Big Baptiste Seguin, on snow-shoes nearly six feet long, strode mightily
out of the forest, and gazed across the treeless valley ahead.
“Hooraw! No choppin’ for two mile!” he shouted.
“Hooraw! Bully! Hi-yi!” yelled the axemen, Pierre, “Jawnny,” and
“Frawce,” two hundred yards behind. Their cries were taken up by the
two chain-bearers still farther back.
“Is it a lake, Baptiste?” cried Tom Dunscombe, the young surveyor, as he
hurried forward through balsams that edged the woods and concealed the
open space from those among the trees.
“No, seh; only a beaver meddy.”
“Clean! Yesseh! Clean’s your face. Hain’t no tree for two mile if de
line is go right.”
“Good! We shall make seven miles to-day,” said Tom, as he came forward
with immense strides, carrying a compass and Jacob’s-staff. Behind him
the axemen slashed along, striking white slivers from the pink and scaly
columns of red pines that shot up a hundred and twenty feet without a
branch. If any underbrush grew there, it was beneath the
eight-feet-deep February snow, so that one could see far away down a
multitude of vaulted, converging aisles.
Our young surveyor took no thought of the beauty and majesty of the
forest he was leaving. His thoughts and those of his men were set
solely on getting ahead; for all hands had been promised double pay for
their whole winter, in case they succeeded in running a line round the
disputed Moose Lake timber berth before the tenth of April.
Their success would secure the claim of their employer, Old Dan
McEachran, whereas their failure would submit him perhaps to the loss of
the limit, and certainly to a costly lawsuit with Old Rory Carmichael,
another potentate of the Upper Ottawa.
At least six weeks more of fair snow-shoeing would be needed to “blaze”
out the limit, even if the unknown country before them should turn out
to be less broken by cedar swamps and high precipices than they feared.
A few days’ thaw with rain would make slush of the eight feet of snow,
and compel the party either to keep in camp, or risk _mal de
raquette_,—strain of legs by heavy snow-shoeing. So they were in great
haste to make the best of fine weather. Tom thrust his Jacob’s-staff
into the snow, set the compass sights to the right bearing, looked
through them, and stood by to let Big Baptiste get a course along the
line ahead. Baptiste’s duty was to walk straight for some selected
object far away on the line. In woodland the axeman “blazed” trees on
both sides of his snow-shoe track.
Baptiste was as expert at his job as any Indian, and indeed he looked as
if he had a streak of Iroquois in his veins. So did “Frawce,” “Jawnny,”
and all their comrades of the party.
“The three pines will do,” said Tom, as Baptiste crouched.
“Good luck to-day for sure!” cried Baptiste, rising with his eyes fixed
on three pines in the foreground of the distant timbered ridge. He saw
that the line did indeed run clear of trees for two miles along one side
of the long, narrow beaver meadow or swale.
Baptiste drew a deep breath, and grinned agreeably at Tom Dunscombe.
“De boys will look like dey’s all got de double pay in deys’ pocket when
dey’s see _dis_ open,” said Baptiste, and started for the three pines as
straight as a bee.
Tom waited to get from the chainmen the distance to the edge of the
wood. They came on the heels of the axemen, and all capered on their
snow-shoes to see so long a space free from cutting.
It was now two o’clock; they had marched with forty pound or “light”
packs since daylight, lunching on cold pork and hard-tack as they
worked; they had slept cold for weeks on brush under an open tent
pitched over a hole in the snow; they must live this life of hardship
and huge work for six weeks longer, but they hoped to get twice their
usual eighty-cents-a-day pay, and so their hearts were light and jolly.
But Big Baptiste, now two hundred yards in advance, swinging along in
full view of the party, stopped with a scared cry. They saw him look to
the left and to the right, and over his shoulder behind, like a man who
expects mortal attack from a near but unknown quarter.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Tom.
Baptiste went forward a few steps, hesitated, stopped, turned, and
fairly ran back toward the party. As he came he continually turned his
head from side to side as if expecting to see some dreadful thing
The men behind Tom stopped. Their faces were blanched. They looked,
too, from side to side.
“Halt, Mr. Tom, halt! Oh, _monjee_, M’sieu, stop!” said Jawnny.
Tom looked round at his men, amazed at their faces of mysterious terror.
“What on earth has happened?” cried he.
Instead of answering, the men simply pointed to Big Baptiste, who was
soon within twenty yards.
“What is the trouble, Baptiste?” asked Tom.
Baptiste’s face was the hue of death. As he spoke he shuddered:—
“_Monjee_, Mr. Tom, we’ll got for stop de job!”
“Stop the job! Are you crazy?”
“If you’ll not b’lieve what I told, den you go’n’ see for you’se’f.”
“What is it?”
“De track, seh.”
“What track? Wolves?”
“If it was only wolfs!”
“Confound you! can’t you say what it is?”
“Eet’s de—it ain’t safe for told its name out loud, for dass de way it
come—if it’s call by its name!”
“Windego, eh?” said Tom, laughing.
“I’ll know its track jus’ as quick’s I see it.”
“Do you mean you have seen a Windego track?”
“_Monjee_, seh, _don’t_ say its name! Let us go back,” said Jawnny.
“Baptiste was at Madores’ shanty with us when it took Hermidas Dubois.”
“Yesseh. That’s de way I’ll come for know de track soon’s I see it,”
said Baptiste. “Before den I mos’ don’ b’lieve dere was any of it. But
ain’t it take Hermidas Dubois only last New Year’s?”
“That was all nonsense about Dubois. I’ll bet it was a joke to scare
“Who’s kill a man for a joke?” said Baptiste.
“Did you see Hermidas Dubois killed? Did you see him dead? No! I
heard all about it. All you know is that he went away on New Year’s
morning, when the rest of the men were too scared to leave the shanty,
because some one said there was a Windego track outside.”
“Hermidas never come back!”
“I’ll bet he went away home. You’ll find him at Saint Agathe in the
spring. You can’t be such fools as to believe in Windegos.”
“Don’t you say dat name some more!” yelled Big Baptiste, now fierce with
fright. “Hain’t I just seen de track? I’m go’n’ back, me, if I don’t
get a copper of pay for de whole winter!”
“Wait a little now, Baptiste,” said Tom, alarmed lest his party should
desert him and the job. “I’ll soon find out what’s at the bottom of the
“Dere is blood at de bottom—I seen it!” said Baptiste.
“Well, you wait till _I_ go and see it.”
“No! I go back, me,” said Baptiste, and started up the slope with the
others at his heels.
“Halt! Stop there! Halt, you fools! Don’t you understand that if
there was any such monster it would as easily catch you in one place as
The men went on. Tom took another tone.
“Boys, look here! I say, are you going to desert me like cowards?”
“Hain’t goin’ for desert you, Mr. Tom, no seh!” said Baptiste, halting.
“Honly I’ll hain’ go for cross de track.” They all faced round.
Tom was acquainted with a considerable number of Windego superstitions.
“There’s no danger unless it’s a fresh track,” he said. “Perhaps it’s
an old one.”
“Fresh made dis mornin’,” said Baptiste.
“Well, wait till I go and see it. You’re all right, you know, if you
don’t cross it. Isn’t that the idea?”
“No, seh. Mr. Humphreys told Madore ’bout dat. Eef somebody cross de
track and don’t never come back, _den_ de magic ain’t in de track no
more. But it’s watchin’, watchin’ all round to catch somebody what
cross its track; and if nobody don’t cross its track and get catched,
den de—de _Ting_ mebby get crazy mad, and nobody don’ know what it’s
goin’ for do. Kill every person, mebby.”
Tom mused over this information. These men had all been in Madore’s
shanty; Madore was under Red Dick Humphreys; Red Dick was Rory
Carmichael’s head foreman; he had sworn to stop the survey by hook or by
crook, and this vow had been made after Tom had hired his gang from
among those scared away from Madore’s shanty. Tom thought he began to
understand the situation.
“Just wait a bit, boys,” he said, and started.
“You ain’t surely go’n’ for cross de track?” cried Baptiste.
“Not now, anyway,” said Tom. “But wait till I see it.”
When he reached the mysterious track it surprised him so greatly that he
easily forgave Baptiste’s fears.
If a giant having ill-shaped feet as long as Tom’s snow-shoes had passed
by in moccasins, the main features of the indentations might have been
produced. But the marks were no deeper in the snow than if the huge
moccasins had been worn by an ordinary man. They were about five and a
half feet apart from centres, a stride that no human legs could take at
a walking pace.
Moreover, there were on the snow none of the dragging marks of striding;
the gigantic feet had apparently been lifted straight up clear of the
snow, and put straight down.
Strangest of all, at the front of each print were five narrow holes
which suggested that the mysterious creature had travelled with bare,
claw-like toes. An irregular drip or squirt of blood went along the
middle of the indentations! Nevertheless, the whole thing seemed of
This track, Tom reflected, was consistent with the Indian superstition
that Windegos are monsters who take on or relinquish the human form, and
vary their size at pleasure. He perceived that he must bring the maker
of those tracks promptly to book, or suffer his men to desert the
survey, and cost him his whole winter’s work, besides making him a
laughing-stock in the settlements.
The young fellow made his decision instantly. After feeling for his
match-box and sheath-knife, he took his hatchet from his sash, and
called to the men.
“Go into camp and wait for me!”
Then he set off alongside of the mysterious track at his best pace. It
came out of a tangle of alders to the west, and went into such another
tangle about a quarter of a mile to the east. Tom went east. The men
watched him with horror.
“He’s got crazy, looking at de track,” said Big Baptiste, “for that’s
the way,—one is enchanted,—he must follow.”
“He was a good boss,” said Jawnny, sadly.
As the young fellow disappeared in the alders the men looked at one
another with a certain shame. Not a sound except the sough of pines
from the neighboring forest was heard. Though the sun was sinking in
clear blue, the aspect of the wilderness, gray and white and severe,
touched the impressionable men with deeper melancholy. They felt
lonely, masterless, mean.
“He was a good boss,” said Jawnny again.
“_Tort Dieu!_” cried Baptiste, leaping to his feet. “It’s a shame for
desert the young boss. I don’t care; the Windego can only kill me. I’m
going for help Mr. Tom.”
“Me also,” said Jawnny.
Then all wished to go. But after some parley it was agreed that the
others should wait for the portageurs, who were likely to be two miles
behind, and make camp for the night.
Soon Baptiste and Jawnny, each with his axe, started diagonally across
the swale, and entered the alders on Tom’s track.
It took them twenty yards through the alders, to the edge of a warm
spring or marsh about fifty yards wide. This open, shallow water was
completely encircled by alders that came down to its very edge. Tom’s
snow-shoe track joined the track of the mysterious monster for the first
time on the edge—and there both vanished!
[Illustration: BAPTISTE AND JAWNNY LOOKED AT THE PLACE IN THE WILDEST
Baptiste and Jawnny looked at the place with the wildest terror, and
without even thinking to search the deeply indented opposite edges of
the little pool for a reappearance of the tracks, fled back to the
party. It was just as Red Dick Humphreys had said; just as they had
always heard. Tom, like Hermidas Dubois, appeared to have vanished from
existence the moment he stepped on the Windego track!
The dimness of early evening was in the red-pine forest through which
Tom’s party had passed early in the afternoon, and the belated
portageurs were tramping along the line. A man with a red head had been
long crouching in some cedar bushes to the east of the “blazed” cutting.
When he had watched the portageurs pass out of sight, he stepped over
upon their track, and followed it a short distance.
A few minutes later a young fellow, over six feet high, who strongly
resembled Tom Dunscombe, followed the red-headed man.
The stranger, suddenly catching sight of a flame far away ahead on the
edge of the beaver meadow, stopped and fairly hugged himself.
“Camped, by jiminy! I knowed I’d fetch ’em,” was the only remark he
“I wish Big Baptiste could see that Windego laugh,” thought Tom
Dunscombe, concealed behind a tree.
After reflecting a few moments, the red-headed man, a wiry little
fellow, went forward till he came to where an old pine had recently
fallen across the track. There he kicked off his snow-shoes, picked
them up, ran along the trunk, jumped into the snow from among the
branches, put on his snow-shoes, and started northwestward. His new
track could not be seen from the survey line.
But Tom had beheld and understood the purpose of the manoeuvre. He made
straight for the head of the fallen tree, got on the stranger’s tracks
and cautiously followed them, keeping far enough behind to be out of
hearing or sight.
The red-headed stranger went toward the wood out of which the mysterious
track of the morning had come. When he had reached the little
brush-camp in which he had slept the previous night, he made a small
fire, put a small tin pot on it, boiled some tea, broiled a venison
steak, ate his supper, had several good laughs, took a long smoke,
rolled himself round and round in his blanket, and went to sleep.
Hours passed before Tom ventured to crawl forward and peer into the
brush camp. The red-headed man was lying on his face, as is the custom
of many woodsmen. His capuchin cap covered his red head.
Tom Dunscombe took off his own long sash. When the red-headed man woke
up he found that some one was on his back, holding his head firmly down.
Unable to extricate his arms or legs from his blankets, the red-headed
man began to utter fearful threats. Tom said not one word, but
diligently wound his sash round his prisoner’s head, shoulders, and
He then rose, took the red-headed man’s own “tump-line,” a leather strap
about twelve feet long, which tapered from the middle to both ends, tied
this firmly round the angry live mummy, and left him lying on his face.
Then, collecting his prisoner’s axe, snowshoes, provisions, and tin
pail, Tom started with them back along the Windego track for camp.
Big Baptiste and his comrades had supped too full of fears to go to
sleep. They had built an enormous fire, because Windegos are reported,
in Indian circles, to share with wild beasts the dread of flames and
brands. Tom stole quietly to within fifty yards of the camp, and
suddenly shouted in unearthly fashion. The men sprang up, quaking.
“It’s the Windego!” screamed Jawnny.
“You silly fools!” said Tom, coming forward. “Don’t you know my voice?
Am I a Windego?”
“It’s the Windego, for sure; it’s took the shape of Mr. Tom, after
eatin’ him,” cried Big Baptiste.
Tom laughed so uproariously at this that the other men scouted the idea,
though it was quite in keeping with their information concerning
Then Tom came in and gave a full and particular account of the Windego’s
pursuit, capture, and present predicament.
“But how’d he make de track?” they asked.
“He had two big old snow-shoes, stuffed with spruce tips underneath, and
covered with dressed deerskin. He had cut off the back ends of them.
You shall see them to-morrow. I found them down yonder where he had left
them after crossing the warm spring. He had five bits of sharp round
wood going down in front of them. He must have stood on them one after
the other, and lifted the back one every time with the pole he carried.
I’ve got that, too. The blood was from a deer he had run down and
killed in the snow. He carried the blood in his tin pail, and sprinkled
it behind him. He must have run out our line long ago with a compass,
so he knew where it would go. But come, let us go and see if it’s Red
Red Dick proved to be the prisoner. He had become quite philosophic
while waiting for his captor to come back. When unbound he grinned
pleasantly, and remarked:
“You’re Mr. Dunscombe, eh? Well, you’re a smart young feller, Mr.
Dunscombe. There ain’t another man on the Ottaway that could ’a’ done
that trick on me. Old Dan McEachran will make your fortun’ for this,
and I don’t begrudge it. You’re a man—that’s so. If ever I hear any
feller saying to the contrayry he’s got to lick Red Dick Humphreys.”
And he told them the particulars of his practical joke in making a
Windego track round Madore’s shanty.
“Hermidas Dubois?—oh, he’s all right,” said Red Dick. “He’s at home at
St. Agathe. Man, he helped me to fix up that Windego track at Madore’s;
but, by criminy! the look of it scared him so he wouldn’t cross it
himself. It was a holy terror!”