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Updated: May 19, 2025
Quickly the first rallied and sprang on his other leg with all the force of its puny paws, and powerful jaws. Meanwhile Quonab was laughing aloud and holding back Skookum, who, breathing fire and slaughter, was mad to be in the fight. "Ho! a good fight! good musquas! Ho, Skookum, you must not always take care of him, or he will not learn to go alone.
"Glad to have you again," said Rolf: "we'll come for you on August fifteenth; but remember you should bring your guitar and your spectacles." "One word," said the governor, "do you know the canoe route through Champlain to Canada?" "Quonab does." "Could you undertake to render scout service in that region?" The Indian nodded. "In case of war, we may need you both, so keep your ears open."
After an hour he came to Dumpling Pond, then set out for his home, straight through the woods, till he reached the Catrock line, and following that came to the farm and ramshackle house of Micky Kittering. He had been told that the man at this farm had a fresh deer hide for sale, and hoping to secure it, Quonab walked up toward the house. Micky was coming from the barn when he saw the Indian.
To go back as a chore-boy drudge was possible, but not alluring; to leave Quonab, just as the wood world was opening to him, was devastating; but to exchange it all for bondage in the pious household of Old Peck, whose cold cruelty had driven off all his own children, was an accumulation of disasters that aroused him.
The silent canoe man has the best of opportunities. There were plenty of deer tracks about the first camp, and that morning, as they turned up the Hudson, Rolf saw his first deer. They had rounded a point in rather swift water when Quonab gave two taps on the gunwale, the usual sign, "Look out," and pointed to the shore. There, fifty yards away on bank, gazing at them, was a deer.
He had learned the hunter's cautious trick of going silently and peering about, before he left cover. On a mud bank in a shallow bay, some fifty yards off, he described a peculiar gray and greenish form that he slowly made out to be a huge turtle, sunning itself. The more he looked and gauged it with things about, the bigger it seemed. So he slunk back quickly and silently to Quonab.
Rolf shot ahead and a moment later there was the crash of a breaking air-hole, and Rolf went through the ice, clutched at the broken edge and disappeared, while the toboggan was dragged to the hole. Quonab sprung to his feet, and then to the lower side of the hole.
The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to the ground. "Now, what will you do with him?" asked Rolf. "Train coon dog," was the answer. "Where?" The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond. "Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock? My name is Quonab." "Wait for an hour and then I will come and help," volunteered Rolf impulsively, for the hunting instinct was strong in him.
Again "good-bye," and Rolf, Quonab, and little dog Skookum went sailing down the Schroon toward the junction, where they left a cache of their supplies, and down the broadening Hudson toward Albany. Rolf had been over the road twice; Quonab never before, yet his nose for water was so good and the sense of rapid and portage was so strong in the red man, that many times he was the pilot.
Rolf held him while Quonab, with a sharp jerk, brought out quill after quill. Thirty or forty of the poisonous little daggers were plucked from his trembling legs, head, face, and nostrils, but the dreadful ones were those in his lips and tongue. Already they were deeply sunk in the soft, quivering flesh.
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