My Strange Rescue — Face to Face with an 'Indian Devil'

*FACE TO FACE WITH AN "INDIAN DEVIL."

* There were three of us, and we were all untiring explorers of the forests and streams within reach of our homes in quest of such possessors of fur, fin, or feather as our guns and rods could overcome.

Plenty of luck did we have too, for we lived in a sparsely-settled part of Nova Scotia, and the trout and partridges and rabbits had not had their ranks thinned by too much hunting.

It was no uncommon thing for us to bring back, as the result of an afternoon's whipping of the brooks, two or three dozen speckled trout weighing from half-a-pound to three pounds each, while less than a dozen brace of plump partridges or bob-tailed rabbits was looked on as a very poor bag for a day's shooting.

Adventurous and enterprising as we were, however, one stream of which we had knowledge remained undisturbed by our lines.

It was known among the Mic-Macs, a band of whom roamed about the neighbourhood, as Indian Devil Run, being so called because of their belief that the dense dark forest in which it took its rise was the fastness of a family of panthers, of which they stood in great dread.

Nor was the name without good foundation, for one autumn a hunter with gun and trap ventured into this place, and returned with the body of a panther, stating that he believed others still remained.

Indian Devil Run began somewhere in the North Forest, ran through its heavy shadows for several miles, and then appeared to add its contribution to the Digdequash River, at which point we made its acquaintance.

We often talked about following it up into the depths of the forest, but the Indian stories made us pause, until at last one evening in September, Jack Johnston, craving some fresh excitement, dared us to make the attempt, and we rashly accepted the challenge.

The following morning we set off, letting no one know the object of our expedition.

We were armed in this fashion: Charlie Peters bore an ancient Dutch musket, warranted when properly loaded to kill at both ends; Johnston had a keen tomahawk, which the Indians had taught him to use like one of themselves; and I carried an old-fashioned smooth-bore shot-gun, dangerous only to small game.

"Now, if we come across an Indian devil, Charlie," said Johnston, "you give him a broadside from 'Dutchie,' and I'll finish him with my tomahawk."

"And where do I come in?"

I asked, with a smile.

"You?

Oh, you blaze away at him with your pepperpot; you might perhaps put his eyes out, you know," Jack laughingly responded, and so our order of battle was settled upon.

We crossed the Digdequash in a canoe, hid our craft in the underbrush, and in high feather entered upon the exploration of Indian Devil Run.

It proved to be a succession of falls and rapids, overshadowed by huge trees for several miles, and we had hard work making our way up its course.

But we toiled steadily on, and just before mid-day were rewarded for our pains by reaching a lovely spot, where the banks of the stream widened to form an enchanting pond encircled by a meadow, and offering every inducement to stay and rest.

Glad were we to do so.

The pond evidently swarmed with trout.

Quickly adjusting our fishing-tackle, we got to work.

Shade of Izaak Walton!

what a paradise for anglers!

The water fairly boiled as the hungry trout fought for the privilege of being hooked.

In one hour we landed as many as we could carry home, and they were fine fellows every one of them.

"The greatest place for trout I ever struck!"

exclaimed Charlie Peters, throwing down his rod.

"I positively haven't the heart to catch any more.

It seems like taking a mean advantage of them."

So we stopped the slaughter--apparently much to the disappointment of our prey, who hung about asking to be made victims--and proceeded to dispose of the ample lunch with which our thoughtful mothers had provided us.

Then we had a refreshing plunge in the clear water, scaring the trout nearly out of their skins, and by this time it was necessary that we should retrace our steps.

On our way up I had brought down a fine brace of birds, and to save carrying them to and fro had hung them to a high branch, intending to pick them up on the return journey.

"Don't forget your partridges, Hal," said Jack to me, as we shouldered our bags heavy with trout.

"No fear of that," I replied.

"I know exactly where I left them."

Hitherto we had seen and heard nothing to justify the Indians' superstitious dread of the locality.

No signs of wild animals were visible, and in high spirits at having discovered so rich a fishing-ground we hastened homeward.

"I guess the Indian devils have got tired of this place and left," remarked Charlie Peters.

"But don't let us give it away all the same.

We must keep this run all to ourselves as long as we can."

Hardly had he spoken when an appalling shriek pierced the silence of the woods, and brought us to a sudden stop, while we looked into one another's faces with an apprehension we made no attempt to conceal.

We were close to the tree where the partridges had been hung.

"It's the Indian devil!"

exclaimed Jack Johnston, under his breath.

"He's eaten the partridges, and now he wants to eat us."

We fully realized our danger, and after the first shock of fright braced ourselves to meet it with a determined front.

Johnston, as the eldest and coolest of the three, took command.

"Charlie," said he, "you must let him have Dutchie full in the face the moment we sight him.

--Hal, you blaze away with your shot-gun, and I'll stand by to finish him with my tomahawk."

nodding assent to these directions, we stood side by side, gazing eagerly into the forest gloom.

"There he is!"

said Johnston.

"See!

on that big limb."

We followed the direction of his finger, and saw the brute clearly enough, stretched upon a limb not twelve yards away, his great green eyes glaring horribly at us.

"Quick, Charlie!"

cried Jack.

"He's going to spring.

Rest your gun on my shoulder, and aim for his chest."

Charlie did as he was bid, and pulled the trigger.

Bang went the old musket with a tremendous report.

Over went Charlie on his back, his shoulder well-nigh dislocated by the kick of his weapon; and down came the panther to the ground, badly wounded in his neck and breast.

The instant he touched ground I let him have the contents of my shot-gun.

But they only served to bother him for a moment, and looking terrible in his fury, he was just gathering himself for a spring into our midst, when Johnston, stepping forward, sent his tomahawk whizzing through the air with all the force of his strong right arm.

[Illustration: "JOHNSTON SENT HIS TOMAHAWK WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR."

] It was a perfect throw.

No Mic-Mac could have done it better.

Like a flash of lightning the bright steel blade went straight to its mark, and buried itself in the panther's forehead right between those awful eyes, whose malignant gleam it extinguished for ever.

Lifting Charlie to his feet we rushed forward, and stood in triumph over our fallen foe, shaking hands across his mighty body.

How our hearts swelled with pride at the thought of the sensation our exploit would make!

With a twisted withe for a rope we laboriously dragged our prize to the canoe, and so got it across the river.

Here we met the Indian who had been Johnston's teacher in the art of tomahawk-throwing.

He seemed immensely relieved at seeing us.

"Me see you boys go over this morning, then hear devil scream this afternoon, and hear you go bang.

Me 'fraid you all deaded this time."

Then as he discovered the fatal gash in the brute's head, his face lit up with pride.

"Johnston, you do that!"

he cried.

"Ah!

smart boy.

Me learn you how throw tomahawk like that."

Jack blushingly acknowledged the fact, and gave his Indian instructor due meed of praise for having taught him so well.

It was too big a job to get the heavy carcass of the panther any further, so the Indian took off the head and skin for us, and we presented him with the body, which he said was good to eat, and would "make Indian strong."

Our arrival at home with the trophies of our triumph over the terror of the forest caused great rejoicing.

We were the heroes of the hour, and Charlie quite forgot his bruised shoulder in the pleasant excitement of the occasion.

We often revisited Indian Devil Run after that, and took many a fine fare of fish from its well-stocked waters, but we never saw another panther.

We had apparently killed the last of the brood.