire alive- 
To make matters worse, the weather grew 
rapidly colder, and 'before morning I was shak¬ 
ing 'to the point of dissolution with the ague. 
I had nothing to eat, had left my half-pint flask 
at the shanty, and had neither 'blanket nor axe. 
On the whole, it was one of the nights to be re¬ 
membered, and more or less of them are chroni¬ 
cled in the memory of every genuine still-hunter. 
But for the confounded ague I could have man¬ 
aged to extort some fun from it, too. 
After the fire got low and gave out but very 
little light, the wolves grew very bold, coming 
within a few rods and howling, as if for a 
wager; at every fresh yell Pete would shiver 
with redoubled vigor, pressing his ribs against 
the log and whining piteously; at last, in the 
very extreme of cowardice and fear he jammed 
himself as far under t'he log as possible, where 
he lay whining and shivering until daylight. Few 
hunting dogs will face a wolf singly—-very few 
indeed but will cover when near a pack of them. 
In justice to Pete, and as I may not have occa¬ 
sion to mention him again, I will say that he 
turned out, all things considered, the best still- 
hunt dog I have ever owned or trained. 
Morning dawned at length, and, sick as I cer¬ 
tainly was, I determined to have a look at the 
scene of the previous night’s carnival. Taking 
a large pine for a guide I found the spot with¬ 
out difficulty, hut there was nothing left of my 
elk save the antlers—gnawed and broken apart— 
a few fragments of bone and part of a jaw. The 
antlers were very long and heavy, but badly mu¬ 
tilated ; still, as they might “adorn a tale,” I 
lugged them with much labor to the openings 
and deposited them in the branches of an oak for 
safety, intending to call for them some time 
when I felt more like packing. I never saw 
them afterward, nor the buck which I had left 
in the morning. 
Late at night, and in a blinding snowstorm, I 
managed to stagger into camp with reeling senses 
and the delirium of fever in my veins; I was 
sick. All day I had been trying to reach the 
shanty through the driving snow, setting the com¬ 
pass every half hour and finding myself on the 
wrong course nearly as often, wandering in a 
kind of absent stupor hither and thither, con¬ 
scious that to miss the shanty in such a state 
and in such weather was little better than death, 
yet unable to keep on the right tack for an hour 
without the aid of a compass. Weak from sick¬ 
ness and the loss of food, and half delirious as 
I was, it was a mercy that I found the camp at 
all. To say truth, the dark little den did not 
look over cheerful as I crawled in, but a roaring 
fire and dry clothes, with a. hot dish of tea and 
a nip, improved matters a little, and if I could 
have shaken that fiend of the West from my 
vitals, the prospect was not at all a bad one; but 
I could not. 
Late in the evening the fever left me and was 
succeeded by a dull, spiritless stupor, which was 
not so much a positive distress as an effectual 
bar to all enjoyment; this lasted for hours, and 
was followed in its turn by that “quotidian ter¬ 
tian,” shaking me until my backbone seemed 
a huge string of loose beads and my neck threat¬ 
ened to dislocate itself with the violence of the 
exercise. This in turn again was followed by 
delirium and fever, during which the little den 
of a shanty would dilate and expand before my 
very eyes like a living, breathing thing, until 
it grew to palatial dimensions, then, taking a 
sudden turn, would contract and shrink, shrink 
toward the ground, until I would spring toward 
the door to avoid the fate of the man in the 
Iron Shroud. Strange, weird shapes flitted about 
the fire at night, grinning and mewing at me; 
owls, with immense wings like a bat’s, peered 
at me from the rude fireplace, and even poor 
“Save Numerous Black, Gray and Fox Squirrel.” 
Pete seemed changing to a wolf and to be wait¬ 
ing a chance for throttling me. In vain I took 
double and treble doses of quinine through very 
desperation; the disease would not be balked nor 
checked, but worked me up with a systematic 
regularity that would have done credit to an 
eight-day clock. Every day from early morning 
until near midday the detestable shakes racked 
me to the verge of human endurance; then came 
on the fever accompanied with delirium, which 
reached its height during the early part of the 
evening, and was followed by great weakness 
and languor, during which I dozed and slept 
until the never-failing chills warned me to make 
a rousing fire, roll up in blankets and bearskin, 
and get to shaking. 
Of all the twenty-four hours, the hour or two 
in the evening when the fever was at its height 
was the most horrible. I knew that the weird 
sights and sounds which I saw and heard were 
but illusions for the most part, yet I did see and 
hear them to all intents and purposes, and how 
long would I be able to distinguish them from 
reality? Suppose I should become so far deliri¬ 
ous as to rush out in the bitter winter air and 
wander off into the wilds, to perish alone miser¬ 
ably When the fever left me, or worse, have 
strength sufficient to reach the shanty by back¬ 
tracking, to die by inches with frozen feet and 
hands? Not a pleasant reflection, but one that 
was ever tormenting me, and I think the dread 
I had of such a fate tended to keep me from 
leaving the shanty when I was really unconscious 
of my acts. 
I cannot say how long this state of things 
lasted—all through the month of December cer¬ 
tainly, and, I think, through the first half of 
January. The weather got intensely cold, the 
days were short, chilly visitations of glastly sun¬ 
light, and each night seemed at least a week 
long. 
I was so feeble and nerveless as to be under 
the necessity of taking advantage of the strength 
afforded by high fever to back wood enough for 
daily use, and daily getting weaker. I knew there 
must be a lumbering establishment at no great 
distance below, but how was I to reach it? I, 
who could not go a mile from 'the shanty with 
the certainty of having strength to return? So 
I shook and burned by turns, toted wood when 
I had strength to do it, and wrapped myself in 
the bearskin in a spiritless stupor when exhaust¬ 
ed. I was becoming a moral Micawber—waiting 
and hoping for something to turn up. 
Something did turn up—in the shape of old 
Peter the Indian guide, who stuck his copper- 
colored mug through the rat-hole of a doorway 
one cold January evening, saying as he did so, 
“Ugh! you Nessmuk—you ’live, eh?” 
I jumped from the bearskin and seized his 
hand with a heartfelt joy and thankfulness that 
I cannot describe. I was dying for human sym¬ 
pathy and companionship, and, had he been an 
own brother, I could hardly have been more re¬ 
joiced to see him. It would not do, however, to 
show it by acting childishly pleased, so, after 
the first greeting was over, I brought out the 
blackstrap, hard tack and bear meat, after which 
we filled a couple of pipes and smoked in taciturn 
mood, although I was burning to talk. The 
pipes finished, Peter, quite as a matter of course 
and in true Indian fashion, gave a terse account 
of his doings, and incidentally the doings of his 
band, since he had left Ned and I in October. 
They had killed much deer, some elk, a great 
many bear, and had caught mink and otter 
enough to buy plenty of blankets and powder for 
two years; the squaws had much corn and ber¬ 
ries laid up on which to feast in the sugar sea¬ 
son. He was a great hunter—had killed his 
fingers ten times over with deer, besides six full- 
grown bear and three elk. He could keep two 
smart squaws skinning and packing all the time, 
but he was tired hunting so much, and had come 
to visit his white brother and hear of his suc¬ 
cess. Had Nessmuk (Pine Marten) been lucky 
in the fall hunt? Had his traps fastened on the 
otter with a sure grip? 
I have taken the liberty of mending his broken 
English, but the above is the substance of his 
speech, and in answer to his queries I replied 
that Nessmuk had killed as many deer -s he 
wished, but, having no one to share the meat 
with, had killed only bucks for the most part* 
