Part 17 (2/2)

”Sure! youse never heerd of it before?” he asked in surprise. ”Dryin' a gun with hot water 's safest way to keep her from rustin'; carries out all th' old water hangin' round her insides 'n' makes her so d.a.m.ned hot Mr. Rust don't even have time to throw up a lean-to 'n' get to eatin' of her 'fore the new water's all gone; 'n' Mr. Rust can't get to eat none 'thout water, no more'n a deer can stay out of a salt lick, or Erne Moore can keep away from the _habitaw_ gals, or t.i.t Moody can get his own consent to stop his tongue waggin' off tales 'bout how women winks down t' Tupper Lake--when _he's_ rowin' 'em.”

”Shouldn't think such a little water as you have used would make the gun hot enough to dry it out,” I suggested.

”Hot! Won't make her hot! Why, she's hotter now 'n' billy Buell got last October when that loony _habitaw_ cook o' ourn made up all our marmalade and currant jelly into pies that looked 'n' bit 'n' tasted like wagon dope wropt in tough brown paper; hot! 's hot this minute 's Elise Lievre's woman got last Spring when she heerd o' him a-sittin' up t' a Otter Lake squaw. Why, say! youse couldn't no more keep a gun from rustin' in this wet bush 'thout hot water than Warry Hilliams can kill anything goin' faster than three-legged deer.

”Rust! Youse might 'a well try to catch a _habitaw_ goin' to a weddin'

'thout more ribbons on his bridle 'n' harness than his gal has on her gown 's hunt for rust in a hot-watered gun!”

Catching a hint of a yarn, I asked if there were many three-legged deer in the bush.

”W'an't but one ever, far 's I know,” he replied. ”'N' almighty lucky it was for Warry that one come a-limpin' along his way, for it give him th'

only chance he'll probably ever have to say he got to shoot a deer.

”Warry? Why he's jest the best ever happened--'t least the best ever happened 'round this end o' the bush. Lives down to----; better not tell you right where he lives, for I stirred up th' letters in his name, so 'f any of his friends heerd you tell th' story they won't know it's on _him_; fer he's jest that good I'd rather hurt anybody, 'cept my woman or bird, than hurt him.

”Warry! Why, with a rod 'n' line 'n' reel, whether it's with flies, spoons, or minnows, castin' or trollin', or spearin' or nettin', Warry's th' _ex_pertest fish-catcher that ever waded the rapids or paddled th'

lakes o' this old Province o' Quebec. But it's gettin' a _leetle_ hard for Warry late years--fish 's come to know him so well that after he's made a few casts 'n' hooked one or two that's got away, they know his tricks so well they just pa.s.ses the word 'round, 'n' it's 'pike' for th'

pike, 'beat it' for th' ba.s.s, 'trot' for th' trout, 'n' 'skip' for the salmon, until now, after th' first day or two, 'bout all Warry can get in reach of 's mud turtles.

”'N'd that's what comes o' knowin' too much and gettin' too _d.a.m.ned_ smart--n.o.body or nothin' left to play with! Warry? Why, say, if he'd only knowed it thirty or forty years ago, Warry had th' chance to live 'n die with th' _re_pute o' bein' th' greatest sport specialist that ever busted through the Quebec bush--if he'd only jest kept to fis.h.i.+n'. But the h.e.l.l o' it is, Warry's always had a fool idee in his head he can hunt, 'n' he can't, can't sort o' begin to hunt! 'N' darned if I could ever quite figure out why, 'n' him so smart, 'nless because he goes poundin' through the bush like a bunch o' shantymen to their choppin', with his head stuck in his stummick, studyin' some new trick to play on a trout, makin' so much noise th' deer must nigh laugh theirselves to death at _him_ a-packin' o' a gun.

”Hunt? Warry? Does he hunt? Sure, every year for th' last thirty years to my knowledge--only that's all; he jest hunts, never kills nothin'.

Leastways he never did till three year ago, 'n' I ought t' know, for I always guides for him. Why, I mind one time he was stayin' over on the Kagama, he got so hungry for meat he up 'n' chunks 'n' kills 'n' cooks 'n' eats a porcupine, th' p'rmiscous shootin' o' which is forbid by Quebec law, 'cause they're so slow a feller can run 'em down 'n' get 'em with a stick or stone, 'n' don't need t' starve just 'cause he's got no gun.

”Three years ago he'd been up for the fly fis.h.i.+n' in late June 'n'

trollin' for gray trout in September, 'n then here he comes again th'

last week in October t' hunt. 'N' she was the same old story: nothing doing!

”I could set him on th' best runways, 'n' Erne 'n' me could dog th' bush till our tongues hung out 'n' we could hardly open our mouths 'thout barkin'; could run deer past him till it must 'a looked--if he'd had a loose look about him--like a Gracefield _habitaw_ weddin' pr'cession, 'n'

thar he'd set with his eyes fast on th' end o' his gun, I guess, a-waitin' for a sign of a _bite_ 'fore he'd jerk her up to try 'n' get somethin'. 'N' the queerest part was, he seemed to enjoy it just 's much 's if he'd brought down a three-hundred-pound buck to drag the wind out o' Erne 'n' me at th' end o' a tump-line. Most fellers 'd got mad 'n'

cussed their luck. But not him--kindest, sweetest-tempered man I ever knew. Guess he knowed we'd done our best 'n' had some kind o' secret inside information that he hadn't.

”O' course, sometimes Warry'd get his gun on, but by that time th' deer had quit th' runway 'n' was in th' lake up to their bellies pullin' lily pads, or curled up in th' long gra.s.s o' a swale fast asleep.

”But all fellers has a day sometime, if they lives long enough--though some o' them seems t' have t' get t' live a almighty long time t' get t'

see it. At last Warry's came.

”Erne 'n' me been d.o.g.g.i.n' a swamp where th' deadfall tangle was so thick we was so nigh stripped o' clothes we couldn't 'a gone t' camp if there'd been any women about. Drivin' toward where a runway crossed a neck 'tween two lakes, a neck so narrow two pike could scarce pa.s.s each other on it, there we'd sot Warry 't th' end o' th' neck. Jest 'fore we got t'

him we heard a shot, 'n' I remarked t' Erne, 'Guess th' old man thinks he's got a _bite_.' 'N' then we broke through a thick bunch o' spruce; 'n' we both nigh fell dead to see old Warry sawin' at th' throat o' a doe, tryin' to 'pear 's natural 's if he'd never done nothin' else but kill 'n' dress deer. Mebbe Erne 'n' me wan't pleased none th' old man had made a kill!

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