Читать книгу Chip, the Dam Builder - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

Table of Contents

It was still black night when Chip, the wise old leader of the beaver colony, became uneasy. He did not know why. There was nothing to support his feeling of danger. The beaver knew only that something was not as it should be.

Old Chip swam to the end of the pond which he ruled. It was a big pond, backed by a mud-stick-stone dam that extended almost five hundred feet from end to end. Dimly Chip remembered the time when it had been less than half as big, and there had been only two lodges. Now there were six, inhabited by thirty-one beaver that ranged from five-pound kits to the seventy-pound Chip. And there was still enough aspen growth on the hills around the pond to support the big beaver colony.

Chip dived, swam beneath the surface for a long way, and when he finally broke water he did so with scarcely a telltale ripple. A faint spear of daylight was just beginning to pierce the heavy shroud of darkness overhanging the valley. Chip remained where he had come to the surface, treading water just hard enough to maintain his position.

His eyes and nostrils were above the water, and his broad, flat tail floated, but his back was submerged. His purpose was to see without being seen while he studied the wilderness signs.

Chip lacked any mechanical way of telling time, but he did not need one. He had his own ways. Every morning, at daybreak, the pair of flickers in the big stub at one side of the pond shattered the silence with their strident morning call. The warblers in the willow brush waited another hour, until the sun's warmth was more comfortable. Still later, but almost at the same time each day, a kingfisher rattled over the pond and dropped upon any fish unwary enough to come near the surface. Now, as Chip silently waited, he watched for something else.

For almost two weeks, ever since the warming sun had finally melted the sheathing of ice that had kept the beavers locked in all winter long, a buck had been drinking from the pond. He came twice a day, at dawn and again at dusk, and he was never more than a few seconds early or late. Chip waited because the buck might tell him something he needed to know.

The old beaver turned, rippling the water only faintly as he did so. Then he resumed his original position. His head was a little more tense, a bit higher, for he was becoming more anxious. It was past time for the buck to appear. Chip swung about and swam to the other end of the pond. He made a wide circle in the water and checked the exact location of every pond mate.

Except for two that were inspecting the dam for leaks, the older members of the colony were varying distances up on the banks. Since early December there had been no break in the two feet of ice that locked the pond in impenetrable armor. No enemy had been able to get at the beaver, but neither had they been able to get out. Their only food had been what they had stored the previous summer. Throughout the long winter this stored food had grown old and tasteless, so that now every member of the colony was eager for the new, sap-filled green food which came to life with the spring sun.

Having located his followers, Chip hesitated. Then he swam back toward the place where the buck should appear. He felt a strong premonition of danger, but none had appeared. He must give no false warnings. Before he alarmed the rest, and bade them seek the safety of the pond, he himself must know what threatened them.

Five minutes after he had resumed his post, the buck appeared. He still wore his gray winter coat but it was shaggy and ragged where winter hair was shedding. Watching, Chip's nervousness increased.

The buck was an old and wise one, a creature that had survived for many years because he never relaxed. Now his caution had increased. Always before, when he came to drink, he did so slowly, stopping to look and test the winds every few yards. Now he came even more slowly, and stopped more frequently. When he reached the edge of the water, the buck did not drink at once. Instead he stood with his head up, long ears flicking from side to side as he strove to catch both scent and sound.

Chip made a sudden turn, sending a little wavelet rippling toward the bank. As he did so, the buck gave a nervous leap that carried him five feet up the bank. As cautiously as he had come, he faded back into the forest. Chip rose in the water so that his back broke the surface, and looked toward the places where his pond mates were scattered.

There was still no reason to warn them, though danger was surely near. But at present there was no way either to find or to identify it. Chip swam toward the upper end of the pond.

Before the beaver came, the creek had been relatively small, perhaps twenty feet at its widest and with neither flood stages nor summer-low levels because the surrounding forest controlled the water that flowed into it. The dam had created a miniature lake in the wilderness, at its widest along the dam itself. Toward the upper end of the pond, and below the smaller, feeder dams, the creek narrowed until it was scarcely wider than its original channel. It was, however, deeper, and on either bank were scooped holes where an imperilled beaver could hide from enemies. Chip swam slowly when he approached the upper end, and kept near the bank so that, if he must, he could dive to immediate safety.

For a full two minutes, while the day brightened fast, Chip lingered near one of the safety holes. When he left it he did so slowly. Nothing happened, but still he did not relax. He neared a smaller dam, built across the creek for the purpose of backing water into the aspens. Before he climbed the well-trodden path that led up the face of this feeder dam, he watched it for a full five minutes.

When he climbed, he went swiftly. As soon as he came to the top of the feeder dam, he plunged into the water on the other side. When he was again in the water he felt more at ease, but his sense of imminent danger suddenly increased.

Chip was patriarch of his colony, and as such it was his duty to be sure that all was well at all times. Early last evening, when everything was still serene, he had visited all feeder dams, and found nothing wrong. Now a quantity of assorted debris, beaver-chewed sticks and twigs, floated against this creek-blocking dam. A faint trace of mud stained the pond he was in.

There was no sign of flood stage on the creek; save for the sticks and muddy water, there was no sign of anything. But the chewed sticks floating against the dam meant that all was not well upstream. Chip knew that there were other beaver dams there, for from time to time he had journeyed upstream to see them. No beaver abandoned so many of their sticks willingly.

They ate the bark, and when they had eaten they built the stripped sticks into their dams or houses. Chip tried to fathom the meaning of this influx of debris, and the significance of the roily water, but there was nothing about that would tell him.

He made an exploratory trip around the upper pond, examining every inch of the dam and the banks that held it in. A brown mink with a snaky head arched its back like a cat, spat at him, and backed into a hole. The mink remained there, purring low in its throat and threatening the beaver.

Chip swam unconcernedly on. He was too big and old to have any fear of mink, though sometimes they successfully attacked and killed young beaver kits when their parents were not near enough to defend them. When Chip came near, the mink spat a final outraged squawk and bounded up the bank. He fled out of sight, his tail fluffed to twice its normal size and every hair bristled. Chip paid no attention whatever.

There were feeder dams on either side of this one, and some in the flats above, but no more across the creek. The side dams caught water that escaped from many little springs that flowed out of the mountain, controlled the flow, and backed water around aspens. Many of the dams were connected by laboriously dug canals which made it easier to move sticks and poles from one to another. Chip made no attempt to enter any of them. The sticks and the muddy water had come from upstream. Something had happened there.

The stream, a mountain creek full of riffles and small pools, had cleared itself and only the pond was still roily. Chip swam a little way up the stream, but when he came to the first riffle he turned and went back. Daylight was well advanced and anything that cared to look could see both the pond and anything in it. It was a dangerous time for beaver who ventured too far from the safety of their ponds, or from water in which they could submerge, and if Chip attempted to go over the riffles he would have to expose himself completely.

He turned and swam toward the main pond. When he came to the feeder dam he hesitated until he was certain that no danger lingered in the immediate vicinity, then went over. He had seen nothing while climbing and he saw nothing now, but as soon as he was again in the water he submerged and swam swiftly along the pond's muddy bottom. A wise beaver never depended entirely on his own senses. There was always a possibility of some lurking peril. Lynx, bears, wolves, cougars, and coyotes came to the pond to see if they could catch a beaver and all of them were good hunters.

Chip surfaced in the center of the pond and again scouted the location of his mates. Daylight was advanced so far that the pond and everything about it was revealed in dim, gray shadow. It was a dangerous time for land-faring beaver, but some were still up on the banks enjoying the delicious new spring food. All the wiser members of the colony had come back near the water and some were already in it. A small beaver with a peeled stick in his mouth swam down to the dam and began to build his stick into it.

Far up the bank, an almost black beaver was still felling a tree. Much nearer the water, a kit chewed cautiously on an aspen twig. Chip watched both, knowing them for what they were. Ebony, the black beaver, was a careless fool who at the same time had been blessed with much more than his share of blind luck. He had had more narrow escapes, and was in trouble oftener, than any other beaver in the colony.

The kit was smart, too alert and intelligent to get very far from water when the day was this far advanced. Young as he was, he was not nearly as careless as his much older cousin up on the bank. Even as Chip watched, the black beaver had another of his miraculous escapes.

There was no visible indication of any danger up on the bank, but suddenly a lynx detached himself from a patch of frozen grass and sprang toward Ebony. Exactly at that time, by sheer coincidence, the tree the beaver was felling toppled directly on the lynx. In panicky haste Ebony scuttled down the slope and leaped into the water.

Up on the slope, the pinned lynx screamed his rage as he wriggled free. Claws spread like a house cat's, bristled, he leaped toward the pond. But now there was nothing for him to catch.

Old Chip had acted the instant he saw the lynx. Arching his body, he curled his flat tail and snapped it down on the water with a report like a rifle shot. At this danger signal every inhabitant of the pond sought safety in the water. Some submerged at once, diving into underwater passages that led to their lodges. A few of the older and more experienced joined Chip in the center of the pond. These were the beaver who knew everything about their way of life and were able to meet any situation. Sleek, Chip's mate, was one of them, and there were Broken-Tooth and Peg. A three-legged beaver, Peg had long ago left his left front paw in a beaver trap. But he had learned how to overcome this handicap, and now could swim and dive with the most expert.

These four veterans watched the enraged lynx come down to the edge of the pond and rear with his front paws on a mossy log. He blinked his big eyes at the swimming beaver. They did not flinch. Unless it were desperately hungry, on the point of near-starvation, a lynx would not enter the water, and the beaver knew it.

After five minutes, waving defiance with his stub tail, the lynx walked back into the aspen forest. Chip swam cautiously toward the bank, then backed out into the water again. The lynx was gone and nothing else was in sight, but the old beaver remained uneasy. In his age and wisdom he had learned to piece together all the signs, all the things that might pass unnoticed by a beaver with less experience. He knew that something more than the lynx still threatened, and was all the more worried because he could not identify it. All he could do was to remain constantly watchful.

Broken-Tooth, Peg, and Sleek went down for a final morning inspection of the dam. Chip returned to the upper end of the pond and swam back, uncertain as to what course he should now take. He did not bother inspecting the dam. The three beaver that had already looked it over knew what they were doing. One by one the three submerged, and swam into their respective lodges. Chip made one last nervous tour of the pond.

Then he made a long, clean dive that took him under water and into the hollowed-out channel that led to the lodge which he shared with Sleek and their kits of the year before. His webbed hind paws were extended straight behind him, and his fore paws were folded along his chest. Chip carried himself along by the sheer strength and power he had put into his dive. Only when he was near the lodge's entrance did he use his hind feet to push himself along, and when he came to the above-water compartment he pulled himself up with his front paws.

Sleek stopped combing her wet fur and came forward to sniff noses with him. Huddled in a pile, like careless puppies, the four well-fed kits slept peacefully. Chip caressed Sleek with his tongue, then fell to combing his own fur. He lay down in front of the roomy lodge's entrance tunnel and slept for an hour.

He could sleep no longer than that because of the nagging unrest within him. The kits merely raised their heads and blinked at him when he rose, but Sleek stared questioningly. Chip listened, as though for some sign or signal. He could see or hear nothing, but he was not reassured. The buck had been uneasy when he came to drink. Sticks that should not have been there had been bumping against the feeder dam, and the water had been stained with a trace of mud. None of this was normal or usual.

Chip slipped out of the tunnel into the water. He rose beneath a ragged stump that trailed gnarled roots in all directions. From here he could see without being seen.

The warblers in the brush beside the dam were flitting about their usual business, and a brightly painted oriole spilled liquid music into the sun-drenched day. A trio of flapping crows winged lazily overhead.

There was nothing else about, but there should have been. A lithe doe had been lingering near the pond ever since she had left the white cedar swamp in which she had spent the winter. The doe was heavy with fawn, and she had chosen a thicket not far from the pond as an ideal nursery. Usually the doe loafed throughout the day where she could easily reach rich grass that grew around the pond, but now she was nowhere in sight. Then Chip saw the geese.

Ever since the beaver could remember, the same pair of wild geese had nested in some tules at the far side of the pond. Now, as he watched, the pair glided out of the sky onto the water. For a moment they bobbed and curtsied before each other, curling their long necks. Then the gander started a querulous complaint.

Followed by his mate, he swam nervously about. He raised in the water and fluttered his wings, while his white-throated head turned continuously on his long snake-like neck. The geese, creatures of delicate perception, had also sensed that something was not as it should be. Like Chip, they were unable to find or to identify the menace. But they did not take flight.

Chip returned to Sleek and the sleeping kits, and briefly sniffed noses with his mate. The unquiet, the sense of impending peril, had afflicted her, too. Sleek kept her eyes on Chip while he looked about every square inch of their home.

It was mid-afternoon before he went out again, and when he did the geese were still swimming nervously about the center of the pond. As soon as Chip's head broke the surface, they started a nervous honking and half-flew toward the other side. The geese began to swim around and around each other, snaking their heads and hissing while they tried to decide what to do. As though they had suddenly made up their minds, they flapped across the pond and into the air. They spiralled upward, crying protests because they no longer dared stay in the place which had been their home for so long.

Chip did not go back into the lodge. With twilight, Peg and Broken-Tooth appeared to swim beside him. Then Sleek and the kits came out of their lodge. The beaver colony gathered, but only Ebony went up on the bank to eat fresh aspen bark. The night deepened. Twenty minutes later Chip received his first positive danger signal.

It was far-off but very plain, a heavy shuffling accompanied by much crackling of brush. Something slow and clumsy was coming toward the dam. Broken-Tooth swam tensely around Chip, awaiting the danger signal. When it did not come, Broken-Tooth slapped the water with his own tail. Beaver dived toward their lodges, or swam about in bewilderment. With Sleek following, and their kits strung out behind them, Chip swam away from the dam. Ebony stubbornly refused to come into the pond.

The approaching men, five of them, went to the dam and arranged themselves along it. A moment's silence followed. Then dazzling light, the combined power from five battery-powered searchlights, illumined the pond. Frightened at last, the black beaver started down the slope toward the water, and the snap-snap of exploding .22 rifles followed. True to his luck, Ebony came through a hail of lead and sprang into the water.

Chip dived, but not before he heard and saw pellets striking the water all around him and knew that two kits had stopped swimming to float limply. Hoping Sleek would follow, Chip went deep into the water.

There was a sudden, violent shock that seemed to jar the pond. An orange-red flash, for the briefest part of a second, dimmed even the spotlights. Dazed, but instinctively fighting, Chip floated to the surface.

Again he was aware of the snapping .22's. Swimming beside him, Peg's mate stiffened convulsively. Chip did not know where Sleek was, or anything save that he could not resist the rush of water carrying him toward the hole dynamited in the dam. Calling on his last reserves of strength, the old beaver dived again.

He gave all his power and attention to remaining submerged. He swept through the hole, missing by inches the net spread over it, and was hurled into the snarling flood downstream.