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<h2 class="newchapter">XVIII THE CARTRIDGE BELT</h2> Jimmy's clothes were torn and he was bothered about his boots. He rather thought clothes and boots that would long bear the strain of a journey across the rocks were not made. At all events, one could not buy them at a Canadian settlement store. Then the things were wet and the morning was cold. For all that, he must not grumble. The deer did not like the heavy dew and their habit was to come out on the rocks and get the sun. The Indian thought he had found a spot they haunted, and after breakfast led the others across a small tableland. By and by he stopped and Jimmy got down in the fern. In front, the timber was thin and a short distance off was a smooth rock. Jimmy saw the rock and the trees on the other side, but for a few moments this was all. A deer's soft color harmonizes with stones and trunks, and, when its outline is broken, to distinguish the animal is hard. The Indian frowned and signed, and Jimmy imagined the small patch of light color cutting a pine trunk was a head. For one thing, it moved, and the crooked line below it looked like a leg. Jimmy did not see the deer's back, but the top of the leg indicated where its shoulder was, and he rested his rifle on a branch. He got the sights where he wanted, braced his muscles, held his breath, and steadily pulled the trigger. The deer jumped and a thin streak of smoke floated in front of Jimmy's eyes. The animal was not on the rock, but after a moment or two he saw it rise from a thicket and go over some tangled branches a man's height from the ground. Yet he thought the leap awkward and the deer came down in the fern before it ought. His heart beat and he waited for another shot, until he saw Deering a few yards off and remembered that their cartridges were not numerous. Deering's body was firmly poised, his head was bent forward and he balanced his rifle half-way to his shoulder as if it were a gun. Jimmy knew he could use it like a gun. When the deer broke from the fern at the edge of the tableland Jimmy did not shoot. The animal's leap carried it across a clump of tall raspberries, but it would vanish in a moment and the brush in front was thick. Deering's rifle jerked, and the graceful body, carried by its speed, plunged into the brush. Jimmy heard a crash and the deer was gone. He thought it had gone over a rock and putting down his rifle he ran. A minute or two afterwards he stopped at the top of a precipitous slope. A stream, however, cut the mountain-side, and in places small trees were rooted in the stones. A hundred feet below, the deer lay on a shelf by a waterfall. "I think I can reach it," said Jimmy, and went cautiously down. They needed the venison, but when he had got down a short distance he knew he was rash, for it looked as if the rocks on the other side of the waterfall were perpendicular. Then, although he might perhaps reach the shelf, to carry the deer back was another thing. Using the small trees for support, he got to a slab above the shelf. The slab was wet and dotted by greasy moss, but a few cracks and small stones broke its surface and Jimmy trusted his luck. When he came down the ground shook and he saw the shelf was not, as he imagined, a solid block but two or three large stones embedded in boggy soil. At one end the cascade had scooped out a small basin and the deer's hind quarters were in the pool. Jimmy seized its fore legs, and bracing his feet against a stone, began to pull. He pulled hard, but although he felt he moved, the deer did not. Then his foot went down, and letting go the animal, he threw himself back. The deer rolled over and vanished. Water splashed, and Jimmy saw the stones plunge down the face of the cliff. For a moment or two he was rather angry than alarmed. They wanted the meat but the deer was gone. Then he saw he ran some risk of going down the cliff and he began to study the ground. Scratches on the stone indicated how he had reached the spot, but he had let himself go because the shelf was in front. The pitch was very steep and the rock was mossy. Not far off a small tree grew in a crack, but he could not reach the trunk and rather thought to try would send him over the precipice. He heard a shout and nailed boots rattled. Deering was coming down, although he was not yet in Jimmy's line of view. After a time, Jimmy, lying against the rock, turned his head and saw Deering had got hold of the tree. "I'm anchored," said Deering. "Can you reach my hand?" The effort was risky, but Jimmy tried and Deering seized his wrist. Deering pulled him up for a foot or two, and then stopped and gasped. "Jamb yourself against the slab; I've got to let go." Jimmy's boots slipped on the smooth stone and his hands were wet; he could not get a proper hold and the moss was slimy under his knees. Spreading out his arms, he let himself go slack and trusted his limp body would not slip back. He could not now see Deering and did not know what he did. After a moment or two he felt him seize his cartridge belt. "Use your knees. When I lift grab the tree." The cartridge belt got tight and Jimmy, using its support, reached the trunk. His jacket felt slack, as if something were gone, but this was not important and he heard Deering's labored breath. "Thanks!" he said, rather dully. "We have lost the deer." "We have used two shells," said Deering. "Let's get up." They got up, and at the top Jimmy put his hand to his waist. "Hello! Where's my belt?" "Now I think about it, when I held you up I felt something give. I guess the buckle was pulling out. Well, we ought to see the brown leather." They did not see it and Jimmy said, "All the cartridges I had are gone. How many have you got?" "Twelve," said Deering, rather grimly. "Anyhow, I'm not going down again." Jimmy nodded. He thought the belt had gone over the cliff. "I brought about six pounds of pork from the camp." "My load's flour, desiccated fruit, and a few cans of meat. Looks as if we had got to eat salmon." "In the Old Country, one doesn't grumble about eating salmon," Jimmy remarked. "Oh, well," said Deering, "I was raised in the bush and am not fastidious, but if we can't get salmon, I'll be resigned. The trouble is, since food's short we can't push back too far from the settlements. Well, we must try to hit a creek." In the evening they came down to a small river and pitched camp on the bank. The Indian cut and trimmed a straight fir branch, but left a fork at the thinner end. Then he pulled out two cleverly-carved bone barbs, which he fitted on the forks and fastened by sinews to the staff. "You could carry the business part of his outfit in your pocket," Deering remarked. "I expect his folks have used barbs like that for a thousand years. An Indian's tools are standardized, but when he thinks them good enough he stops. All the same, I reckon he gets most as far as a man can get alone. He's an artist, but we beat him by cooperating to make machines. Anyhow, the fellow doesn't want you. Take a smoke and let him spear a fish." Jimmy lighted his pipe and looked about. A few yards off, the current splashed against the stones. The water was green, and the line of driftwood and dead leaves on the bank indicated that the frost was stopping the muddy streams from the glaciers. Some distance down the river, the Indian balanced on a rock in a pool at the tail of a rapid. For a time he did not move and Jimmy thought his quietness statuesque. The fellow was like the herons he had studied with his glasses by a pool on the Scottish border. Then his body bent and the spear went down. The thrust and recovery were strangely quick and Jimmy rather doubted if the man had moved. "It looks as if he missed his stroke," he said. "He's using a fir branch. An Indian spear is beautifully modeled," Deering replied. A few minutes afterwards, the Indian bent backwards and a shining object struck the bank. Coming to the fire, he put down the fish and Jimmy's appetite was blunted. The salmon was lean and battered. Its color was dull and its tail was broken. Rows of scales were rubbed off; the fins were worn from the supporting ribs. "I'm not as hungry as I was. Are all like that?" he said. "It depends on when you get them," Deering replied. "A June steelhead, fresh from the sea, is pretty good, but a salmon that has pushed through to head waters in the fall is another thing. When you think about it, the salmons' journey inland is remarkable. They bore against the autumn floods when the melted snow comes down; they force tremendous rapids, whirlpools, and roaring falls. Where the water's calm in the valleys, eagles and fish-hawks harry them, and the mink hunts them in the shallows. But they can't be stopped; they follow Nature's urge and shove on across all obstacles for the distant gravel banks. Then they spawn, where they were hatched, and the bears eat their spent carcasses. The trouble is, I'm not a bear, but I've got to eat salmon." When the Indian had fried two or three thick steaks, Jimmy sympathized with Deering. The flesh was soft and its taste was rank. For all that, he thought if he had not seen the salmon he might have had a better appetite. At the hotel he had eaten because his food tempted him; now he ate because he must. By and by he threw down his tin plate. "I've had enough. If we can find a deer, we must risk another cartridge. We have got twelve." "You can't reckon on getting a deer for every shot, and although, as a rule, the deer are pretty numerous about the small clearings, in some belts of back country you can't find one. I expect they're attracted by the crops. In fact, the wild animals and large birds aren't much afraid of the ranchers; they quit when the automobiles and city sports arrive." "But if we stop in the neighborhood of a settlement, the police may get on our trail," Jimmy rejoined. "The police are smart and I allow they're obstinate. All the same, to search the rocks from Banff to Revelstoke is a big job. You can give yourself away by two things, shooting and smoke, but we can fix the smoke and we're not going to shoot much. As soon as we hit a proper spot, we'll build a shack." "By and by our supplies will run out." "That is so," Deering agreed. "In the meantime, we're baffling the police. Just now I expect they're busy looking for our tracks, but they have got other jobs and can't keep it up. Well, when we think they're forced to quit, we'll find a plan——" He stopped and the Indian turned his head. A faint, hoarse bark came from the distance and echoed across the valley. Jimmy jumped up and looked about. The light was going and the pines were blurred. "A dog?" he said. "A timber wolf," said Deering. "He's not alone. I hear another." A howl, pitched on a high mournful note, pierced the gloom and Jimmy shivered. The noise was strangely dreary. "Will the wolves bother us?" "I think not," said Deering and talked in Chinook to the Indian, who nodded. "The fellow agrees," he resumed. "In North Ontario we watch out for wolves when the snow is on the ground, but as a rule in British Columbia they leave the ranchers alone. Sometimes they take a sheep; I reckon that's all. The trouble is, they kill deer, and when the wolves start hunting the deer pull out." Jimmy got down on his blanket by the fire. He felt the wilds were daunting and to see the flame leap about the branches was some comfort. Now and then a wolf howled in the distance, but by and by all was quiet and he went to sleep. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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