Burned Bridges | Page 2

of distance, could be seen the outline of
each cabin. They were much of a sort--two or three rooms, log-walled,
brush laid upon poles, and sod on top of that for a roof, with fireplaces
built partly of mud, partly of rough stones. Folk in such circumstances
waste no labor in ornamentation. Each family's abiding place was
purely utilitarian. They cultivated no land, and the meadow during the
brief season supplied them with a profusion of delicate flowers a
southern garden could scarcely excel. Aside from a few trees felled
about each home site, their common effort had cleared away the
willows and birch which bordered the creek bank, so that an open
landing was afforded the canoes.
There was but one exception to the monotonous similitude of these
several habitations. A few paces back from the stream and standing
boldly in the open rose a log house double the size of any other there. It
contained at least four rooms. Its windows were of ample size, the
doors neatly carpentered. A wide porch ran on three sides. It bore about
itself an air of homely comfort, heightened by muslin at the windows, a
fringe of poppies and forget-me-nots blooming in an orderly row before
it, and a sturdy vine laden with morning-glories twining up each
supporting column of the porch roof.
Between the house and the woods an acre square was enclosed by a tall
picket fence. Within the fence, which was designed as a barricade
against foraging deer, there grew a variety of vegetables. The produce
of that garden had grown famous far beyond Lone Moose village. But
the spirit and customs and traditions of the gardener's neighbors were
all against any attempt to duplicate it. They were hunters and trappers
and fishermen. The woods and waters supplied their every need.
Upon a blistering day in July, a little past noon, a man stepped out on
the porch, and drawing into the shadiest part a great, rude homemade

chair upholstered with moosehide, sat down. He had a green-bound
book in his hand. While he stuffed a clay pipe full of tobacco he laid
the volume across his knees. Every movement was as deliberate as the
flow of the deep stream near by. When he had stoked up his pipe he
leaned back and opened the book. The smoke from his pipe kept off
what few mosquitoes were abroad in the scorching heat of midday.
A casual glance would at once have differentiated him from a native,
held him guiltless of any trace of native blood. His age might have been
anywhere between forty and fifty. His hair, now plentifully shot with
gray, had been a light, wavy brown. His eyes were a clear gray, and his
features were the antithesis of his high-cheekboned neighbors. Only the
weather-beaten hue of his skin, and the scores of fine seams radiating
from his eyes told of many seasons squinting against hot sunlight and
harsh winds.
Whatever his vocation and manner of living may have been he was
now deeply absorbed in the volume he held. A small child appeared on
the porch, a youngster of three or thereabouts, with swarthy skin, very
dark eyes, and inky-black hair. He went on all fours across Sam Carr's
extended feet several times. Carr remained oblivious, or at least
undisturbed, until the child stood up, laid hold of his knee and shook it
with playful persistence. Then Carr looked over his book, spoke to the
boy casually, shaking his head as he did so. The boy persisted after the
juvenile habit. Carr raised his voice. An Indian woman, not yet of
middle age but already inclining to the stoutness which overtakes
women of her race early in life, appeared in the doorway. She spoke
sharply to the boy in the deep, throaty language of her people. The boy,
with a last impish grin, gave the man's leg a final shake and scuttled
indoors. Carr impassively resumed his reading.
An hour or so later he lifted his eyes from the printed page at a distant
boom of thunder. The advanced edge of a black cloudbank rolling
swiftly up from the east was already dimming the brassy glare of the
sun. He watched the swift oncoming of the storm. With astonishing
rapidity the dark mass resolved itself into a gray, obscuring streak of
rain riven by vivid flashes of lightning. Carr laid down his book and

refilled his pipe while he gazed on this common phenomenon of the
dog-days. It swept up and passed over the village of Lone Moose as a
sprinkling wagon passes over a city street. The downpour was
accompanied by crashing detonations that sent the village dogs howling
to cover. With the same uncanny swiftness of gathering so it passed,
leaving behind a pleasant coolness