Forest World (9 page)

The older man said nothing. He only nodded grimly.

P
ETER WAS SCOUTING THROUGH the forest, staying on the trails when he thought he might be seen by any other human being at large in the preserve, breaking through thickets to stalk along wild paths when he could be neither seen nor heard.

For a long time he found nothing. Then a squadron of crows gathered somewhere close by in the brush, cawing and flapping their wings.

Peter turned toward where the sound came from.
At his approach the crows flew off, leaving behind the remains of a deer. This, Peter could tell, was where the poachers had cut up the prey. But where had the roe been killed? Peter's expert eyes made out a man's footprints, alternately deep and shallow in the soft ground.

He followed them. Now he could see marks in the drying grass where the garrotted roe had been dragged along.

So the criminal had not cut and divided the body where he had snared his victim. “A cunning fellow!” thought Peter in disgust.

It was easy to follow the trail; fur caught here and there on the branches of low bushes showed the way. Peter came to a crossing of two wide paths made by stags and does. Peter knew, for trails made by hares and other small animals are thin as threads.

“And,” he thought to himself, “that fellow knows too.” He came to a spot where the earth had been dug up and the bushes trampled down—the spot on which the roe's death struggle had been played out.

Peter had learned enough for one day. He went
home by a roundabout route. “Scoundrels are at work, that's sure,” he muttered. “But—one, or two?”

When he told Martin what he had discovered rage drove color into the hunchback's face. He whispered hoarsely, “I'll help you find out!”

Peter objected. “I'd rather you didn't do anything, sir—take your usual walk, follow your regular trails. That'll be less likely to cause suspicion.”

“But I want to—”

Peter broke in. “You understand, sir, that catching the fellow now is the most difficult thing. Only one of us can do it. Leave everything to me, won't you, please?”

Martin looked helplessly into Peter's determined face. But he knew Peter was right, and thereafter the older man continued his stalking expeditions day after day alone.

For days he found nothing—no snares, no traps. Every evening Martin asked for results, but Peter only shook his head.

He had seen more than enough in the way of evidence: the roe's remains, the dragging trail, the prints of boots, the place on the roe trail where the trapped
animal jerked itself to death. Proof upon proof of evil. But he could not find the evil-doer.

Then, after two days more of wasted time, Peter found a snare in the midst of a thicket. It hung barely a hand's breadth above the ground.

“This is for a hare,” he said to himself.

With the utmost care he avoided leaving any trace of his own presence. But here and there he broke a thin twig so that it swung loosely. He marked the way by sticking a dry branch with a few wilted leaves into the ground in an inconspicuous spot.

He decided this was the place to watch if he were going to surprise the poacher. But he mustn't come too close, or he might defeat his own purpose. As long as no hare dangled in the snare the poacher would not crawl into the bush. If caught outside, he could say he had only been taking a walk, although walking here in the preserve was prohibited to strangers.

Another two days Peter visited the snare, but with no results. On the third day he observed a quaking of the bushes around the snare. A hare must have
been caught and was struggling to free himself.

“Poor little fellow,” he thought, “how gladly I'd help you! But I can't. You must die so that the lives of many other creatures may be saved.”

He tested his flashlight, loaded one barrel of his shotgun with buckshot and crawled close to the snare.

The hare was struggling wildly, violently, with desperate leaps into the air which only trussed him tighter. Finally his efforts grew weaker and weaker.

“Shameful torture,” thought Peter, who was himself suffering with the trapped creature.

*  *  *

With the coming of twilight the hare was still. “It's all over, poor fellow,” thought Peter.

The twilight slid into night and soon the half-moon shone palely from the sky.

Stealthily someone moved nearby. Almost with admiration Peter noted how cleverly the fellow slithered through the thicket. Now he must be with his victim. . . . Now he would have his booty. . . . Now he was getting away!

Peter leaped out to bar his path, snapping on his flashlight. The man gave a cry.

“Stop!” Peter gasped, breathless with anger.

He saw the hare fall from the poacher's hands.

“Stop or I'll shoot!” Peter swung the gun barrel lower. “Not a step!” he warned.

With difficulty he repressed his rage. Now that he had caught the miscreant, he wanted to deal with him coolly. He ordered: “Pick up the hare.”

The fellow obeyed fumblingly.

Peter threw the flashlight beam into his face.

The man was in his middle years, pale as a corpse, the picture of cringing fear. He fell to his knees. “Have mercy! This is the first time I've—”

Peter kicked at him scornfully. “Get up!” After taking the hare, he tied the man's hands. “Now get along!”

The man whined. “Don't lead me like this, tied up like a criminal!”

“You're worse than a criminal! Move on!” Peter jabbed the shotgun barrel into the small of the fellow's back.

Reaching the Forest Lodge with his captive, he reported: “Caught in the act!”

Martin and Babette, silent and shocked, looked at the strangled hare and at the prisoner.

“I'm taking him to the police,” Peter declared.

The poacher let out a cry and looked appealingly to Martin. But the little humpback, staring at the dead hare, shook his head and turned away.

T
HE DEER JOINED TOGETHER AND moved about in herds. Forgotten now was every battle—all competition, envy, anger, humiliating defeat or proud victory. For the time of mating, so recently over, no longer lived in the memory of the stags.

Peace came again to those with the high crowns. The gentleness of their natures asserted itself. They bedded down close together; they marched through the forest and appeared together at the feeding places. They did not quarrel.

Now there was no difference between the strong and the weak; only a willing recognition of the elder by the younger.

The youngest and the weakest moved in the lead. Behind them came the stags of middle strength, and finally the very strong. This was not a matter of rank, but a mysterious age-old measure of strategy by which the weak were sacrificed to protect the ablest.

Now in winter they still had their crowns. Tambo, though he showed only twelve points, paced along at the rear, while others, ahead, carried crowns with fourteen, even sixteen points. Yet this order was fair, for Tambo was obviously superior, not only by the might of his horns, but by the power of his body. No other stag could compare with him.

Most of the birds had long since fallen mute. Many had sought southern lands where there was neither snow nor cold, where sunshine always gave warmth and nourishment.

The blackbirds, ill-humored and with ruffled feathers, crouched hardly visible on tree branches, or hacked at
snow-free spots on the ground for something, anything, to eat.

The pheasants sat still on their sleeping-trees. After awaking late they swung down to the ground and let out a cackling, more muted than usual and sounding like a poor attempt to crow. They minced to places under the house eaves where He had strewn buckwheat for them. Only the magpies chattered now and then, not so talkative as usual, but never quite silent.

The many crows cawed loudly as they flew eagerly about, spying about for dead and dying forest residents. Screeching, they gathered around some victim to gobble their meal while they quarreled noisily.

Completely silent, commanding in their dignity, the stags proceeded through the forest. They paid no attention at all to the does, just as if there had never been ardent wooing or fierce fighting over them.

A few paces behind Tambo, Debina followed the stags. This young doe constantly kept close to the crown-bearers, standing modestly beside them in the hay fields where clover, chestnuts and burgundy turnips grew
enticingly. The stags endured Debina's presence as if she weren't there.

A day came when Tambo felt that itching on his head which he dimly recalled from previous years. His twelve-pointed crown began to feel heavy—strange and lifeless as if it did not belong to him at all. He grew nervous. Deliberately he hit the crown against strong branches. It withstood the shock. Nevertheless his nervousness increased. He felt feverish and queerly impatient.

He did not bump his crown against a tree again, but suddenly, after days and days, its roots dissolved in a few minutes and it tumbled down into the snow.

With a quick feeling of freedom Tambo lifted his head. From the pores of the two smooth, iron-colored plates on which the crown had rested, tiny drops of blood seeped out.

But Tambo knew nothing of that. He felt no pain. Presently, though, the frosty air blew across both plates and made him realize his baldness. Humiliating shame raged within him. At once he left the herd. He wandered
lonely from now on, wanting to hide and not be seen by anyone.

But Debina remained on his trail tirelessly.

Still Tambo ignored her until she followed him into the thickest underbrush. He faced her suddenly. “What do you want?”

Debina hesitated, embarrassed, and said softly, “Nothing . . .”

“Why are you always around me?”

She dropped her young and beautiful head. “I don't know.”

“Then go away. I want to be alone.”

She looked into his eyes. “Let me do as I've been doing. I won't disturb you.”

In a whisper, Tambo asked, “Did you belong to one of us? To me?”

“Oh, no!” She shuddered. “I was still too young. I escaped . . .”

“You won't find love anywhere now,” he said gently.

Debina shook her head. “It's not that kind of love I want.”

A little touched, he said, “Now I'm not crowned anymore. I'm just like all the others.”

Timidly Debina took a tiny step toward him.

“You're not like the others. You are—” She paused. “It makes me happy just to see you—to be with you.”

Tambo, falling mute, turned away and stepped very slowly through the leafless thicket. Just as slowly she followed him. They did not talk to each other. But Debina followed her chosen one, humbly, silently, faithfully, that day and for many days.

Tambo found himself growing strangely used to her. He became restless when he could not see her. And this time his period of baldness seemed less bothersome. Still his comradeship with Debina showed only in her constant presence, and in no other way at all.