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Ungava Bob: A Winter's Tale

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Title: Ungava Bob: A Winter's Tale

Author: Dillon Wallace

Illustrator: Samuel M. Palmer


        
Release date: August 25, 2005 [eBook #16596]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

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      Much of the dialogue is dialect. The few spelling mistakes have
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Every Boy's Library--Boy Scout Edition

UNGAVA BOB

A Winter's Tale

by

DILLON WALLACE

Author of _The Lure of the Labrador Wild_

Illustrated by Samuel M. Palmer

New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

1907

Third Edition







[Illustration: Three of the men hauled, the other with a pole, kept
it clear of the rocks (_See page 45_)]




  _To My Sisters
  Annie and Jessie_




CONTENTS


I.      HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL"                        9

II.     OFF TO THE BUSH                               26

III.    AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR                      37

IV.     SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS                      50

V.      THE TRAILS ARE REACHED                        56

VI.     ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS                       68

VII.    A STREAK OF GOOD LUCK                         76

VIII.   MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE                         87

IX.     LOST IN THE SNOW                              96

X.      THE PENALTY                                  108

XI.     THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL                     115

XII.    IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES               129

XIII.   A FOREBODING OF EVIL                         140

XIV.    THE SHADOW OF DEATH                          153

XV.     IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN               171

XVI.    ONE OF THE TRIBE                             187

XVII.   STILL FARTHER NORTH                          199

XVIII.  A MISSION OF TRUST                           206

XIX.    AT THE MERCY OF THE WIND                     226

XX.     PRISONERS OF THE SEA                         240

XXI.    ADRIFT ON THE ICE                            254

XXII.   THE MAID OF THE NORTH                        269

XXIII.  THE HAND OF PROVIDENCE                       280

XXIV.   THE ESCAPE                                   290

XXV.    THE BREAK-UP                                 304

XXVI.   BACK AT WOLF BIGHT                           315

XXVII.  THE CRUISE TO ST. JOHN'S                     333

XXVIII. IN AFTER YEARS                               341




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                             FACING PAGE

THREE OF THE MEN HAULED, THE OTHER WITH
  A POLE, KEPT IT CLEAR OF THE ROCKS               Title

"BOB JUMPED OUT WITH THE PAINTER IN HIS HAND."        21

CHART OF THE TRAILS.                                  64

"MICMAC JOHN KNEW HIS END HAD COME."                 114

"IT WAS DANGEROUS WORK."                             173

"SAW HER STANDING IN THE BRIGHT MOONLIGHT."          197

"HE HELD THE VESSEL STEADILY TO HER COURSE."         298




UNGAVA BOB


I

HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL"


It was an evening in early September twenty years ago. The sun was
just setting in a radiance of glory behind the dark spruce forest that
hid the great unknown, unexplored Labrador wilderness which stretched
away a thousand miles to the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay and the
bleak desolation of Ungava. With their back to the forest and the
setting sun, drawn up in martial line stood the eight or ten
whitewashed log buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company Post, just as
they had stood for a hundred years, and just as they stand to-day,
looking out upon the wide waters of Eskimo Bay, which now, reflecting
the glow of the setting sun, shone red and sparkling like a sea of
rubies.

On a clearing to the eastward of the post between the woods and water
was an irregular cluster of deerskin wigwams, around which loitered
dark-hued Indians puffing quietly at their pipes, while Indian women
bent over kettles steaming at open fires, cooking the evening meal,
and little Indian boys with bows shot harmless arrows at soaring gulls
overhead, and laughed joyously at their sport as each arrow fell short
of its mark. Big wolf dogs skulked here and there, looking for bits of
refuse, snapping and snarling ill-temperedly at each other.

A group of stalwart, swarthy-faced men, dressed in the garb of
northern hunters--light-coloured moleskin trousers tucked into the
tops of long-legged sealskin moccasins, short jackets and peakless
caps--stood before the post kitchen or lounged upon the rough board
walk which extended the full length of the reservation in front of the
servants' quarters and storehouses. They were watching a small
sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in
before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant.
Finally some one spoke.

"'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt."

"Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob."

Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen,
where supper had been announced.

Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short,
stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin
tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty
years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave
his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an
erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of
importance.

The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones
and small, black, shifting eyes that were set very close together and
imparted to the man a look of craftiness and cunning. He was known as
"Micmac John," but said his real name was John Sharp. He had drifted
to the coast a couple of years before on a fishing schooner from
Newfoundland, whence he had come from Nova Scotia. From the coast he
had made his way the hundred and fifty miles to the head of Eskimo
Bay, and there took up the life of a trapper. Rumour had it that he
had committed murder at home and had run away to escape the penalty;
but this rumour was unverified, and there was no means of learning
the truth of it. Since his arrival here the hunters had lost, now and
again, martens and foxes from their traps, and it was whispered that
Micmac John was responsible for their disappearance. Nevertheless,
without any tangible evidence that he had stolen them, he was treated
with kindness, though he had made no real friends amongst the natives.

When the last of the men had closed the kitchen door behind him,
Micmac John approached Douglas, who had been standing somewhat apart,
evidently lost in his thoughts as he watched the approaching boat, and
asked:

"Have ye decided about the Big Hill trail, sir?"

"Yes, John."

"And am I to hunt it this year, sir?"

"No, John, I can't let ye have un. I told Bob Gray th' day I'd let him
hunt un. Bob's a smart lad, and I wants t' give he th' chance."

Micmac John cast a malicious glance at old Douglas. Then with an
assumed indifference, and shrug of his shoulders as he started to walk
away, remarked:

"All right if you've made yer mind up, but you'll be sorry fer it."

Douglas turned fiercely upon him.

"What mean you, man? Be that a threat? Speak now!"

"I make no threats, but boys can't hunt, and he'll bring ye no fur.
Ye'll get nothin' fer yer pains. Ye'll be sorry fer it."

"Well," said Douglas as Micmac John walked away to join the others in
the kitchen, "I've promised th' lad, an' what I promises I does, an'
I'll stand by it."

Bob Gray, sitting at the tiller of his little punt, _The Rover_, was
very happy--happy because the world was so beautiful, happy because he
lived, and especially happy because of the great good fortune that had
come to him this day when Douglas Campbell granted his request to let
him hunt the Big Hill trail, with its two hundred good marten and fox
traps.

It had been a year of misfortune for the Grays. The previous winter
when Bob's father started out upon his trapping trail a wolverine
persistently and systematically followed him, destroying almost every
fox and marten that he had caught. All known methods to catch or kill
the animal were resorted to, but with the cunning that its prehistoric
ancestors had handed down to it, it avoided every pitfall. The fox is
a poor bungler compared with the wolverine. The result of all this was
that Richard Gray had no fur in the spring with which to pay his debt
at the trading store.

Then came the greatest misfortune of all. Emily, Bob's little sister,
ventured too far out upon a cliff one day to pluck a vagrant wild
flower that had found lodgment in a crevice, and in reaching for it,
slipped to the rocks below. Bob heard her scream as she fell, and ran
to her assistance. He found her lying there, quite still and white,
clutching the precious blossom, and at first he thought she was dead.
He took her in his arms and carried her tenderly to the cabin. After a
while she opened her eyes and came back to consciousness, but she had
never walked since. Everything was done for the child that could be
done. Every man and woman in the Bay offered assistance and
suggestions, and every one of them tried a remedy; but no relief came.

All the time things kept going from bad to worse with Richard Gray.
Few seals came in the bay that year and he had no fat to trade at the
post. The salmon fishing was a flat failure.

As the weeks went on and Emily showed no improvement Douglas Campbell
came over to Wolf Bight with the suggestion,

"Take th' maid t' th' mail boat doctor. He'll sure fix she up." And
then they took her--Bob and his mother--ninety miles down the bay to
the nearest port of call of the coastal mail boat, while the father
remained at home to watch his salmon nets. Here they waited until
finally the steamer came and the doctor examined Emily.

"There's nothing I can do for her," he said. "You'll have to send her
to St. Johns to the hospital. They'll fix her all right there with a
little operation."

"An' how much will that cost?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"Oh," he replied, "not over fifty dollars--fifty dollars will cover
it."

"An' if she don't go?"

"She'll never get well." Then, as a dismissal of the subject, the
doctor, turning to Bob, asked: "Well, youngster, what's the outlook
for fur next season?"

"We hopes there'll be some, sir."

"Get some silver foxes. Good silvers are worth five hundred dollars
cash in St. Johns."

The mail boat steamed away with the doctor, and Bob and his mother,
with Emily made as comfortable as possible in the bottom of the boat,
turned homeward.

It was hard to realize that Emily would never be well again, that she
would never romp over the rocks with Bob in the summer or ride with
him on the sledge when he took the dogs to haul wood in the winter.
There would be no more merry laughter as she played about the cabin.
This was before the days when the mission doctors with their ships and
hospitals came to the Labrador to give back life to the sick and dying
of the coast. Fifty dollars was more money than any man of the bay
save Douglas Campbell had ever seen, and to expect to get such a sum
was quite hopeless, for in those days the hunters were always in debt
to the company, and all they ever received for their labours were the
actual necessities of life, and not always these.

Emily was the only cheerful one now of the three. When she saw her
mother crying, she took her hand and stroked it, and said: "Mother,
dear, don't be cryin' now. 'Tis not so bad. If God wants that I get
well He'll make me well. An' I wants to stay home with you an' see
you an' father an' Bob, an' I'd be _dreadful_ homesick to go off so
far."

Emily and Bob had always been great chums and the blow to him seemed
almost more than he could bear. His heart lay in his bosom like a
stone. At first he could not think, but finally he found himself
repeating what the doctor had said about silver foxes,--"five hundred
dollars cash." This was more money than he could imagine, but he knew
it was a great deal. The company gave sixty dollars _in trade_ for the
finest silver foxes. That was supposed a liberal price--but five
hundred dollars in _cash_!

He looked longingly towards the blue hills that held their heads
against the distant sky line. Behind those hills was a great
wilderness rich in foxes and martens--but no man of the coast had ever
dared to venture far within it. It was the land of the dreaded
Nascaupees, the savage red men of the North, who it was said would
torture to a horrible death any who came upon their domain.

The Mountaineer Indians who visited the bay regularly and camped in
summer near the post, told many tales of the treachery of their
northern neighbours, and warned the trappers that they had already
blazed their trails as far inland as it was safe for them to go. Any
hunter encroaching upon the Nascaupee territory, they insisted, would
surely be slaughtered.

Bob had often heard this warning, and did not forget it now; but in
spite of it he felt that circumstances demanded risks, and for Emily's
sake he was willing to take them. If he could only get traps, _he_
would make the venture, with his parents' consent, and blaze a new
trail there, for it would be sure to yield a rich reward. But to get
traps needed money or credit, and he had neither.

Then he remembered that Douglas Campbell had said one day that he
would not go to the hills again if he could get a hunter to take the
Big Hill trail to hunt on shares. That was an inspiration. He would
ask Douglas to let him hunt it on the usual basis--two-thirds of the
fur caught to belong to the hunter and one-third to the owner. With
this thought Bob's spirits rose.

"'Twill be fine--'twill be a grand chance," said he to himself, "an
Douglas lets me hunt un, an father lets me go."

He decided to speak to Douglas first, for if Douglas was agreeable to
the plan his parents would give their consent more readily. Otherwise
they might withhold it, for the trail was dangerously close to the
forbidden grounds of the Nascaupees, and anyway it was a risky
undertaking for a boy--one that many of the experienced trappers would
shrink from.

The more Bob considered his plan with all its great possibilities, the
more eager he became. He found himself calculating the number of pelts
he would secure, and amongst them perhaps a silver fox. He would let
the mail boat doctor sell them for him, and then they would be rich,
and Emily would go to the hospital, and be his merry, laughing little
chum again. How happy they would all be! Bob was young and an
optimist, and no thought of failure entered his head.

It was too late the night they reached home to see Douglas but the
next morning he hurried through his breakfast, which was eaten by
candle-light, and at break of day was off for Kenemish, where Douglas
Campbell lived. He found the old man at home, and, with some fear of
refusal, but still bravely, for he knew the kind-hearted old trapper
would grant the request if he thought it were wise, explained his
plan.

"You're a stalwart lad, Bob," said Douglas, looking at the boy
critically from under his shaggy eyebrows. "An' how old may you be
now? I 'most forgets--young folks grows up so fast."

"Just turned sixteen, sir."

"An' that's a young age for a lad to be so far in th' bush alone. But
you'll be havin' somethin' happen t' you."

"I'll be rare careful, sir, an' you lets me ha' th' trail."

"An' what says your father?"

"I's said nothin' to he, sir, about it yet."

"Well, go ask he, an' he says yes, meet me at the post th' evenin' an'
I'll speak wi' Mr. MacDonald t' give ye debt for your grub. Micmac
John's wantin' th' trail, but I'm not thinkin' t' let he have un."

At first Bob's parents both opposed the project. The dangers were so
great that his mother asserted that if he were to go she would not
have an easy hour until she saw her boy again. But he put forth such
strong arguments and plead so vigorously, and his disappointment was
so manifest, that finally she withdrew her objections and his father
said:

"Well, you may go, my son, an Douglas lets you have th' trail."

[Illustration: "Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand"]

So Bob, scarcely sixteen years of age, was to do a man's work and
shoulder a man's burden, and he was glad that God had given him
stature beyond his years, that he might do it. He could not remember
when he had not driven dogs and cut wood and used a gun. He had done
these things always. But now he was to rise to the higher plane of a
full-fledged trapper and the spruce forest and the distant hills
beyond the post seemed a great empire over which he was to rule. Those
trackless fastnesses, with their wealth of fur, were to pay tribute to
him, and he was happy in the thought that he had found a way to save
little Emily from the lifelong existence of a poor crippled invalid.
His buoyant spirit had stepped out of the old world of darkness and
despair into a new world filled with light and love and beauty, in
which the present troubles were but a passing cloud.

"Ho, lad! so your father let ye come. I's glad t' see ye, lad. An' now
we're t' make a great hunt," greeted Douglas when the punt ground its
nose upon the sandy beach, and Bob jumped out with the painter in his
hand to make it fast.

"Aye, sir," said Bob, "he an' mother says I may go."

"Well, come, b'y, an' we'll ha' supper an' bide here th' night an' in
th' mornin' you'll get your fit out," said Douglas when they had
pulled the punt up well away from the tide.

Entering the kitchen they found the others still at table. Greetings
were exchanged, and a place was made for Douglas and Bob.

It was a good-sized room, furnished in the simple, primitive style of
the country: an uncarpeted floor, benches and chests in lieu of
chairs, a home-made table, a few shelves for the dishes, two or three
bunks like ship bunks built in the end opposite the door to serve the
post servant and his family for beds, and a big box stove, capable of
taking huge billets of wood, crackling cheerily, for the nights were
already frosty. Resting upon crosspieces nailed to the rough beams
overhead were half a dozen muzzle loading guns, and some dog harness
hung on the wall at one side. Everything was spotlessly clean. The
floor, the table--innocent of a cloth--the shelves, benches and chests
were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and, despite
its meagre furnishings the room was very snug and cozy and possessed
an atmosphere of homeliness and comfort.

A single window admitted the fading evening light and a candle was
brought, though Douglas said to the young girl who placed it in the
centre of the table:

"So long as there's plenty a' grub, Bessie, I thinks we can find a way
t' get he t' our mouths without ere a light."

The meal was a simple one--boiled fresh trout with pork grease to pour
over it for sauce, bread, tea, and molasses for "sweetening." Butter
and sugar were luxuries to be used only upon rare festal occasions.

After the men had eaten they sat on the floor with their backs against
the rough board wall and their knees drawn up, and smoked and chatted
about the fishing season just closed and the furring season soon to
open, while Margaret Black, wife of Tom Black, the post servant, their
daughter Bessie and a couple of young girl visitors of Bessie's from
down the bay, ate and afterwards cleared the table. Then some one
proposed a dance, as it was their last gathering before going to their
winter trails, which would hold them prisoners for months to come in
the interior wilderness. A fiddle was brought out, and Dick Blake
tuned up its squeaky strings, and, keeping time with one foot, struck
up the Virginia reel.

The men discarded their jackets, displaying their rough flannel shirts
and belts, in which were carried sheath knives, chose their partners
and went at it with a will, to Dick's music, while he fiddled and
shouted such directions as "Sashay down th' middle,--swing yer
pardners,--promenade."

Bob led out Bessie, for whom he had always shown a decided preference,
and danced like any man of them. Douglas did not dance--not because he
was too old, for no man is too old to dance in Labrador, nor because
it was beneath his dignity--but because, as he said: "There's not
enough maids for all th' lads, an' I's had my turn a many a time. I'll
smoke an' look on."

Neither did Micmac John dance, for he seemed in ill humour, and was
silent and morose, nursing his discontent that a mere boy should have
been given the Big Hill trail in preference to him, and he sat moody
and silent, taking no apparent interest in the fun. The dance was
nearly finished when Bob, wheeling around the end, warm with the
excitement and pleasure of it all, inadvertently stepped on one of the
half-breed's feet. Micmac John rose like a flash and struck Bob a
stinging blow on the face. Bob turned upon him full of the quick anger
of the moment, then, remembering his surroundings, restrained the hand
that was about to return the blow, simply saying:

"'Twas an accident, John, an' you has no right to strike me."

The half-breed, vicious, sinister and alert, stood glowering for a
moment, then deliberately hit Bob again. The others fell back, Bob
faced his opponent, and, goaded now beyond the power of
self-restraint, struck with all the power of his young arm at Micmac
John. The latter was on his guard, however, and warded the blow. Quick
as a flash he drew his knife, and before the others realized what he
was about to do, made a vicious lunge at Bob's breast.




II

OFF TO THE BUSH


On the left breast of Bob's woollen shirt there was a pocket, and in
this pocket was a small metal box of gun caps, which Bob always
carried there when he was away from home, for he seldom left home
without his gun. It was fortunate for him that it was there now, for
the point of the knife struck squarely over the place where the box
lay. It was driven with such force by the half-breed's strong arm that
it passed clear through the metal, which, however, so broke the blow
that the steel scarcely scratched the skin beneath. Before another
plunge could be made with the knife the men sprang in and seized
Micmac John, who submitted at once without a struggle to the
overpowering force, and permitted himself to be disarmed. Then he was
released and stood back, sullen and defiant. For several moments not a
word was spoken.

Finally Dick Blake took a threatening step towards the Indian, and
shaking his fist in the latter's face exclaimed:

"Ye dirty coward! Ye'd do murder, would ye? Ye'd kill un, would ye?"

"Hold on," said Douglas, "'bide a bit. 'Twill do no good t' beat un,
though he's deservin' of it." Then to the half-breed: "An' what's
ailin' of ye th' evenin', John? 'Twas handy t' doin' murder ye were."

John saw the angry look in the men's eyes, and the cool judgment of
Douglas standing between him and bodily harm, and deciding that tact
was the better part of valour, changed his attitude of defiance to one
of reconciliation. He could not take revenge now for his fancied
wrong. His Indian cunning told him to wait for a better time. So he
extended his hand to Bob, who, dazed by the suddenness of the
unexpected attack, had not moved. "Shake hands, Bob, an' call it
square. I was hot with anger an' didn't know what I was doin'. We
won't quarrel."

Bob, acting upon the motto his mother had taught him--"Be slow to
anger and quick to forgive," took the outstretched hand with the
remark,

"'Twere a mighty kick I gave ye, John, an' enough t' anger ye, an' no
harm's done."

Big Dick Blake would not have it so at first, and invited the
half-breed outside to take a "licking" at his hands. But the others
soon pacified him, the trouble was forgotten and dancing resumed as
though nothing had happened to disturb it.

As soon as attention was drawn from him Micmac John, unobserved,
slipped out of the door and a few moments later placed some things in
a canoe that had been turned over on the beach, launched it and
paddled away in the ghostly light of the rising moon.

The dancing continued until eleven o'clock, then the men lit their
pipes, and after a short smoke and chat rolled into their blankets
upon the floor, Mrs. Black and the girls retired to the bunks, and,
save for a long, weird howl that now and again came from the wolf dogs
outside, and the cheery crackling of the stove within, not a sound
disturbed the silence of the night.

As has been intimated, Douglas Campbell was a man of importance in
Eskimo Bay. When a young fellow he had come here from the Orkney
Islands as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Company. A few years later
he married a native girl, and then left the company's service to
become a hunter.

He had been careful of his wages, and as he blazed new hunting trails
into the wilderness, used his savings to purchase steel traps with
which to stock the trails. Other trappers, too poor to buy traps for
themselves, were glad to hunt on shares the trails Douglas made, and
now he was reaping a good income from them. He was in fact the richest
man in the Bay.

He was kind, generous and fatherly. The people of the Bay looked up to
him and came to him when they were in trouble, for his advice and
help. Many a poor family had Douglas Campbell's flour barrel saved
from starvation in a bad winter, and God knows bad winters come often
enough on the Labrador. Many an ambitious youngster had he started in
life, as he was starting Bob Gray now.

The Big Hill trail, far up the Grand River, was the newest and deepest
in the wilderness of all the trails Douglas owned--deeper in the
wilderness than that of any other hunter. Just below it and adjoining
it was William Campbell's--a son of Douglas--a young man of nineteen
who had made his first winter's hunt the year before our story
begins; below that, Dick Blake's, and below Dick's was Ed Matheson's.

In preparing for the winter hunt it was more convenient for these men
to take their supplies to their tilts by boat up the Grand River than
to haul them in on toboggans on the spring ice, as nearly every other
hunter, whose trapping ground was not upon so good a waterway, was
compelled to do, and so it was that they were now at the trading post
selecting their outfits preparatory to starting inland before the very
cold winter should bind the river in its icy shackles.

The men were up early in the morning, and Douglas went with Bob to the
office of Mr. Charles McDonald, the factor, where it was arranged that
Bob should be given on credit such provisions and goods as he needed
for his winter's hunt, to be paid for with fur when he returned in the
spring. Douglas gave his verbal promise to assume the debt should
Bob's catch of fur be insufficient to enable him to pay it, but Bob's
reputation for energy and honesty was so good that Mr. McDonald said
he had no fear as to the payment by the lad himself.

The provisions that Bob selected in the store, or shop, as they
called it, were chiefly flour, a small bag of hardtack, fat pork, tea,
molasses, baking soda and a little coarse salt, while powder, shot,
bullets, gun caps, matches, a small axe and clothing completed the
outfit. He already had a gray cotton wedge-tent. When these things
were selected and put aside, Douglas bought a pipe and some plugs of
black tobacco, and presented them to Bob as a gift from himself.

"But I never smokes, sir, an' I 'lows he'd be makin' me sick," said
Bob, as he fingered the pipe.

"Just a wee bit when you tries t' get acquainted," answered Douglas
with a chuckle, "just a wee bit; but ye'll come t' he soon enough an'
right good company ye'll find he of a long evenin'. Take un along, an'
there's no harm done if ye don't smoke un--but ye'll be makin' good
friends wi' un soon enough."

So Bob pocketed the pipe and packed the tobacco carefully away with
his purchases.

After a consultation it was decided that the men should all meet the
next evening, which would be Sunday, at Bob's home at Wolf Bight, near
the mouth of the Grand River, and from there make an early start on
Monday morning for their trapping grounds. "I'll have William over
wi' one o' my boats that's big enough for all hands," said Douglas.
"No use takin' more'n one boat. It's easier workin' one than two over
the portages an' up the rapids."

When Bob's punt was loaded and he was ready to start for home, he ran
to the kitchen to say good-bye to Mrs. Black and the girls, for he was
not to see them again for many months.

"Bide in th' tilt when it storms, Bob, an' have a care for the wolves,
an' keep clear o' th' Nascaupees," warned Bessie as she shook Bob's
hand.

"Aye," said he. "I'll bide in th' tilt o' stormy days, an' not go
handy t' th' Nascaupees. I'm not fearful o' th' wolves, for they's
always so afraid they never gives un a chance for a shot."

"But _do_ have a care, Bob. An'--an'--I wants to tell you how glad I
is o' your good luck, an' I hopes you'll make a grand hunt--I _knows_
you will. An'--Bob, we'll miss you th' winter."

"Thank you, Bessie. An' I'll think o' th' fine time I'm missin' at
Christmas an' th' New Year. Good-bye, Bessie."

"Good-bye, Bob."

The fifteen miles across the Bay to Wolf Bight with a fair wind was
soon run. Bob ate a late dinner, and then made everything snug for the
journey. His flour was put into small, convenient sacks, his cooking
utensils consisting of a frying pan, a tin pail in which to make tea,
a tin cup and a spoon were placed in a canvas bag by themselves, and
in another bag was packed a Hudson's Bay Company four-point blanket,
two suits of underwear, a pair of buckskin mittens with a pair of
duffel ones inside them, and an extra piece of the duffel for an
emergency, six pairs of knit woollen socks, four pairs of duffel socks
or slippers (which his mother had made for him out of heavy
blanket-like woollen cloth), three pairs of buckskin moccasins for the
winter and an extra pair of sealskin boots (long legged moccasins) for
wet weather in the spring.

He also laid aside, for daily use on the journey, an adikey made of
heavy white woollen cloth, with a fur trimmed hood, and a lighter one,
to be worn outside of the other, and made of gray cotton. The adikey
or "dikey," as Bob called it, was a seamless garment to be drawn on
over the head and worn instead of a coat. The underclothing and knit
socks had been purchased at the trading post, but every other article
of clothing, including boots, moccasins and mitts, his mother had
made.

A pair of snow-shoes, a file for sharpening axes, a "wedge" tent of
gray cotton cloth and a sheet iron tent stove about twelve inches
square and eighteen inches long with a few lengths of pipe placed
inside of it were likewise put in readiness. The stove and pipe Bob's
father had manufactured.

No packing was left to be done Sunday, for though there was no church
to go to, the Grays, and for that matter all of the Bay people, were
close observers of the Sabbath, and left no work to be done on that
day that could be done at any other time.

Early on Sunday evening, Dick and Ed and Bill Campbell came over in
their boat from Kenemish, where they had spent the previous night. It
had been a short day for Bob, the shortest it seemed to him he had
ever known, for though he was anxious to be away and try his mettle
with the wilderness, these were the last hours for many long weary
months that he should have at home with his father and mother and
Emily. How the child clung to him! She kept him by her side the
livelong day, and held his hand as though she were afraid that he
would slip away from her. She stroked his cheek and told him how
proud she was of her big brother, and warned him over and over again,

"Now, Bob, do be wonderful careful an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees
for they be dreadful men, fierce an' murderous."

Over and over again they planned the great things they would do when
he came back with a big lot of fur--as they were both quite sure he
would--and how she would go away to the doctor's to be made well and
strong again as she used to be and the romps they were to have when
that happy time came.

"An' Bob," said Emily, "every night before I goes to sleep when I says
my 'Now I lay me down to sleep' prayer, I'll say to God 'an' keep Bob
out o' danger an' bring he home safe.'"

"Aye, Emily," answered Bob, "an' I'll say to God, 'Make Emily fine an'
strong again.'"

Before daybreak on Monday morning breakfast was eaten, and the boat
loaded for a start at dawn. Emily was not yet awake when the time came
to say farewell and Bob kissed her as she slept. Poor Mrs. Gray could
not restrain the tears, and Bob felt a great choking in his
throat--but he swallowed it bravely.

"Don't be feelin' bad, mother. I'm t' be rare careful in th' bush, and
you'll see me well and hearty wi' a fine hunt, wi' th' open water,"
said he, as he kissed her.

"I knows you'll be careful, an' I'll try not t' worry, but I has a
forebodin' o' somethin' t' happen--somethin' that's t' happen t' you,
Bob--oh, I feels that somethin's t' happen. Emily'll be missin' you
dreadful, Bob. An'--'twill be sore lonesome for your father an' me
without our boy."

"Ready, Bob!" shouted Dick from the boat.

"Don't forget your prayers, lad, an' remember that your mother's
prayin' for you every mornin' an' every night."

"Yes, mother, I'll remember all you said."

She watched him from the door as he walked down to the shore with his
father, and the boat, heavily laden, pushed out into the Bay, and she
watched still, until it disappeared around the point, above. Then she
turned back into the room and had a good cry before she went about her
work again.

If she had known what those distant hills held for her boy--if her
intuition had been knowledge--she would never have let him go.




III

AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR


The boat turned out into the broad channel and into Goose Bay. There
was little or no wind, and when the sun broke gloriously over the
white-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains it shone upon a sea as
smooth as a mill pond, with scarcely a ripple to disturb it. The men
worked laboriously and silently at their oars. A harbour seal pushed
its head above the water, looked at the toiling men curiously for a
moment, then disappeared below the surface, leaving an eddy where it
had been. Gulls soared overhead, their white wings and bodies looking
very pure and beautiful in the sunlight. High in the air a flock of
ducks passed to the southward. From somewhere in the distance came the
honk of a wild goose. The air was laden with the scent of the great
forest of spruce and balsam fir, whose dark green barrier came down
from the rock-bound, hazy hills in the distance to the very water's
edge, where tamarack groves, turned yellow by the early frosts,
reflected the sunlight like settings of rich gold.

"'Tis fine! 'tis grand!" exclaimed Bob at last, as he rested a moment
on his oars to drink in the scene and breathe deeply the rare,
fragrant atmosphere. "'Tis sure a fine world we're in."

"Aye, 'tis fine enough now," remarked Ed, stopping to cut pieces from
a plug of tobacco, and then cramming them into his pipe. "But," he
continued, prophetically, as he struck a match and held it between his
hands for the sulphur to burn off, "bide a bit, an' you'll find it
ugly enough when th' snows blow t' smother ye, an' yer racquets sink
with ye t' yer knees, and th' frost freezes yer face and the ice
sticks t' yer very eyelashes until ye can't see--then," continued he,
puffing vigorously at his pipe, "then 'tis a sorry world--aye, a sorry
an' a hard world for folks t' make a livin' in."

It was mid-forenoon when they reached Rabbit Island--a small wooded
island where the passing dog drivers always stop in winter to make tea
and snatch a mouthful of hard biscuit while the dogs have a half
hour's rest.

"An' here we'll boil th' kettle," suggested Dick. "I'm fair starved
with an early breakfast and the pull at the oars."

"We're ready enough for that," assented Bill. "Th' wind's prickin' up
a bit from th' east'rd, an' when we starts I thinks we may hoist the
sails."

"Yes, th' wind's prickin' up an' we'll have a fair breeze t' help us
past th' Traverspine, I hopes."

The landing was made. Bob and Ed each took an axe to cut into suitable
lengths some of the plentiful dead wood lying right to hand, while
Dick whittled some shavings and started the fire. Bill brought a
kettle (a tin pail) of water. Then he cut a green sapling about five
feet in length, sharpened one end of it, and stuck it firmly into the
earth, slanting the upper end into position over the fire. On this he
hung the kettle of water, so that the blaze shot up around it. In a
little while the water boiled, and with a stick for a lifter he set it
on the ground and threw in a handful of tea. This they sweetened with
molasses and drank out of tin cups while they munched hardtack.

Bill's prophecy as to the wind proved a true one, and in the half hour
while they were at their luncheon so good a breeze had sprang up that
when they left Rabbit Island both sails were hoisted.

Early in the afternoon they passed the Traverspine River, and now with
some current to oppose made slower, though with the fair wind, good
progress, and when the sun dipped behind the western hills and they
halted to make their night camp they were ten miles above the
Traverspine.

To men accustomed to travelling in the bush, camp is quickly made. The
country here was well wooded, and the forest beneath covered with a
thick carpet of white moss. Bob and Bill selected two trees between
which they stretched the ridge pole of a tent, and a few moments
sufficed to cut pegs and pin down the canvas. Then spruce boughs were
broken and spread over the damp moss and their shelter was ready for
occupancy. Meanwhile Ed had cut fire-wood while Dick started the fire,
using for kindlings a handful of dry, dead sprigs from the branches of
a spruce tree, and by the time Bob and Bill had the tent pitched it
was blazing cheerily, and the appetizing smell of fried pork and hot
tea was in the air. When supper was cooked Ed threw on some more
sticks, for the evening was frosty, and then they sat down to
luxuriate in its genial warmth and eat their simple meal.

For an hour they chatted, while the fire burned low, casting a
narrowing circle of light upon the black wilderness surrounding the
little camp. Some wild thing of the forest stole noiselessly to the
edge of the outer darkness, its eyes shining like two balls of fire,
then it quietly slunk away unobserved. Above the fir tops the blue
dome of heaven seemed very near and the million stars that glittered
there almost close enough to pluck from their azure setting. With a
weird, uncanny light the aurora flashed its changing colours
restlessly across the sky. No sound save the low voices of the men as
they talked, disturbed the great silence of the wilderness.

Many a time had Bob camped and hunted with his father near the coast,
in the forest to the south of Wolf Bight, but he had never been far
from home and with this his first long journey into the interior, a
new world and new life were opening to him. The solitude had never
impressed him before as it did now. The smoke of the camp-fire and
the perfume of the forest had never smelled so sweet. The romance of
the trail was working its way into his soul, and to him the land
seemed filled with wonderful things that he was to search out and
uncover for himself. The harrowing tales that the men were telling of
winter storms and narrow escapes from wild animals had no terror for
him. He only looked forward to meeting and conquering these obstacles
for himself. Young blood loves adventure, and Bob's blood was strong
and red and active.

When the fire died away and only a heap of glowing red coals remained,
Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising with a yawn,
suggested:

"I 'lows it's time t' turn in. We'll have t' be movin' early in th'
mornin' an' we makes th' Muskrat Portage."

Then they went to the tent and rolled into their blankets and were
soon sleeping as only men can sleep who breathe the pure, free air of
God's great out-of-doors.

Before noon the next day they reached the Muskrat Falls, where the
torrent, with a great roar, pours down seventy feet over the solid
rocks. An Indian portage trail leads around the falls and meets the
river again half a mile farther up. At its beginning it ascends a
steep incline two hundred feet, then it runs away, comparatively
level, to its upper end where it drops abruptly to the water's edge.
To pull a heavy boat up this incline and over the half mile to the
launching place above, was no small undertaking.

Everything was unloaded, the craft brought ashore, and ropes which
were carried for the purpose attached to the bow. Then round sticks of
wood, for rollers, were placed under it, and while Dick and Ed hauled,
Bob and Bill pushed and lifted and kept the rollers straight. In this
manner, with infinite labour, it was worked to the top of the hill and
step by step hauled over the portage to the place where it was to
enter the water again. It was nearly sunset when they completed their
task and turned back to bring up their things from below.

They had retraced their steps but a few yards when Dick, who was
ahead, darted off to the left of the trail with the exclamation:

"An' here's some fresh meat for supper."

It was a porcupine lumbering awkwardly away. He easily killed it with
a stick, and picking it up by its tail, was about to turn back into
the trail when a fresh axe cutting caught his eye.

"Now who's been here, lads?" said he, looking at it closely. "None o'
th' planters has been inside of th' Traverspine, an' no Mountaineers
has left th' post yet."

The others joined him and scrutinized the cutting, then looked for
other human signs. Near by they found the charred wood of a recent
fire and some spruce boughs that had served for a bed within a day or
two, which was proved by their freshly broken ends. It had been the
couch of a single man.

"Micmac John, sure!" said Ed.

"An' what's he doin' here?" asked Bill. "He has no traps or huntin'
grounds handy t' this."

"I'm thinkin' 'tis no good he's after," said Dick. "'Tis sure he, an'
he'll be givin' us trouble, stealin' our fur an' maybe worse. But if
_I_ gets hold o' he, he'll be sorry for his meddlin', if meddlin' he's
after, an' it's sure all he's here for."

They hurried back to pitch camp, and when the fire was made the
porcupine was thrown upon the blaze, and allowed to remain there until
its quills and hair were scorched to a cinder. Then Dick, who
superintended the cooking, pulled it out, scraped it and dressed it.
On either side of the fire he drove a stake and across the tops of
these stakes tied a cross pole. From the centre of this pole the
porcupine was suspended by a string, so that it hung low and near
enough to the fire to roast nicely, while it was twirled around on the
string. It was soon sending out a delicious odour, and in an hour was
quite done, and ready to be served. A dainty morsel it was to the
hungry voyageurs, resembling in some respects roast pig, and every
scrap of it they devoured.

The next morning all the goods were carried over the portage, and a
wearisome fight began against the current of the river, which was so
swift above this point as to preclude sailing or even rowing. A rope
was tied to the bow of the boat and on this three of the men hauled,
while the other stood in the craft and with a pole kept it clear of
rocks and other obstructions. For several days this method of travel
continued--tracking it is called. Sometimes the men were forced along
the sides of almost perpendicular banks, often they waded in the water
and frequently met obstacles like projecting cliffs, around which
they passed with the greatest difficulty.

At the Porcupine Rapids everything was lashed securely into the boat,
as a precaution in case of accident, but they overcame the rapid
without mishap, and finally they reached Gull Island Lake, a
broadening of the river in safety, and were able to resume their oars
again. It was a great relief after the long siege of tracking, and Ed
voiced the feelings of all in the remark:

"Pullin' at th' oars is hard when ye has nothin' harder t' do, but
trackin's so much harder, pullin' seems easy alongside un."

"Aye," said Dick, "th' thing a man's doin's always the hardest work un
ever done. 'Tis because ye forgets how hard th' things is that ye've
done afore."

"An' it's just the same in winter. When a frosty spell comes folks
thinks 'tis th' frostiest time they ever knew. If '_twere_, th'
winters, I 'lows'd be gettin' so cold folks couldn't stand un. I
recollects one frosty spell----"

"Now none o' yer yarns, Ed. Th' Lord'll be strikin' ye dead in His
anger _some day_ when ye're tellin' what ain't so."

"I tells no yarns as ain't so, an' I can prove un all--leastways I
could a proved this un, only it so happens as I were alone. As I was
sayin', 'twere so cold one night last winter that when I was boilin'
o' my kettle an' left th' door o' th' tilt open for a bit while I
steps outside, th' wind blowin' in on th' kettle all th' time hits th'
steam at th' spout--an' what does ye think I sees when I comes in?"

"Ye sees steam, o' course, an' what else could ye see, now?"

"'Twere so cold--that wind--blowin' right on th' spout where th' steam
comes out, when I comes in I looks an' I can't believe what I sees
myself. Well, now, I sees th' steam froze solid, an' a string o' ice
hangin' from th' spout right down t' th' floor o' th' tilt, an' th'
kettle boilin' merry all th' time. That's what I sees, an'----"

"Now stop yer lyin', Ed. Ye knows no un----"

"A bear! A bear!" interrupted Bob, excitedly. "See un! See un there
comin' straight to that rock!"

Sure enough, a couple Of hundred yards away a big black bear was
lumbering right down towards them, and if it kept its course would
pass a large boulder standing some fifty yards back from the river
bank. The animal had not seen the boat nor scented the men, for the
wind was blowing from it towards them.

"Run her in here," said Bob, indicating a bit of bank out of the
bear's range of vision, "an' let me ashore t' have a chance at un."

The instant the boat touched land he grabbed his gun--a
single-barrelled, muzzle loader--bounded noiselessly ashore, and
stooping low gained the shelter of the boulder unobserved.

The unsuspecting bear came leisurely on, bent, no doubt, upon securing
a drink of water to wash down a feast of blueberries of which it had
just partaken, and seemingly occupied by the pleasant reveries that
follow a good meal and go with a full stomach. Bob could hear it
coming now, and raised his gun ready to give it the load the moment it
passed the rock. Then, suddenly, he remembered that he had loaded the
gun that morning with shot, when hunting a flock of partridges, and
had failed to reload with ball. To kill a bear with a partridge load
of shot was out of the question, and to wound the bear at close
quarters was dangerous, for a wounded bear with its enemy within reach
is pretty sure to retaliate.

Just at the instant this thought flashed through Bob's mind the big
black side of the bear appeared not ten feet from the muzzle of his
gun, and before the lad realized it he had pulled the trigger.

Bob did not stop to see the result of the shot, but ran at full speed
towards the boat. The bear gave an angry growl, and for a moment bit
at the wound in its side, then in a rage took after him.

It was not over fifty yards to the boat, and though Bob had a few
seconds the start, the bear seemed likely to catch him before he could
reach it, for clumsy though they are in appearance, they are fast
travellers when occasion demands. Half the distance was covered in a
jiffy, but the bear was almost at his heels. A few more leaps and he
would be within reach of safety. He could fairly feel the bear's
breath. Then his foot caught a projecting branch and he fell at full
length directly in front of the infuriated animal.




IV

SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS


When Bob went ashore Dick followed as far as a clump of bushes at the
top of the bank below which the boat was concealed, and crouching
there witnessed Bob's flight from the bear, and was very close to him
when he fell. Dick had already drawn a bead on the animal's head, and
just at the moment Bob stumbled fired. The bear made one blind strike
with his paw and then fell forward, its momentum sending it upon Bob's
sprawling legs, Dick laughed uproariously at the boy as he extricated
himself.

"Well, now," he roared, "'twere as fine a race as I ever see--as I
_ever_ see--an' ye were handy t' winnin' but for th' tumble. A rare
fine race."

Bob was rather shamefaced, for an old hunter would scarcely have
forgotten himself to such an extent as to go bear hunting with a
partridge load in his gun, and he did not like to be laughed at.

"Anyhow," said he, "I let un have un first. An' I led un down where
you could shoot un. An' he's a good fat un," he commented kicking the
carcass.

Ed and Bill had arrived now and all hands went to work at once
skinning the bear.

"Speakin' o' bein' chased by bears," remarked Ed as they worked, "onct
I were chased pretty hard myself an' that time I come handy t' bein'
done for sure enough."

"An' how were that?" asked Bob.

"'Twere one winter an' I were tendin' my trail. I stops at noon t'
boil th' kettle, an' just has th' fire goin' fine an' th' water over
when all t' a sudden I hears a noise behind me and turnin' sees a
black bear right handy t' me--th' biggest black bear I ever seen--an'
makin' fer me. I jumps up an' grabs my gun an' lets un have it, but
wi' th' suddenness on it I misses, an' away I starts an' 'twere lucky
I has my racquets on."

"Were this in _winter_?" asked Dick.

"It _were_ in winter."

"Th' bears as _I_ knows don't travel in winter. They sleeps then,
leastways all but white bears."

"Well, this were in winter an' this bear weren't sleepin' much. As I
was sayin'----"

"An' he took after ye without bein' provoked?"

"An' he did an' right smart."

"Well he _were_ a queer bear--a _queer_ un--th' _queerest_ I ever hear
tell about. Awake in _winter_ an' takin' after folks without bein'
_provoked_. 'Tis th' first black bear _I_ ever heard tell about that
done that. I knows bears pretty well an' they alus takes tother way
about as fast as their legs 'll carry un."

"Now, if you wants me t' tell about this bear ye'll ha' t' stop
interruptin'."

"No one said as they wanted ye to."

"Now I'm goin' t' tell un whatever."

"As I were sayin', th' bear he takes after me wi' his best licks an' I
takes off an' tries t' load my gun as I runs. I drops in a han'ful o'
powder an' then finds I gone an' left my ball pouch at th' fire. It
were pretty hard runnin' wi' my racquets sinkin' in th' snow, which
were new an' soft an' I were losin' ground an' gettin' winded an'
'twere lookin' like un's goin' t' cotch me sure. All t' onct I see a
place where the snow's drifted up three fathoms deep agin a ledge an'
even wi' th' top of un. I makes for un an' runs right over th' upper
side an' th' bear he comes too, but he has no racquets and th' snow's
soft, bein' fresh drift an' down he goes sinkin' most out o' sight an'
th' more un wallers th' worse off un is."

"An' what does you do?" asks Bob.

"What does I do? I stops an' laughs at un a bit. Then I lashes my
sheath knife on th' end o' a pole spear-like, an' sticks th' bear back
o' th' fore leg an' kills un, an' then I has bear's meat wi' my tea,
an' in th' spring gets four dollars from th' company for the skin."

In twenty minutes they had the pelt removed from the bear and Dick
generously insisted upon Bob taking it as the first-fruits of his
inland hunt, saying: "Ye earned he wi' yer runnin'."

The best of the meat was cut from the carcass, and that night thick,
luscious steaks were broiled for supper, and the remainder packed for
future use on the journey.

Fine weather had attended the voyageurs thus far but that night the
sky clouded heavily and when they emerged from the tent the next
morning a thick blanket of snow covered the earth and weighted down
the branches of the spruce trees. The storm had spent itself in the
night, however, and the day was clear and sparkling. Very beautiful
the white world looked when the sun came to light it up; but the snow
made tracking less easy, and warned the travellers that no time must
be lost in reaching their destination, for it was a harbinger of the
winter blasts and blizzards soon to blow.

Early that afternoon they came in view of the rushing waters of the
Gull Island Rapids, with their big foam crested waves angrily
assailing the rocks that here and there raised their ominous heads
above the torrent. The greater length of these rapids can be tracked,
with some short portages around the worst places. Before entering them
everything was lashed securely into the boat, as at the Porcupine
Rapids, and the tracking line fastened a few inches back of the bow
leaving enough loose end to run to the stern and this was tied
securely there to relieve the unusual strain on the bow fastening. Ed
took the position of steersman in the boat, while the other three were
to haul upon the line.

When all was made ready and secure, they started forward, bringing the
craft into the heavy water, which opposed its progress so vigorously
that it seemed as though the rope must surely snap. Stronger and
stronger became the strain and harder and harder pulled the men. All
of Ed's skill was required to keep the boat straight in the
treacherous cross current eddies where the water swept down past the
half-hidden rocks in the river bed.

They were pushing on tediously but surely when suddenly and without
warning the fastening at the bow broke loose, the boat swung away into
the foam, and in a moment was swallowed up beneath the waves. The rear
fastening held however and the boat was thrown in against the bank.

But Ed had disappeared in the fearful flood of rushing white water.
The other three stood appalled. It seemed to them that no power on
earth could save him. He must certainly be dashed to death upon the
rocks or smothered beneath the onrushing foam.

For a moment all were inert, paralyzed. Then Dick, accustomed to act
quickly in every emergency, slung the line around a boulder, took a
half hitch to secure it and, without stopping to see whether it would
hold or not, ran down stream at top speed with Bob and Bill at his
heels.




V

THE TRAILS ARE REACHED


Ed had been cast away in rapids before, and when he found himself in
the water, with the wilderness traveller's quick appreciation of the
conditions, he lay limp, without a struggle. If he permitted the
current to carry him in its own way on its course, he might be swept
past the rocks uninjured to the still water below. If one struggle was
made it might throw him out of the current's course against a boulder,
where he would be pounded to death or rendered unconscious and surely
drowned. He was swept on much more rapidly than his companions could
run and quite hidden from them by the big foam-crested waves.

It seemed ages to the helpless man before he felt his speed slacken
and finally found himself in the eddy where they had begun to track.
Here he struck out for the river bank only a few yards distant, and,
half drowned, succeeded in pulling himself ashore. A few minutes
later, when the others came running down, they found him, to their
great relief, sitting on the bank quite safe, wringing the water from
his clothing, and their fear that he was injured was quickly dispelled
by his looking up as they approached and remarking, as though nothing
unusual had occurred,

"Bathin's chilly this time o' year. Let's put on a fire an' boil
th'kettle."

"I don't know as we got a kettle or anythin' else," said Dick,
laughing at Ed's bedraggled appearance and matter-of-fact manner. "We
better go back an' see. I hitched th' trackin' line to a rock, but I
don't know's she's held."

"Well, let's look. I'm a bit damp, an' thinkin' _I_ wants a fire,
whatever."

A cold northwest wind had sprung up in the afternoon and the snow was
drifting unpleasantly and before the boat was reached Ed's wet
garments were frozen stiff as a coat of mail and he was so chilled
through that he could scarcely walk. The line had held and they found
the boat in an eddy below a high big boulder. It was submerged, but
quite safe, with everything, thanks to the careful lashings, in its
place, save a shoulder of bear's meat that had loosened and washed
away.

"I thinks, lads, we'll be makin' camp here. Whilst I puts a fire on
an' boils th' kettle t' warm Ed up, you pitch camp. 'Twill be nigh
sun-down afore Ed gets dried out, an' too late t' go any farther,"
suggested Dick.

In a few minutes the fire was roaring and Ed thawing out and drinking
hot tea as he basked in the blaze, while Dick chopped fire-wood and
Bob and Bill unloaded the boat and put up the tent and made it snug
for the night.

Heretofore they had found the outside camp-fire quite sufficient for
their needs, and had not gone to the trouble of setting up the stove,
but it was yet some time before dark, and as the wet clothing and
outfit could be much more easily and quickly dried under the shelter
of the heated tent than in the drifting snow by the open fire, it was
decided to put the stove in use on this occasion. Bob selected a flat
stone upon which to rest it, for without this protection the moss
beneath, coming into contact with the hot metal, would have dried
quickly and taken fire.

When everything was brought in and distributed in the best place to
dry, Bob took some birch bark, thrust it into the stove and lighted
it. Instantly it flared up as though it had been oil soaked. This
made excellent kindling for the wood that was piled on top, and in an
incredibly short time the tent was warm and snug as any house. Ed left
the open fire and joined Bob and Bill, and in a few minutes Dick came
in with an armful of wood.

"Well, un had a good wettin' an' a cold souse," said he, as he piled
the wood neatly behind the stove, addressing himself to Ed, who, now
quite recovered from his chill, stood with his back to the stove,
puffing contentedly at his pipe, with the steam pouring out of his wet
clothes.

"'Twere just a fine time wi' th' dip I had ten year ago th' winter
comin'," said Ed, ruminatively. "'Twere _nothin'_ to that un."

"An' where were that?" asked Dick.

"I were out o' tea in March, an' handy to havin' no tobaccy, an' I
says t' myself, 'Ed, ye can't stay in th' bush till th' break up wi'
nary a bit o' tea, and ye'd die wi'out tobaccy. Now ye got t' make th'
cruise t' th' Post.' Well, I fixes up my traps, an' packs grub for a
week on my flat sled (toboggan) an' off I goes. 'Twere fair goin' wi'
good hard footin' an' I makes fine time. Below th' Gull Rapids, just
above where I come ashore th' day, I takes t' th' ice thinkin' un
good, an' 'twere lucky I has my racquets lashed on th' flat sled an'
not walkin' wi' un, for I never could a swum wi' un on. Two fathoms
from th' shore I steps on bad ice an' in I goes, head an' all, an' th'
current snatches me off'n my feet an' carries me under th' ice, an'
afore I knows un I finds th' water carryin' me along as fast as a deer
when he gets th' wind."

"An' how did un get out?" asked Bob in open-mouthed wonder.

"'Twere sure a hard fix _under_ th' ice," remarked Bill, equally
interested.

"A wonderful hard fix, a _wonderful_ hard fix, _under_ th' ice, an' I
were handy t' stayin' under un," said Ed, taking evident delight in
keeping his auditors in suspense. "Aye, a _wonderful_ hard fix,"
continued he, while he hacked pieces from his tobacco plug and filled
his pipe.

"An' where were I?" asked Dick, making a quick calculation of past
events. "I were huntin' wi' un ten year ago, an' I don't mind ye're
gettin' in th' ice."

"'Twere th' winter un were laid up wi' th' lame leg, an' poor Frank
Morgan were huntin' along wi' me. Frank were lost th' same spring in
th' Bay. Does un mind that?"

"'Twere only _nine_ year ago I were laid up an' Frank were huntin' my
trail," said Dick.

"Well, maybe 'twere only nine year; 'twere _nine_ or _ten_ year ago,"
Ed continued, with some show of impatience at Dick's questioning.
"Leastways 'twere thereabouts. Well, I finds myself away off from th'
hole I'd dropped into, an' no way o' findin' he. The river were low
an' had settled a foot below th' ice, which were four or five feet
thick over my head, an' no way o' cuttin' out. So what does I do?"

"An' what does un do?" asked Dick.

"What does I do? I keeps shallow water near th' shore an' holdin' my
head betwixt ice an' water makes down t' th' Porcupine Rapids. 'Twere
a long an' wearisome pull, an' thinks I, 'Tis too much--un's done for
now.' After a time I sees light an' I goes for un. 'Twere a place near
a rock where th' water swingin' around had kept th' ice thin. I gets
t' un an' makes a footin' on th' rock. I gets out my knife an' finds
th' ice breaks easy, an' cuts a hole an' crawls out. By th' time I
gets on th' ice I were pretty handy t' givin' up wi' th' cold."

"'Twere a close call," assented Dick, as he puffed at his pipe
meditatively.

"How far did un go under th' ice?" asked Bill, who had been much
interested in the narrative.

"Handy t' two mile."

For several days after this the men worked very hard from early dawn
until the evening darkness drove them into camp. The current was swift
and the rapids great surging torrents of angry water that seemed bent
upon driving them back. One after another the Horseshoe, the Ninipi,
and finally, after much toil, the Mouni Rapids were met and conquered.

The weather was stormy and disagreeable. Nearly every day the air was
filled with driving snow or beating cold rain that kept them wet to
the skin and would have sapped the courage and broken the spirit of
less determined men. But they did not mind it. It was the sort of
thing they had been accustomed to all their life.

With each morning, Bob, full of the wilderness spirit, took up the
work with as much enthusiasm as on the day he left Wolf Bight. At
night when he was very tired and just a bit homesick, he would try to
picture to himself the little cabin that now seemed far, far away, and
he would say to himself,

"If I could spend th' night there now, an' be back here in th'
mornin', 'twould be fine. But when I _does_ go back, the goin' home'll
be fine, an' pay for all th' bein' away. An' the Lard lets me, I'll
have th' fur t' send Emily t' th' doctors an' make she well."

One day the clouds grew tired of sending forth snow and rain, and the
wind forgot to blow, and the waters became weary of their rushing. The
morning broke clear and beautiful, and the sun, in a blaze of red and
orange grandeur, displayed the world in all its rugged primeval
beauty. The travellers had reached Lake Wonakapow, a widening of the
river, where the waters were smooth and no current opposed their
progress. For the first time in many days the sails were hoisted, and,
released from the hard work, the men sat back to enjoy the rest, while
a fair breeze sent them up the lake.

"'Tis fine t' have a spell from th' trackin'," remarked Ed as he
lighted his pipe.

"Aye, 'tis that," assented Dick, "an' we been makin' rare good time
wi' this bad weather. We're three days ahead o' my reckonin'."

How beautiful it was! The water, deep and dark, leading far away,
every rugged hill capped with snow, and the white peaks sparkling in
the sunshine. A loon laughed at them as they passed, and an invisible
wolf on a mountainside sent forth its long weird cry of defiance.

They sailed quietly on for an hour or two. Finally Ed pointed out to
Bob a small log shack standing a few yards back from the shore,
saying:

"An' there's my tilt. Here I leaves un."

Bill Campbell was at the tiller, and the boat was headed to a strip of
sandy beach near the tilt. Presently they landed. Ed's things were
separated from the others and taken ashore, and all hands helped him
carry them up to the tilt.

There was no window in the shack and the doorway was not over four
feet high. Within was a single room about six by eight feet in size,
with a rude couch built of saplings, running along two sides, upon
which spruce boughs, used the previous year and now dry and dead, were
strewn for a bed. The floor was of earth. The tilt contained a sheet
iron stove similar to the one Bob had brought, but no other furniture
save a few cooking utensils. The round logs of which the rough
building was constructed, were well chinked between them with moss,
making it snug and warm.

[Illustration]

This was where Ed kept his base of supplies. His trail began here and
ran inland and nearly northward for some distance to a lake whose
shores it skirted, and then, taking a swing to the southwest, came
back to the river again and ended where Dick's began, and the two
trappers had a tilt there which they used in common. Between these
tilts were four others at intervals of twelve to fifteen miles, for
night shelters, the distance between them constituting a day's work,
the trail from end to end being about seventy miles long.

The trails which the other three were to hunt led off, one from the
other--Dick's, Bill's and then the Big Hill trail, with tilts at the
juncture points and along them in a similar manner to the arrangement
of Ed's, and each trail covering about the same number of miles as
his. Each man could therefore walk the length of his trail in five
days, if the weather were good, and, starting from one end on Monday
morning have a tilt to sleep in each night and reach his last tilt on
the other end Friday night. This gave him Saturday in which to do odd
jobs like mending, and Sunday for rest, before taking up the round
again on Monday.

It was yet too early by three weeks to begin the actual trapping, but
much in the way of preparation had to be done in the meantime. This
was Tuesday, and it was agreed that two weeks from the following
Saturday Ed and Dick should be at the tilt where their trails met and
Bill and Bob at the junction of their trails, ready to start their
work on the next Monday. This would bring Dick and Bill together on
the following Friday night and Bob and Ed would each be alone, one at
either end of the series of trails and more than a hundred miles from
his nearest neighbour.

"I hopes your first cruise'll be a good un, an' you'll be doin' fine
th' winter, Bob. Have a care now for th' Nascaupees," said Ed as they
shook hands at parting.

"Thanks," answered Bob, "an' I hopes you'll be havin' a fine hunt
too."

Then they were off, and Ed's long winter's work began.

The next afternoon Dick's first tilt was reached, and a part of his
provisions and some of Ed's that they had brought on for him, were
unloaded there. Dick, however, decided to go with the young men to the
tilt at the beginning of the Big Hill trail, to help them haul the
boat up and make it snug for the winter, saying, "I'm thinkin' you
might find her too heavy, an' I'll go on an' give a hand, an' cut
across to my trail, which I can do handy enough in a day, havin' no
pack."

An hour before dark on Friday evening they reached the tilt. Dick was
the first to enter it, and as he pushed open the door he stopped with
the exclamation:

"That rascal Micmac!"




VI

ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS


The stove and stovepipe were gone, and fresh, warm ashes on the floor
gave conclusive proof that the theft had been perpetrated that very
day. Some one had been occupying the tilt, too, as new boughs spread
for a bed made evident.

"More o' Micmac John's work," commented Dick as he kicked the ashes.
"He's been takin' th' stove an' he'll be takin' th' fur too, an' he
gets a chance."

"Maybe 'twere Mountaineers," suggested Bill.

"No, 'twere no Mountaineers--_them_ don't steal. No un ever heard o' a
Mountaineer takin' things as belongs to _other_ folks. _Injuns_ be
honest--leastways all but half-breeds."

"Nascaupees might a been here," offered Bob, having in mind the
stories he had heard of them, and feeling now that he was almost
amongst them.

"No, Nascaupees 'd have no use for a _stove_. They'd ha' burned th'
tilt. 'Tis Micmac John, an' he be here t' steal fur. 'Tis t' steal
fur's what _he_ be after. But let me ketch un, an' he won't steal much
more fur," insisted Dick, worked up to a very wrathful pitch.

They looked outside for indications of the course the marauder had
taken, and discovered that he had returned to the river, where his
canoe had been launched a little way above the tilt, and had either
crossed to the opposite side or gone higher up stream. In either case
it was useless to attempt to follow him, as, if they caught him at
all, it would be after a chase of several days, and they could not
well afford the time. There was nothing to do, therefore, but make the
best of it. Bob's tent stove was set up in place of the one that had
been stolen. Then everything was stowed away in the tilt.

The next morning came cold and gray, with heavy, low-hanging clouds,
threatening an early storm. The boat was hauled well up on the shore,
and a log protection built over it to prevent the heavy snows that
were soon to come from breaking it down.

Before noon the first flakes of the promised storm fell lazily to the
earth and in half an hour it was coming so thickly that the river
twenty yards away could not be seen, and the wind was rising. The
three cut a supply of dry wood and piled what they could in the tilt,
placing the rest within reach of the door. Then armfuls of boughs were
broken for their bed. All the time the storm was increasing in power
and by nightfall a gale was blowing and a veritable blizzard raging.

When all was made secure, a good fire was started in the stove, a
candle lighted, and some partridges that had been killed in the
morning put over with a bit of pork to boil for supper. While these
were cooking Bill mixed some flour with water, using baking soda for
leaven--"risin'" he called it--into a dough which he formed into cakes
as large in circumference as the pan would accommodate and a quarter
of an inch thick. These cakes he fried in pork grease. This was the
sort of bread that they were to eat through the winter.

The meal was a cozy one. Outside the wind shrieked angrily and swirled
the snow in smothering clouds around the tilt, and rattled the
stovepipe, threatening to shake it down. It was very pleasant to be
out of it all in the snug, warm shack with the stove crackling
contentedly and the place filled with the mingled odours of the
steaming kettle of partridges and tea and spruce boughs. To the
hunters it seemed luxurious after their tedious fight against the
swift river. Times like this bring ample recompense to the wilderness
traveller for the most strenuous hardships that he is called upon to
endure. The memory of one such night will make men forget a month of
suffering. Herein lies one of the secret charms of the wilds.

When supper was finished Dick and Bill filled their pipes, and with
coals from the stove lighted them. Then they lounged back and puffed
with an air of such perfect, speechless bliss that for the first time
in his life Bob felt a desire to smoke. He drew from his pocket the
pipe Douglas had given him and filled it from a plug of the tobacco.
When he reached for a firebrand to light it Dick noticed what he was
doing and asked good naturedly,--

"Think t' smoke with us, eh?"

"Yes, thinks I'll try un."

"An' be gettin' sick before un knows it," volunteered Bill.

Disregarding the suggestion Bob fired his pipe and lay back with the
air of an old veteran. He soon found that he did not like it very
much, and in a little while he felt a queer sensation in his stomach,
but it was not in Bob's nature to acknowledge himself beaten so
easily, and he puffed on doggedly. Pretty soon beads of perspiration
stood out upon his forehead and he grew white. Then he quietly laid
aside the pipe and groped his way unsteadily out of doors, for he was
very dizzy and faint. When he finally returned he was too sick to pay
any attention to the banter of his companions, who unsympathetically
made fun of him, and he lay down with the inward belief that smoking
was not the pleasure it was said to be, and as for himself he would
never touch a pipe again.

All day Sunday and Monday the storm blew with unabated fury and the
three were held close prisoners in the tilt. On Monday night it
cleared, and Tuesday morning came clear and rasping cold.

Long before daylight breakfast was eaten and preparations made for
travelling. Bob lashed his tent, cooking utensils, some traps and a
supply of provisions upon one of two toboggans that leaned against the
tilt outside. The other one was for Bill when he should need it. Dick
did up his blanket and a few provisions into a light pack, new slings
were adjusted to their snow-shoes and finally they were ready to
strike the trails.

The steel-gray dawn was just showing when Dick shouldered his pack,
took his axe and gun and shook hands with the boys.

"Good-bye Bob. Have a care o' nasty weather an' don't be losin'
yourself. I'll see you in a fortnight, Bill. Good-bye."

With long strides he turned down the river bend and in a few moments
the immeasurable white wilderness had swallowed him up.

The Big Hill trail was so called from a high, barren hill around whose
base it swung to follow a series of lakes leading to the northwest. Of
course as Bob had never been over the trail he did not know its
course, or where to find the traps that Douglas had left hanging in
the trees or lying on rocks the previous spring at the end of the
hunting season. Bill was to go with him to the farthest tilt on this
first journey to point these out to him and show him the way, then
leave him and hurry back to his own path, while Bob set the traps and
worked his way back to the junction tilt.

Shortly after Dick left them they started, Bill going ahead and
breaking the trail with his snow-shoes while Bob behind hauled the
loaded toboggan. On they pushed through trees heavily laden with snow,
out upon wide, frozen marshes, skirting lakes deep hidden beneath the
ice and snow which covered them like a great white blanket. The only
halts were for a moment now and again to note the location of traps as
they passed, which Bob with his keen memory of the woods could easily
find again when he returned to set them. Once they came upon some
ptarmigans, white as the snow upon which they stood. Their "grub bag"
received several of the birds, which were very tame and easily shot. A
hurried march brought them to the first tilt at noon, where they had
dinner, and that night, shortly after dark, they reached the second
tilt, thirty miles from their starting point. At midday on Thursday
they came to the end of the trail.

When they had had dinner of fried ptarmigan and tea, Bill announced:
"I'll be leavin' ye now, Bob. In two weeks from Friday we'll be
meetin' in th' river tilt."

"All right, an' I'll be there."

"An' don't be gettin' lonesome, now I leaves un."

"I'll be no gettin' lonesome. There be some traps t' mend before I
starts back an' a chance bit o' other work as'll keep me busy."

Then Bill turned down the trail, and Bob for the first time in his
life was quite alone in the heart of the great wilderness.




VII

A STREAK OF GOOD LUCK


When Bill was gone Bob went to work at once getting some traps that
were hanging in the tilt in good working order. He set them and sprang
them one after another, testing every one critically. They were
practically all new ones, and Douglas, after his careful, painstaking
manner, had left them in thorough repair. These were some additional
traps that no place had been found for on the trail. There were only
about twenty of them and Bob decided that he would set them along the
shores of a lake beyond the tilt, where there were none, and look
after them on the Saturday mornings that he would be lying up there.
The next morning he put them on his toboggan, and shouldering his gun
he started out.

Not far away he saw the first marten track in the edge of the spruce
woods near the lake. Farther on there were more. This was very
satisfactory indeed, and he observed to himself,

"The's a wonderful lot o' footin', and 'tis sure a' fine place for
martens."

He went to work at once, and one after another the traps were set,
some of them in a little circular enclosure made by sticking spruce
boughs in the snow, to which a narrow entrance was left, and in this
entrance the trap placed and carefully concealed under loose snow and
the chain fastened to a near-by sapling. In the centre of each of the
enclosures a bit of fresh partridge was placed for bait, to reach
which the animal would have to pass over the trap. Where a tree of
sufficient size was found in a promising place he chopped it down, a
few feet above the snow, cut a notch in the top, and placed the trap
in the notch, and arranged the bait over it in such a way that the
animal climbing the stump would be compelled to stand upon the trap to
secure the meat.

All the marten traps were soon set, but there still remained two fox
traps. These he took to a marsh some distance beyond the lake, as the
most likely place for foxes to be, for while the marten stays amongst
the trees, the fox prefers marshes or barrens. Here, in a place where
the snow was hard, he carefully cut out a cube, making a hole deep
enough for the trap to set below the surface. A square covering of
crust was trimmed thin with his sheath knife, and fitted over the trap
in such a way as to completely conceal it. The chain was fastened to a
stump and also carefully concealed. Then over and around the trap
pieces of ptarmigan were scattered. This he knew was not good fox
bait, but it was the best he had.

"Now if I were only havin' a bit o' scent 'twould help me," he
commented as he surveyed his work.

Foxes prefer meat or fish that is tainted and smells bad, and the more
decomposed it is, the better it suits them. Bob had no tainted meat
now, so he used what he had, in the hope that it might prove
effective. A few drops of perfumery, or "scent," as he called it,
would have made the fresh meat that he used more attractive to the
animals, but unfortunately he had none of that either.

As he left the marsh and crossed from a neck of woods to the lake
shore he saw two moving objects far out upon the ice. He dropped
behind a clump of bushes. They were caribou.

His gun would not reach them at that distance, and he picked up a
dried stick and broke it. They heard the noise and looked towards
him. He stood up, exposing himself for the fraction of a second, then
concealed himself behind the bushes again. Caribou are very
inquisitive animals, and these walked towards him, for they wanted to
ascertain what the strange object was that they had seen. When they
had come within easy range he selected the smaller one, a young buck,
aimed carefully at a spot behind the shoulders, and fired. The animal
fell and its mate stood stupidly still and looked at it, and then
advanced and smelled of it. Even the report of the gun had not
satisfied its curiosity.

It would have been an easy matter for Bob to shoot this second
caribou, but the one he had killed was quite sufficient for his needs,
and to kill the other would have been ruthless slaughter, little short
of murder, and something that Bob, who was a true sportsman, would not
stoop to. He therefore stepped out from his cover and revealed
himself. Then when the animal saw him clearly, a living enemy, it
turned and fled.

Bob removed the skin and quartered the carcass. These he loaded upon
his toboggan and hauled to his tilt. The meat was suspended from the
limb of a tree outside, where animals could not reach it and where it
would freeze and keep sweet until needed. A small piece was taken into
the tilt for immediate use, and some portions of the neck placed in
the corner of the tilt where they would decompose somewhat and thus be
rendered into desirable fox bait. The skin was stretched against the
logs of the side of the shack farthest from the stove, to dry. This
would make an excellent cover for Bob's couch and be warm and
comfortable to sleep upon. The sinew, taken from the back of the
animal, was scraped and hung from the roof to season, for he would
need it later to use as thread with which to repair moccasins.

Now there was little to do for two or three days, and Bob began for
the first time to understand the true loneliness of his new life. The
wilderness was working its mysterious influence upon him. It seemed a
long, long while since Bill had left him, and he recalled his last
Sunday at Wolf Bight as one recalls an event years after it has
happened. Sometimes he longed passionately for home and human
companionship. At other times he was quite content with his day to day
existence, and almost forgot that the world contained any one else.

Early the next week he visited the traps. In one he found a Canada jay
that had tried to filch the bait. In another a big white rabbit which
had been caught while nibbling the young tops of the spruce boughs
with which the trap was enclosed. A single marten rewarded him. The
pelt was not prime, as it was yet early in the season, but still it
was fairly good and Bob was delighted with it.

The fox traps had not been disturbed, but a fox had been feeding upon
the caribou head and entrails, where they had been left upon the ice,
and one of the traps was taken up and reset here. The others he also
put in order, and returned to the tilt with the rabbit and marten. The
former, boiled with small bits of pork, made a splendid stew, and the
skin was hung to dry, for, with others it could be fashioned into
warm, light slippers to wear inside his moccasins when the colder
weather came.

The marten pelt was removed from the body by splitting it down the
inside of the hind legs to the trunk, and then pulling it down over
the head, turning it inside out in the process. In the tilt were a
number of stretching boards, that Douglas had provided, tapered down
from several inches wide at one end until they were narrow enough at
the other end to slip snugly into the nose of the pelt. Over one of
these, with the flesh side out, the skin was tightly drawn and
fastened. Then with his knife Bob scraped it carefully, removing such
fat and flesh as had adhered to it, after which he placed it in a
convenient place to dry.

Bob felt very much elated over this first catch of fur, and was
anxious to get at the real trapping. It was only Tuesday, and Bill
would not be at the river tilt until Friday of the following week, but
he decided to start back the next morning and set all his traps. So on
Wednesday morning, with a quarter of venison on his flat sled, he
turned down over the trail.

Everything went well. Signs of fur were good and Bob was brimming over
with anticipation when a week later he reached the river.

Bill did not arrive until after dark the next evening, and when he
pushed the tilt door open he found Bob frying venison steak and a
kettle of tea ready for supper.

"Ho, Bob, back ahead o' me, be un? Where'd ye get th' deer's meat?"

"Knocked un over after you left me. 'Tis fine t' be back an' see you,
Bill. I've been wonderful lonesome, and wantin' t' see you wonderful
bad."

"An' I was thinkin' ye'd be gettin' lonesome by now. You'll not be
mindin' bein' alone when you gets used to un. It's all gettin' used t'
un."

"An' what's th' signs o' fur? Be there much marten signs?"

"Aye, some. Looks like un goin' t' be some. An' be there much signs on
th' Big Hill trail? Dick says there's a lot o' footin' his way."

"I _has_ one marten," said Bob proudly, "an' finds good signs."

"Un _has_ one a'ready! An' be un a good un?"

"Not so bad."

"Well, you be startin' fine, gettin' th' first marten an' th' first
deer."

Bill had taken off his adikey and disposed of his things, and they sat
down to eat and enjoy a long evening's chat.

With every week the cold grew in intensity, and with every storm the
snow grew deeper, hiding the smaller trees entirely and reaching up
towards the lower limbs of the larger ones. The little tilts were
covered to the roof, and only a hole in the white mass showed where
the door was.

The sun now described a daily narrowing arc in the heavens, and the
hours of light were so few that the hunters found it difficult to
cover the distance between their tilts in the little while from dawn
to dark. On moonlight mornings Bob started long before day, and on
starlight evenings finished his day's work after night. His cheeks and
nose were frost-bitten and black, but he did not mind that for he was
doing well. Two weeks before Christmas he brought to the river tilt
the fur that he had accumulated. There were twenty-eight martens, one
mink, two red foxes, one cross fox, a lynx and a wolf. These last two
animals he had shot. Bill was already in the tilt when he arrived, and
complimented him on his good showing.

Christmas fell on Wednesday that year, and Bill brought word that Dick
and Ed were coming up to spend the day with him and Bob. They would
reach the tilt on Tuesday night and use the remainder of the week in a
caribou hunt, as there were good signs of the animals a little way
back in the marshes and they were in need of fresh meat.

"An' I'll not try t' be gettin' here on Friday," said Bill. "I'll be
waitin' till Tuesday."

"I'll be doin' th' same, but I'll be here sure on a Tuesday, an' maybe
Monday," answered Bob.

So it was arranged that they should have a holiday, and all be
together again. It gave Bob a thrill of pleasure when he thought of
meeting Dick and Ed and proudly exhibiting his fur to have them
examine and criticise the skins and compliment him. It would make a
break in the monotonous life.

The day after Bob left the river tilt on his return round, the great
dream with which he had started out from Wolf Bight became a reality.
He caught a silver fox. It was almost evening when he turned into a
marsh where the trap was set. He had caught nothing in it before, and
he was thinking seriously of taking it up and placing it farther along
the trail. But now in the half dusk, as he approached, something
moved. "Sure 'tis a cross," said he. When he came closer and saw that
it was really a silver he could not for a moment believe his good
fortune. It was too good to be true. When he had killed it and taken
it out of the trap he hurried to the tilt hugging it closely to his
breast as though afraid it would get away.

In the tilt he lighted a candle and examined it. It was a beauty! It
was worth a lot of money! He patted it and turned it over. Then--there
was no one to see him and question his manhood or jibe at his
weakness--he cried--cried for pure joy. "Tis th' savin' o' Emily an'
makin' she well--an' makin' she well!" He had prayed that he would get
a silver, but his faith had been weak and he had never really believed
he should. Now he had it and his cup of joy was full. "Sure th' Lard
be good," he repeated to himself.

It was starlight two evenings later when he neared his last tilt.
Clear and beautiful and intensely cold was the silent white wilderness
and Bob's heart was as clear and light as the frosty air. When the
black spot that marked the roof of the almost hidden shack met his
view he stopped. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the stovepipe.
Some one was in the tilt! He hesitated for only a moment, then hurried
forward and pushed the door open. There, smoking his pipe sat Micmac
John.




VIII

MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE


"Evenin', Bob," said Micmac.

"Evenin', John. An' where'd you be comin' from now?"

"Been huntin' t' th' suth'ard. Thought I'd drop in an' see ye."

"Glad t' see ye, John."

After an awkward pause Bob asked:

"What un do wi' th' stove, John?"

"What stove?"

"From th' river tilt. Ye took un, didn't ye?"

"No, I didn't take no stove. I weren't in th' river tilt, an' don't
know what yer talkin' about," lied the half-breed.

"Some one took un an' we was layin' it t' you. Now I wonders who
'twere."

"Well, _I_ wouldn't take it. Ye ought t' known _I_ wouldn't do a thing
like that," insisted Micmac, with an air of injured innocence. "Maybe
th' Mingen Injuns took it. There's been some around an' they says
they'll take anything they find, an' fur too, if they find any in th'
tilts. These are their huntin' grounds an' outsiders has no right on
'em. They gave me right t' hunt down t' th' suth'ard."

"Who may th' Mingen Injuns be, now?"

"Mountaineers as belong Mingen way up south, an' hunts between this
an' th' Straits."

"I were thinkin' 'twere th' Nascaupees took th' stove if you didn't
take un."

"Th' Nascaupees are back here a bit t' th' west'ard. I saw some of 'em
one day when I was cruisin' that way an' I made tracks back fer I
didn't want t' die so quick. They'll kill anybody they see in here,
an' burn th' tilts if they happen over this way an' see 'em. Ye have
t' be on th' watch fer 'em all th' time."

"I'll be watchin' out fer un an' keep clear if I sees their footin',"
said Bob as he went out to bring in his things.

What Micmac said about the Nascaupees disturbed him not a little. Bob
was brave, but every man, no matter how brave he may be, fears an
unseen danger when he believes that danger is real and is apt to come
upon him unexpectedly and at a time when no opportunity will be
offered for defense. It was evident that these Indians were close at
hand, and that he was in daily and imminent danger of being captured,
which meant, he was sure, being killed. But he was here for a
purpose--to catch all the fur he could--and he must not lose his
courage now, before that purpose was accomplished. He must remain on
his trail until the hunting season closed. He must be constantly upon
his guard, he thought, and perhaps after all would not be discovered.
No, he would _not_ let himself be afraid.

When he returned to the tilt Micmac John asked:

"Gettin' much fur?"

"Not so bad," he replied. "I has one silver, an' a fine un, too."

The half-breed showed marked interest at once.

"Let's see him. Got him here?"

"No, I left un in th' third tilt. That's where I caught un."

"Where's yer other fur?"

"I took un all down t' th' river tilt There's a cross among un an'
twenty-eight martens."

"Um-m."

Micmac John knew well enough the fur had been taken to some other
tilt, for when he arrived here early in the afternoon his first care
was to look for it, but not a skin had he found, and he was
disappointed, for it was the purpose of his visit. Bob, absolutely
honest and guileless himself, in spite of Dick's constant assertion
that Micmac was a thief and worse, was easily deceived by the
half-breed's bland manner. Unfortunately he had not learned that every
one else was not as honest and straightforward as himself. Micmac's
attempt upon his life he had ascribed to a sudden burst of anger, and
it was forgiven and forgotten. The selfish enmity, the blackness of
heart, the sinister nature that will never overlook and will go to any
length to avenge a real or fancied wrong--the characteristics of a
half-breed Indian--were wholly beyond his comprehension. He had never
dissembled himself, and he did not know that the smiling face and
smooth tongue are often screens of deception.

"We'll be havin' supper now," suggested Bob, lifting the boiling
kettle off the stove and throwing in some tea. "I'm fair starved."

After they had eaten Micmac filled his pipe and lounged back, smoking
in silence for some time, apparently deep in thought. Finally he
asked, "When ye goin' back t' th' river, Bob?"

"I'm not thinkin t' start back till Wednesday an' maybe Thursday, an'
reach un Monday or Tuesday after. Bill won't be gettin' there till
Tuesday, an' Dick an' Ed expects t' be there then t' spend Christmas
an' hunt deer."

"Hunt deer?"

"They're needin' fresh meat, an' deer footin's good in th' meshes."

"The's fine signs to th' nuth'ard from th' second lake in, 'bout
twenty mile from here. You could get some there. If ye ain't goin'
back till Wednesday why don't ye try 'em? Ye'd get as many as ye
wanted," volunteered Micmac.

"Where now be that?"

"Why just 'cross th' first mesh up here, an' through th' bush straight
over ye'll come to a lake. Cross that t' where a dead tree hangs out
over th' ice. Cut in there an' ye'll see my footin'; foller it over t'
th' next lake, then turn right t' th' nuth'ard. The's some meshes in
there where th' deer's feedin'. I seen fifteen or twenty, but I didn't
want 'em so I let 'em be."

"An' could I make un now in a day?"

"If ye walk sharp an' start early."

"I thinks I'll be startin' in th' mornin' an' campin' over there
Sunday, an' Monday I'll be there t' hunt. Can't un come 'long, John?"

"No, I'd like t' go but I got t' see my traps. I'll have t' be leavin'
ye now," said Micmac, rising.

"Not t'-night?"

"Yes, it's fine moonlight an' I can make it all right."

"Ye better stay th' night wi' me, John. There'll be no difference in a
day."

"No. I planned t' be goin' right back I seen ye. Good evenin'."

"Good evenin', John."

Micmac John started directly south, but when well out of sight of the
tilt suddenly swung around to the eastward and, with the long
half-running stride of the Indian, made a straight line for the tilt
where Bob had left his silver fox. The moon was full, and the frost
that clung to the trees and bushes sparkled like flakes of silver. The
aurora faintly searched the northern sky. A rabbit, white and
spectre-like, scurried across the half-breed's path, but he did not
notice it. Hour after hour his never tiring feet swung the wide
snow-shoes in and out with a rhythmic chug-chug as he ran on.

It was nearly morning when at length he slackened his pace, and with
the caution of the lifelong hunter approached the tilt as he would
have stalked an animal. He made quite certain that the shack was
untenanted, then entered boldly. He struck a match and found a candle,
which he lighted. There was the silver fox, where Bob had left it. It
was dry enough to remove from the board and he loosened it and pulled
it off. He examined it critically and gloated over it.

"As black an' fine a one as I ever seen!" he exclaimed. "It'll bring a
big price at Mingen. That boy'll never see it again, an' I'll clean
out th' rest o' th' fur too, at th' river. Old Campbell'll be sorry
when I get through with 'em, he let that feller hunt th' path. He's a
fool, an' if he gives me th' slip he'll go back an' say th' Mingen
Injuns took his fur. I fixed that wi' my story all right. I'll take
th' lot t' Mingen an' get cash fer 'em, an' be back t' th' Bay with
open water with 'nuff martens so's they won't suspect me."

He started a fire and slept until shortly after daylight. Then had
breakfast and started down the trail towards the river at the same
rapid pace that he had held before.

It was not quite dark when he glimpsed the tilt, and approached it
with even more caution than he had observed above.

"He don't know enough to lie," said he to himself, referring to Bob,
"but it's best t' take care, fer one o' th' others might be here."

When he was satisfied that the tilt was unoccupied he entered boldly
and appropriated every skin of fur he found--not only all of Bob's,
but also a few martens Bill had left there. No time was lost, for any
accident might send Bill or one of the others here at an unexpected
moment. The pelts were packed quickly but carefully into his hunting
bag and within twenty minutes after his arrival he was retreating up
the trail at a half run.

Some time after dark he reached the first tilt above the river, where
he spent the night. Short cuts and fast travelling brought him on
Sunday night to the tilt at the end of the trail where he had left
Bob. He made quite certain that the lad had really gone on his caribou
hunt, and then went boldly in and made himself as comfortable as he
could for the night without a stove, for Bob had taken the stove with
him, to heat his tent.

"If he comes back t'-night and finds me here," he said, "I'll just
tell him I changed my mind an' came back t' go on th' deer hunt. I'll
lie t' him about what I got in my bag an' he'll never suspicion; he
don't know enough."

Micmac John's work was not yet finished. He had arranged a full and
complete revenge. Bob's hunt for caribou would carry him far away from
the tilt and into a section where no searching party would be likely
to go. The half-breed's plan was now to follow and shoot the lad from
ambush. If by chance any one ever should find the body--which seemed a
quite improbable happening--Bob's death would no doubt be laid at the
door of the Nascaupee Indians.

Micmac John deposited the bag of stolen pelts in a safe place in the
tilt, intending to return for them after his bloody mission was
accomplished, and several hours before daylight on Monday morning
started out in the ghostly moonlight to trail Bob to his death.




IX

LOST IN THE SNOW


The trail that Bob had made lay open and well-defined in the snow, and
hour after hour the half-breed followed it, like a hound follows its
prey.

Early in the morning the sky clouded heavily and towards noon snow
began to fall. It was a bitterly cold day. Micmac John increased his
pace for the trail would soon be hidden and he was not quite sure when
he should find the camp. From the lakes the trail turned directly
north and for several miles ran through a flat, wooded country. After
a while there were wide open marshes, with narrow timbered strips
between. An hour after noon he crossed a two mile stretch of this
marsh and in a little clump of trees on the farther side of it came so
suddenly upon the tent that he almost ran against it.

The snow was by this time falling thickly and a rising westerly wind
was sweeping the marsh making travelling exceedingly difficult, and
completely hiding the trail beyond the trees.

The tent flaps were fastened on the outside, and Bob was away, as
Micmac John expected he would be, searching for caribou.

"There's no use tryin' t' foller him in this snow," said he to
himself, "I'd be sure t' miss him. But I'll take the tent an' outfit
away on his flat sled an' if he don't have cover th' cold'll fix him
before mornin'. There'll be no livin' in it over night with th' wind
blowin' a gale as it's goin' to do with dark. My footin' 'll soon be
hid an' he can't foller me. I can shoot him easy enough if he does."

It was the work of only a few minutes to strike the tent and pack it
and the other things, which included the stove, an axe, blanket and
food, on the toboggan.

The half-breed was highly elated when he started off with his booty.
The storm had come at just the right time. The elements would work a
slower but just as sure a revenge as his gun and at the same time
cover every trace of his villainy. He laughed as he pictured to
himself Bob's look of mystification and alarm when he returned and
failed to find the tent, and how the lad would think he had made a
mistake in the location and the desperate search for the camp that
would follow, only to end finally in the snow and cold conquering him,
as they were sure to do, and the wolves perhaps scattering his bones.

"That's a fine end t' him an' he'll never be takin' trails away from
_me_ again," he chuckled.

The whole picture as he imagined it was food for his black heart and
he forgot his own uncomfortable position in the delight that he felt
at the horrible death that he had so cleverly and cruelly arranged for
Bob.

Micmac John retraced his steps some eight miles to the wide stretch of
timber land. There he halted and pitched camp. The wind shrieked
through the tree tops and swept the marshes in its untamed fury, but
he was quite warm and contented in the tent. The storm was working his
revenge for him, and he was quite satisfied that it would do the work
well.

The men that Bob Gray had come in contact with and associated with all
his life were the honest, upright people of the Bay. He had never
known a man that would dishonestly take a farthing's worth of
another's property or that would knowingly harm a fellow being. The
Bay folk were constantly helping their more needy neighbours and lived
almost as intimately as brothers. When any one was in trouble the
others came to offer sympathy and frequently deprived themselves of
the actual necessaries of life that their neighbours might not suffer.
Sometimes they had their misunderstandings and quarrels, but these
were all of a momentary character and quickly forgotten.

There was little wonder then that Bob had failed to read Micmac John's
true character, and it could hardly be expected that he would suspect
the half-breed of trying to injure him. Children of these far-off,
thinly populated lands in many respects develop judgment and mature in
thought at a much younger age than in more thickly settled and more
favoured countries. One reason for this is the constant fight for
existence that is being waged and the necessity for them to take up
their share of the burden of life early. Another reason is doubtless
the fact that their isolated homes cut them off from the companionship
of children of their own age and their associates are almost wholly
men and women grown. This was the case with Bob and in courage,
thoughtfulness of the comfort of others and physical endurance he was
a man, while in guile he was a mere baby. He believed that Micmac
John was like every other man he knew and was a good neighbour.

When men have lived long in the wilderness without fresh meat they
have a tremendous longing for it. Bob knew that neither Dick nor Ed
had tasted venison since they reached their hunting grounds, for they
had not been as fortunate as he, and that some of the fresh-killed
meat would be a great treat to them and one they would appreciate.
Therefore when Micmac John told him how easily caribou could be killed
a day's journey to the northward, he thought that it would make a nice
Christmas surprise for his friends if he hauled a toboggan load of
venison down to the river tilt with him. True they had planned a hunt,
but that would take place after Christmas and he wanted to make them
happy on that day.

So after Micmac John left him on Friday night he prepared for an early
start to the caribou feeding grounds on Saturday morning.

We have seen the route he took across the lakes and timbered flats and
marshes to the place where he pitched his camp in the little clump of
diminutive fir trees almost twenty miles from his tilt. It was evening
when he reached there and up to this time, to his astonishment, he
had seen no signs of caribou. A few miles beyond the marsh he saw a
ridge of low hills running east and west and decided that the feeding
grounds of the animals must lie the other side of them.

He banked the snow around the tent to keep out the wind, broke an
abundant supply of green boughs for a bed, and cut a good stock of
wood for the day of rest. Two logs were placed in a parallel position
in the tent upon which to rest the stove that it might not sink in the
deep snow with the heat. Then it was put up, and a fire started, and
he was very comfortably settled for the night.

The unfamiliar and unusually bleak character of the country gave him a
feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction when he arose on Sunday
morning and viewed his surroundings. It was quite different from
anything he had ever experienced before and he had a strong desire to
go out at once and look for the caribou, and if no signs of them were
found to turn back on Monday to the tilt. But then he asked himself,
would his mother approve of this? He decided that she would not, and,
said he: "'Twould be huntin' just as much as t' go shootin' and th'
Lard would be gettin' angry wi' me too."

That kept him from going, and he spent the day in the tent drawing
mind pictures of the little cabin home that he longed so much to see
and the loved ones that were there. The thought of little Emily, lying
helpless but still so patient, brought tears to his eyes. But all
would be well in the end, he told himself, for God was good and had
given him the silver fox he had prayed for that Emily might go and be
cured.

What a proud and happy day it would be for him when with his greatest
hopes fulfilled, the boat ground her nose again upon the beach below
the cabin from which he had started so full of ambition that long ago
morning in September. How his father would come down to shake his hand
and say: "My stalwart lad has done bravely, an' I'm proud o' un." His
mother, all smiles, would run out to meet him and take him in her arms
and praise and pet him, and then he would hurry in to see dear,
patient little Emily on her couch, and her face would light up at
sight of him and she would hold out her hands to him in an ecstasy of
delight and call: "Oh, Bob! Bob! my fine big brother has come back to
me at last!" Then he would bring in his furs and proudly exhibit the
silver fox and hear their praises, and perhaps he would have another
silver fox by that time. After a while Douglas Campbell would come
over and tell him how wonderfully well he had done. With his share of
the martens he would pay his debt to the company, and he and Douglas
would let the mail boat doctor sell the silver fox and other skins for
them, and Emily would go to the hospital and after a little while come
back her old gay little self again, to romp and play and laugh and
tease him as she used to do. With fancy making for him these dreams of
happiness, the day passed after all much less tediously than he had
expected.

On Monday morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, Bob started
out to look for the caribou, leaving the tent as Micmac John found it.
He made the great mistake of not taking with him his axe, for an axe
is often a life saver in the northern wilderness, and a hunter should
never be without one. He crossed the marsh and then the ridge of low
hills to the northward, finally coming out upon a large lake. It was
now midday, the snow had commenced falling, and to continue the hunt
further was useless.

"'Tis goin' t' be nasty weather an' I'll have t' be gettin' back t'
th' tent," said he regretfully as he realized that a severe storm was
upon him.

Reluctantly he retraced his steps. In a little while his tracks were
all covered, and not a landmark that he had noted on his inward
journey was visible through the blinding snow. He reached the ridge in
safety, however, and crossed it and then took the direction that he
believed would carry him to the camp, using the wind, which had been
blowing from the westward all day, as his guide. Towards dark he came
to what he supposed was the clump of trees where he had left his tent
in the morning, but no tent was there.

"'Tis wonderful strange!" he exclaimed as he stood for a moment in
uncertainty.

He was quite positive it was the right place, and he looked for axe
cuttings, where he had chopped down trees for fire-wood, and found
them. So, this was the place, but where was the tent? He was
mystified. He searched up and down every corner of the grove, but
found no clue. Could the Nascaupees have found his camp and carried
his things away? There was no other solution.

"'Th' Nascaupees has took un. The Nascaupees has sure took un," he
said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone.

His situation was now desperate. He had no axe with which to build a
temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire. The nearest cover was his
tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed
hopeless. Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must
keep moving or freeze to death.

With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the
gathering darkness. He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he
plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him
that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He
was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter
wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at
last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and
each time it was more difficult to rise.

There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell
and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant
death, and urged him up again to further action.

Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held
back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing
his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another
and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted
before their very eyes.

Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more
intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to
sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight.
It was not far--he was almost there. In a little while he would see
his father and mother and Emily--Emily--Emily was sick. He had
something to make her her well--make her well--a silver fox--that
would do it--yes, that would do it--a silver fox would make her
well--dear little Emily.

From the distance there came over the frozen world a wolf's howl,
followed by another and another. The wolves were giving the cry of
pursuit. There must be many of them and they were after caribou or
game of some sort. This was the only impression the sound made upon
his numbed senses.

Daylight was coming. He was very sleepy--very, very sleepy. Why not go
to sleep? There was no reason for walking when it was so nice and warm
here--and he was so weary and sleepy. There were trees all around and
a nice white bed spread under them. He stumbled and fell and did not
try to get up. Why should he? There was plenty of time to go home. It
was so comfortable and soft here and he was so sleepy.

Then he imagined that he was in the warm tilt with the fire crackling
in the stove. He cuddled down in the snow, and said the little prayer
that he never forgot at night.

    "Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep,
    I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep,
    If-I-should-die-before-I-wake
    I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take.
    An'-God-make-Emily-well."

The wolves were clamouring in the distance. They had caught the game
that they were chasing. He could just hear them as he fell asleep.

The sun broke with the glory of a new world over the white wilderness.
The wolf howls ceased--and all was still.




X

THE PENALTY


For some reason Micmac John could not sleep. A little while he lay
awake voluntarily, trying to contrive a plan to follow should he be
found out. If, after he returned to the tilt for the pelts, there
should not be sufficient snow to cover his trail, for instance, before
the searching party came to look for Bob--and it surely would come,
headed by Dick Blake--he would be in grave danger of being discovered.
Why had he not thought of all this before? He was afraid of Dick
Blake, and Dick was the one man in the world, perhaps, that he was
afraid of. Would Dick shoot him? he asked himself. Probably. If he
were found he would have to die.

Life is sweet to a strong, healthy man brought face to face with the
reality of death. In his more than half savage existence Micmac John
had faced death frequently, and sometimes daily, and had never shrunk
from it or felt a tremour of fear. He had held neither his own nor the
life of other men as a thing of much value. The fact was that never
before had he given one serious thought to what it meant to die. Like
the foxes and the wolves, he had been an animal of prey and had looked
upon life and death with hardly more consideration than they, and with
the stoical indifference of his savage Indian ancestors.

But for some inexplicable reason this night the white half of his
nature had been awakened and he found himself thinking of what it
meant to die--to cease to be, with the world going on and on
afterwards just as though nothing had happened. Then the teachings of
a missionary whom he had heard preach in Nova Scotia came to him. He
remembered what had been said of eternal happiness or eternal
torment--that one or the other state awaited the soul of every one
after death. Then a great terror took possession of him. If Bob Gray
died, as he certainly must in this storm, _he_ would be responsible
for it, and _his_ soul would be consigned to eternal torment--the
terrible torment to last forever and forever, depicted by the
missionary. He had committed many sins in his life, but they were of
the past and forgotten. This was of the present. He could already, in
his frenzied imagination see Dick Blake, the avenger. Dick would
shoot him. That was certain--and then--eternal torment.

The wind moaned outside, and then rose to a shriek. He sprang up and
looked wildly about him. It was the shriek of a damned soul! No, he
had been dozing and it was only a dream, and he lay back trembling.

For a long while he could not go to sleep again. Fear had taken
absolute and complete possession of him--the fear of the eternal
damnation that the missionary had so vividly pictured. It was a
picture that had been received at the time without being seen and
through all these years had remained in his brain, covered and hidden.
This day's work had suddenly and for the first time drawn aside the
screen and left it bare before his eyes displaying to him every
fearful minute outline. He was a murderer and he would be punished.
There was no thought of repentance for sins committed--only fear of a
fate that he shrunk from but which confronted him as a reality and a
certainty--as great a certainty as his rising in the morning and so
near at hand. He got up and looked out. The wind blew clouds of snow
into his face. He could not see the tree that he knew was ten feet
away. It was an awful night for a man to be out without shelter.

Micmac John lay down again and after a time the tired brain and body
yielded to nature and he slept.

The instincts of the half-breed, keen even in slumber, felt rather
than heard the diminishing of wind and snow as the storm subsided with
the approach of morning, and he arose at once. The rest had quieted
his nerves, and he was the stolid, revengeful Indian again. After a
meagre breakfast of tea and jerked venison he took down the tent and
lashed the things securely upon the toboggan and ere the first stars
began to glimmer through the cloud rifts he was hurrying away in the
stillness of the night.

When the sky finally cleared and the moon came out, cold and
brilliant, there was something uncanny and weird in its light lying
upon earth's white shroud rent here and there by long, dark shadows
across the trail. There was an indefinable mystery in the atmosphere.
Micmac John, accustomed as he was to the wilderness, felt an
uneasiness in his soul, the reflex perhaps of the previous night's
awakening, that he could not quite throw off--a sense of impending
danger--of a calamity about to happen. The trees became mighty men
ready to strike at him as he approached and behind every bush crouched
a waiting enemy. His guilty conscience was at work. The little spirit
that God had placed within his bosom, to tell him when he was doing
wrong, was not quite dead.

He increased his speed as daylight approached travelling almost at a
run. Suddenly he stopped to listen. From somewhere in the distance
behind him a wolf cry broke the morning silence. In a little while
there were more wolf cries, and they were coming nearer and nearer.
The animals were doubtless following some quarry. Was it Bob they were
after? A momentary qualm at the thought was quickly replaced by a
feeling of satisfaction. That, he tried to argue with himself, would
cover every clue to what had happened and was what he had hoped for.
He hurried on.

All at once a spasm of fear brought him to a halt. Could it be himself
the wolves were trailing! The old horror of the night came back with
all its reality and force. A clammy sweat broke out upon his body. He
looked wildly about him for a retreat, but there was none. The wolves
were gaining upon him rapidly and were very close now. There was no
longer any doubt that _he_ was their quarry. They were trailing _him_.
Micmac John was in a narrow, open marsh, and the wolves were already
at the edge of the woods that skirted it a hundred yards behind. A
little distance ahead of him was a big boulder, and he ran for it. At
that moment the pack came into view. He stopped and stood paralyzed
until they were within thirty yards of him, then he turned
mechanically, from force of habit, and fired at the leader, which
fell. This held them in check for an instant and roused him to action.
He grabbed an axe from the toboggan and had time to gain the rock and
take a stand with his back against it.

As the animals rushed upon the half breed he swung the axe and split
the head of one. This temporarily repulsed them. He held them at bay
for a time, swinging his axe at every attempted approach. They formed
themselves into a half circle just beyond his reach, snapping and
snarling at him and showing their ugly fangs. Another big gray
creature, bolder than the rest, made a rush, but the swinging axe
split its head, just as it had the others. They retreated a few
paces, but they were not to be kept back for long. Micmac John knew
that his end had come. His face was drawn and terrified, and in spite
of the fearful cold and biting frost, perspiration stood out upon his
forehead.

It was broad daylight now. Another wolf attacked from the front and
fell under the axe. A little longer they parleyed. They were gradually
growing more bold and narrowing the circle--coming so close that they
were almost within reach of the swinging weapon. Finally a wolf on the
right, and one on the left, charged at the same time, and in an
instant those in front, as though acting upon a prearranged signal,
closed in, and the pack became one snarling, fighting, clamouring
mass.

When the sun broke over the eastern horizon a little later it looked
upon a circle of flat-tramped, blood-stained snow, over which were
scattered bare picked human bones and pieces of torn clothing. A pack
of wolves trotted leisurely away over the marsh.

In the woods not a mile distant two Indian hunters were following the
trail that led to Bob's unconscious body.

[Illustration: "Micmac John knew his end had come"]




XI

THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL


A week passed and Christmas eve came. The weather continued clear and
surpassingly fine. It was ideal weather for trapping, with no new snow
to clog the traps and interfere with the hunters in their work. The
atmosphere was transparent and crisp, and as it entered the lungs
stimulated the body like a tonic, giving new life and buoyancy and
action to the limbs. The sun never ventured far from the horizon now
and the cold grew steadily more intense and penetrating. The river had
long ago been chained by the mighty Frost King and over the earth the
snow lay fully six feet deep where the wind had not drifted it away.

A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the
prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt.
They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there,
but the shack was empty.

"We'll be havin' th' tilt snug an' warm for th' lads when they comes,"
said Dick, as he went briskly to work to build a fire in the stove
"You get some ice t' melt for th' tea, Ed. Th' lads'll be handy t'
gettin' in now, an' when they comes supper'll be pipin' hot for un."

Ed took an axe and a pail to the river where he chopped out pieces of
fine, clear ice with which to fill the kettle. When he came back Dick
had a roaring fire and was busy preparing partridges to boil.

Pretty soon Bill arrived, and they gave him an uproarious greeting. It
was the first time Bill and Ed had met since they came to their trails
in the fall, and the two friends were as glad to see each other as
though they had been separated for years.

"An' how be un now, Bill, an' how's th' fur?" asked Ed when they were
seated.

"Fine," replied Bill. "Fur's been fine th' year. I has more by now 'an
I gets all o' last season, an' one silver too."

"A silver? An' be he a good un?"

"Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un
much."

"Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too--about th'
best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets
a rare lot o' fur that year--a rare lot--but I'm not catchin' all of
un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns."

"An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill.

"Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in Dick. "Sure Bill's
heard un--leastways he must 'a' heard un."

"No, I never heard un," said Bill.

"An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no
truth in un."

"'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns.
Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o'
Injuns comes this way these days."

"What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill.

"I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," asserted Ed, assuming
a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve
year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un
what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th'
mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now,
an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un
pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I
finds a whole barrel o' flour missin' an' comes out at un. They owns
up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t' _one_
meal--now ye mind, _one_ meal. When un eats a _barrel_ o' flour t'
_one_ meal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never
counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like,
an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like
I scares un--scares un bad. I were _one_ man alone, an' wi' a bold
face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I
has a flat sled load o' martens from un--handy t' a hundred an'
fifty--an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none.
Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it."

Bill laughed and remarked,

"'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare
folk?"

"A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn,"
asserted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation.

"Bob's late comin'," remarked Dick. "'Tis gettin' dark."

"He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th'
night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange."

They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out
several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came
back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that
Bob was not coming that night.

"'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length.
"An' he brought down his fur last trip--a fine lot."

"Where be un?" asked Dick.

Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified
and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine
too!"

"Gone!" Dick and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?"

"Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis
gone now!"

The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for
awhile in silence. Finally Dick spoke:

"'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where
be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin'
somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un."

"We must find un an' run that devil Injun down," exclaimed Ed,
reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un,
neither."

"'Twill be no use goin' now," said Dick, with better judgment. "Th'
moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi'
daylight we must be goin'."

Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down.
We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he assented. Then he gritted
his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi'
Bob."

The remainder of the evening was spent in putting forth conjectures as
to what had possibly befallen Bob. They were much concerned but tried
to reassure themselves with the thought that he might have been
delayed one tilt back for the night, and that Micmac John had done
nothing worse than steal the fur. Nevertheless their evening was
spoiled--the evening they had looked forward to with so much pleasure
and their minds were filled with anxious thoughts when finally they
rolled into their blankets for the night.

Christmas morning came with a dead, searching cold that made the three
men shiver as they stepped out of the warm tilt long before dawn and
strode off in single file into the silent, dark forest. After a while
daylight came, and then the sun, beautiful but cheerless, appeared
above the eastern hills to reveal the white splendour of the world and
make the frost-hung fir trees and bushes scintillate and sparkle like
a gem-hung fairy-land. But the three men saw none of this. Before them
lay a black, unknown horror that they dreaded, yet hurried on to meet.
The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts
were weighted with a nameless dread.

Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after
several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when Dick said
laconically:

"No smoke. He's not here."

"An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed.

"No footin' t' mark un at all," assented Dick. "What's happened has
happened before th' last snow."

"Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened."

Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the
remainder of that day and all the next day kept up their tireless,
silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them
a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy
they dreaded.

At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead,
and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!"
Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur
in it.

"Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun
been doin'? Now why did he _leave_ th' fur? 'Tis strange--wonderful
strange."

Dick noted the evidences of an open fire having been kindled upon the
earthen floor. "That fire were made since th' stove were taken," he
said. "Micmac John left th' fur an' made th' fire. He's been stoppin'
here a night after Bob left wi' th' stove. But why were Bob leavin'
wi' th' stove? An' where has he gone? An' why has th' Injun been
leavin' th' fur here an' not comin' for un again? We'll have t' be
findin' out."

They started immediately to search for some clue of the missing lad,
each taking a different direction and agreeing to meet at night in
the tilt. Everywhere they looked, but nothing was discovered, and,
weary and disheartened, they turned back with dusk. Dick returned
across the first lake above the tilt. As he strode along one of his
snow-shoes pressed upon something hard, and he stopped to kick the
snow away from it. It was a deer's antler. He uncovered it farther and
found a chain, which he pulled up, disclosing a trap and in it a
silver fox, dead and frozen stiff. He straightened up and looked at
it.

"A Christmas present for Bob an' he never got un," he said aloud. "Th'
lad's sure perished not t' be findin' his silver."

Here was a discovery that meant something. Bob had been setting traps
in that direction, and might have a string of traps farther on.
Possibly he had gone to put them in order when the storm came, and had
been caught in it farther up, and perished. Anyway it was worth
investigation. When Dick returned with the fox and the trap to the
tilt he told the others of his theory and it was decided to
concentrate their efforts in that direction in the morning.

Accordingly the next day they pushed farther to the westward across
the second lake, and at a point where a dead tree hung out over the
ice found fresh axe cuttings. A little farther on they saw one or two
sapling tops chopped off. These were in a line to the northward, and
they took that direction. Finally they came upon a marsh, and heading
in the same northerly course across it, came upon the tracks of a pack
of wolves. Looking in the direction from which these led, Dick stopped
and pointed towards a high boulder half a mile to the eastward.

"Now what be that black on th' snow handy t' th' rock?" he asked.

"'Tis lookin' t' me like a flat sled," said Ed.

"We'll have a look at un," suggested Dick, who hurried forward with
the others at his heels. Suddenly he stopped, and pointed at the
beaten snow and scattered bones and torn clothing, where Micmac John
had fought so desperately for his life. The three men stood horror
stricken, their faces drawn and tense. This, then, was the solution of
the mystery! This was what had happened to Bob! Pretty soon Dick
spoke:

"Th' poor lad! Th' poor lad! An' th' wolves got un!"

"An' his poor mother," said Ed, choking. "'Twill break her heart, she
were countin' so on Bob. An' th' little maid as is sick--'twill kill
she."

"Yes," said Bill, "Emily'll be mournin' herself t' death wi'out Bob."

These big, soft-hearted trappers were all crying now like women. No
other thought occurred to them than that these ghastly remains were
Bob's, for the toboggan and things on it were his.

After a while they tenderly gathered up the human remains and placed
them upon the toboggan. Then they picked up the gun and blood
spattered axe.

"Now here be another axe on th' flat sled," said Dick. "What were Bob
havin' two axes for?"

"'Tis strange," said Ed.

"He must ha' had one cached in here, an' were bringin' un back,"
suggested Bill, and this seemed a satisfactory explanation.

"I'll take some pieces o' th' clothes. His mother'll be wantin'
somethin' that he wore when it happened," said Dick, as he gathered
some of the larger fragments of cloth from the snow.

Then with bowed heads and heavy hearts they silently retraced their
steps to the tilt, hauling the toboggan after them.

At the tilt they halted to arrange their future course of action.

"Now," said Dick, "what's t' be done? 'Twill only give pain th' sooner
t' th' family t' go out an' tell un, an' 'twill do no good. I'm
thinkin' 'tis best t' take th' remains t' th' river tilt an' not go
out with un till we goes home wi' open water."

"No, I'm not thinkin' that way," dissented Ed. "Bob's mother 'll be
wantin' t' know right off. 'Tis not right t' keep it from she, an'
she'll never be forgivin' us if we're doin' it."

"They's trouble enough down there that they _knows_ of," argued Dick.
"They'll be thinkin' Bob safe 'an not expectin' he till th' open water
an' we don't tell un, an' between now an' then have so much less t'
worry un, and be so much happier 'an if they were knowin'. Folks lives
only so long anyways an' troubles they has an' don't know about is
troubles they don't have, or th' same as not havin' un, an' their
lives is that much happier."

"I'm still thinkin' they'll be wantin' t' know," insisted Ed. "They'll
be plannin' th' whole winter for Bob's comin' an' when they's
expectin' him an' hears he's dead, 'twill be worse'n hearin' before
they expects un. Leastways, they'll be gettin' over un th' sooner
they hears, for trouble always wears off some wi' passin' time. 'Tis
our duty t' go an' tell un _now_, I'm thinkin'."

"What's un think, Bill?" asked Dick.

"I'm thinkin with Ed, 'tis best t' go," said Bill, positively.

"Well, maybe 'tis--maybe 'tis," Dick finally assented. "Now, who'll be
goin'? 'Twill be a wonderful hard task t' break th' news. I'm thinkin'
my heart'd be failin' me when I gets there. Ed, would un _mind_
goin'?"

Ed hesitated a moment, then he said:

"I'm fearin' t' tell th' mother, but 'tis for some one t' do. 'Tis my
duty t' do un--an' I'll be goin'."

It was finally arranged that Ed should begin his journey the following
morning, drawing the remains on a toboggan, and taking otherwise only
the tent, a tent stove, and enough food to see him through, leaving
the remainder of Bob's things to be carried out in the boat in the
spring. Dick undertook the charge of them as well as Bob's fur. Ed was
to take the short cut to the river tilt and thence follow the river
ice while Dick and Bill sprang Bob's traps on the upper end of his
path.

"But," said Bill, after this arrangement was made, "Bob's folks be in
sore need o' th' fur he'd be gettin' an' when Ed comes back, I'm
thinkin' 'twould be fine for us not t' be takin' rest o' Saturdays but
turnin' right back in th' trails. Ed can be doin' one tilt o' your
trail, Dick, an' so shortenin' your trail one tilt so you can do two
o' mine an' I'll shorten Ed two tilts an' do _three_ o' Bob's. I'd be
willin' t' work _Sundays_ an' I'm thinkin' th' Lard wouldn't be
findin' fault o' me for doin' un seem' Emily's needin' th' fur t' go
t' th' doctor. 'Tis sure th' Lard wouldn't be gettin' angry wi' me for
_that_, for He knows how bad off Emily is."

This generous proposal met with the approval of all, and details were
arranged accordingly that evening as to just what each was to do until
the furring season closed in the spring.

This was Saturday, December the twenty-eighth. On Sunday morning Ed
bade good-bye to his companions and began the long and lonely journey
to Wolf Bight with his ghastly charge in tow.




XII

IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES


Late on the afternoon of the day that Bob fell asleep in the snow, he
awoke to new and strange surroundings. His first conscious moments
brought with them a sense of comfortable security. His mind had thrown
off every feeling of responsibility and he knew only that he was warm
and snugly tucked into bed and that the odour of spruce forest and
wood smoke that he breathed was very pleasant. He lay quiet for a
time, with his eyes closed, in a state of blissful, half
consciousness, vaguely realizing these things, but not possessing
sufficient energy to open his eyes and investigate them or question
where he was.

Slowly his mind awoke from its lethargy and then he began to remember
as a dim, uncertain dream, his experience of the night before.
Gradually it became more real but he recalled his failure to find the
tent, the fearful groping in the snow, and his struggle for life
against the storm as something that had happened in the long distant
past.

"But how could all this ha' been happenin' t' me now?" he asked
himself, for here he was snug in the tent--or perhaps he had reached
the tilt and did not remember.

He opened his eyes now for the first time to see and satisfy himself
as to whether it was the tent or the tilt he was in, and what he saw
astonished and brought him to his senses very quickly.

He recognized at once the interior of an Indian wigwam. In the centre
a fire was burning and an Indian woman was leaning over it stirring
the contents of a kettle. On the opposite side of the fire from her
sat a young Indian maiden of about Bob's own age netting the babiche
in a snow-shoe, her fingers plying deftly in and out. The woman and
girl wore deerskin garments of peculiar design. The former was fat and
ugly, the latter slender, and very comely, he thought, from her sleek
black hair to her feet encased in daintily worked little moccasins. At
that moment she glanced towards him and said something to her
companion, who turned in his direction also.

"Where am I?" he asked wonderingly and with some alarm.

They both laughed and jabbered then in their Indian tongue but he
could not understand a word they said. The girl lay aside the
snow-shoe and babiche and, taking up a tin cup, dipped some hot broth
from the kettle and offered it to him. He accepted it gladly for he
was thirsty and felt unaccountably weak. The broth contained no salt
or flavouring of any kind, but was very refreshing. When he had
finished it he put the cup down and attempted to rise but this
movement brought forth a flood of Indian expostulations and he was
forced to lie quiet again.

It was very evident that he was either considered an invalid too ill
to move or was held in bondage. He had never heard that Indian
captives were tucked into soft deerskin robes and fed broth by comely
Indian maidens, however, and if he were a prisoner it did not promise
to be so very disagreeable a captivity.

On the whole it was very pleasant and restful lying there on the soft
skins of which his bed was composed, for he still felt tired and weak.
He took in every detail of his surroundings. The wigwam was circular
in form and of good size. It was made of reindeer skins stretched over
poles very dingy and black, with an opening at the top to permit the
smoke from the fire in the centre to escape. Flat stones raised
slightly above the ground served as a fireplace, and around it were
thickly laid spruce boughs. Some strips of jerked venison hung from
the poles above, and near his feet he glimpsed his own gun and powder
horn.

Bob could see at once that these Indians were much more primitive than
those he knew at the Bay and, unfamiliar as he was with the Indian
language, he noticed a marked difference in the intonation and
inflection when the woman spoke.

"Now," said Bob to himself, "th' Nascaupees must ha' found me an'
these be Nascaupees. But Mountaineers an' every one says Nascaupees be
savage an' cruel, an' I'm not knowin' what un be. 'Tis queer--most
wonderful queer."

He had no recollection of lying down in the snow. The last he could
definitely recall was his fearful battling with the storm. There was a
sort of hazy remembrance of something that he could not quite
grasp--of having gone to sleep somewhere in a snug, warm bed spread
with white sheets. Try as he would he could not explain his presence
in this Indian wigwam, nor could he tell how long he had been here. It
seemed to him years since the morning he left the tilt to go on the
caribou hunt.

So he lay for a good while trying to account for his strange
surroundings until at last he became drowsy and was on the point of
going to sleep when suddenly the entrance flap of the wigwam opened
and two Indians entered--the most savage looking men Bob had ever
seen--and he felt a thrill of fear as he beheld them. They were very
tall, slender, sinewy fellows, dressed in snug fitting deerskin coats
reaching half way to the knees and decorated with elaborately painted
designs in many colours. Their heads were covered with hairy hoods,
and the ears of the animal from which they were made gave a grotesque
and savage appearance to the wearers. Light fitting buckskin leggings,
fringed on the outer side, encased their legs, and a pair of deerskin
mittens dangled from the ends of a string which was slung around the
neck. One of the men was past middle age, the other a young fellow of
perhaps twenty.

The older woman said something to them and they began to jabber in so
high a tone of voice that Bob would have thought they were quarrelling
but for the fact that they laughed good-naturedly all the time and
came right over to where he lay to shake his hand. They had a good
deal to say to him, but he could not understand one word of their
language. After greeting him both men removed their outer coats and
hoods, and Bob could not but admire the graceful, muscular forms that
the buckskin undergarments displayed. Their hair was long, black and
straight and around their foreheads was tied a thong of buckskin to
keep it from falling over their faces.

They laughed at Bob's inability to understand them, and were much
amused when he tried to talk with them. Every effort was made to put
him at ease.

When the men were finally seated, the girl dipped out a cup of broth
and a dish of venison stew from the kettle which she handed to Bob;
then the others helped themselves from what remained. There was no
bread nor tea, and nothing to eat but the unflavoured meat.

It was quite dark now and the fire cast weird, uncanny shadows on the
dimly-lighted interior walls of the wigwam. The Indians sitting around
it in their peculiar dress seemed like unreal inhabitants of some
spirit world. Bob's coming to himself in this place and amongst these
people appealed to him as miraculous--supernatural. He could not
understand it at all. He began to plan an escape. When they were all
asleep he could steal quietly out and make his way back to the tilt.
But, then, he reasoned, if they wished to detain him they could easily
track him in the snow in the morning; and, besides, he did not know
where his snow-shoes were and without them he could not go far.
Neither did he know how far he was from the tilt. After the Indians
had found him they may have carried him several days' journey to their
camp and whether they had gone west or north he had no way of finding
out.

It was, therefore, he realized, an unquestionably hopeless undertaking
for him to attempt to reach his tilt alone, and he finally dismissed
the idea as impracticable. Perhaps in the morning he could induce them
to take him there. That, he concluded, was the only plan for him to
follow. So far they had been very kind and he could see no reason why
they should wish to detain him against his will.

The Indians were indeed Nascaupee Indians, but instead of being the
ruthless cut-throats that the Mountaineers and the legends of the
coast had painted them, they were human and hospitable, as all our
eastern Indians were before white men taught them to be thieves and
drove and goaded them--by the white man's own treachery--to acts of
reprisal and revenge.

These Nascaupees, living as they did in a country inaccessible to the
white ravishers, had none but kindly motives in their treatment of Bob
and had no desire to do him harm. On the morning that Bob fell in the
snow Shish-e-tá-ku-shin--Loud-voice--and his son Moó-koo-mahn--Big
Knife--had left their wigwam early to hunt. Not far away they crossed
Bob's trail. Their practiced eye told them that the traveller was not
an Indian, for the snow-shoes he wore were not of Indian make, and
also, from the uncertain, wobbly trail, they decided that he was far
spent. So they followed the tracks and within a few minutes after Bob
had fallen found him. They carried him to the wigwam and rubbed his
frosted limbs and face until it was quite safe to wrap him in the
deerskins in the warm wigwam.

They did not know who he was nor where he came from, but they did know
that he needed care and several days of quiet. He was a stranger and
they took him in. These poor heathens had never heard of Christ or His
teachings, but their hearts were human. And so it was that Bob found
himself amongst friends and was rescued from what seemed certain
death.

When morning came Bob tried in every conceivable way to make them
understand that he wished to be taken back, but he found it a quite
hopeless task. No signs or pantomime could make them comprehend his
meaning, and it appeared that he was doomed to remain with them. The
shock of exposure had been so great that he was still very weak and
not able to walk, as he quickly realized when he tried to move about,
and he was compelled to remain within in the company of the women, in
spite of his desire to go out and reconnoitre.

Ma-ni-ka-wan, the maiden, took it upon herself to be his nurse. She
brought him water to bathe his face, which was very sore from
frostbite, and gave him the choicest morsels from the kettle, and made
him as comfortable as possible.

At first he held a faint hope that when Bill missed him at the tilt, a
search would be made for him and his friends would find the wigwam.
But as the days slipped by he realized that he would probably never be
discovered. There came a fear that the news of his disappearance would
be carried to Wolf Bight and he dreaded the effect upon his mother and
Emily.

But there was one consolation. Emily could go to the hospital now and
be cured. Bill would find the silver fox skin and his share of that
and the other furs would pay not only his own but his father's debts,
he felt sure, as well as all the expense of Emily's treatment by the
doctor--and a good surplus of cash--how much he could not imagine and
did not try to calculate--for the doctor had said that silver foxes
were worth five hundred dollars in cash. This thought gave him a
degree of satisfaction that towered so far above his troubles that he
almost forgot them.

In a little while he was quite strong and active again. Finally a day
came when the Indians made preparations to move. The wigwam was taken
down and with all their belongings packed upon toboggans, and under
the cold stars of a January morning, they turned to the northward, and
Bob had no other course than to go with them even farther from the
loved ones and the home that his heart so longed to see.




XIII

A FOREBODING OF EVIL


Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a
time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in
September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise
and confusion that always followed him no less than his little
thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his
young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side.
He had helped Emily to pass the time less wearily, often sitting for
hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her,
or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps
more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so
after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door
half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come
back from the fishing, and then she would realize that he was really
gone away, and would turn her face to the wall, that her mother might
not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness.

Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season
was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in
preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each
morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of
evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of
the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she
looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should
open the door, and call out to her,

"An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without
her daddy?"

And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome
without daddy."

Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch,
before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of
doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her
forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while
he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they
went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the
Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for
His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with
the petition,

"An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees
an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must
be knowin' what a good little maid she is."

Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence
that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and
she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood.

Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that
was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no
pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to.
The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no
callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a
while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from
Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up.

Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she
was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would
think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy
she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long
absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness
that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his
adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she
called her mother to her and asked:

"Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?"

"'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that
mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year."

"An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?"

"A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then."

"'Tis a long while t' wait--a _terrible_ long while t' be waitin'--t'
th' New Year."

"Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But
don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long
cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up.
But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid
is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise."

"An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how _wonderful_ lonesome we
were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin'
lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' _dreadful_ lonesome away off in
th' bush this long time! He'll _sure_ be comin' at th' New Year!"

After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She
had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve,
and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be
comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he
would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for
Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy
time when she should see him.

Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of
calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning
she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of
sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the
preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would
relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence
was always with her.

One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent,
and he asked:

"Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind.
Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be
comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine
hunt."

"I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I
has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off.
I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an'
th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she
an' make she walk."

"'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be
makin' she well at th' hospital."

"But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't
go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well."

"Now don't be lettin' _that_ worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a
way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th'
spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard
always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid.
He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out
walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way
afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th'
freeze up."

"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th'
Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants
He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers
th' way as is best."

This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that
burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off.

All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world,
with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well
filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An
inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of
the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal
across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast
drawing to a close.

Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful--more plentiful
than it had been for years--and he was hopeful that by spring he would
have enough to pay all his back debt at the company store and be on
his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good
humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with
satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily--beautiful black otters, martens,
minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes.

"I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he
announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?"

"Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An'
Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time
together before you an' Bob goes away again."

"In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an'
komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he
asked his wife.

"We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested,
"th' next day's Christmas, Richard."

"Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un
what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin'
she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin' round last
Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he."

Emily looked up wistfully.

"An' you are thinkin' he'll have _time_ t' come here wi' all th'
places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!"

"I'll just make un--I'll just _make_ un," said her father. "I'll not
let un pass my maid _every_ time."

Emily was awake early the next morning--before daybreak. Her father
was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and
jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their
expectant howls,--and the dogs never howled just like that under any
other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett--hoo-ett" as he gave them
the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the
brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!--ouk! ouk! ouk!"

It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and
perhaps--perhaps--Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her
mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would
bring her.

Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs
outside and presently he came in carrying his komatik box, his beard
weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost.

"Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey
over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare
scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year--a _rare_ scoldin'--an'
I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un by _this_ Christmas. He'll not be
wantin' _another_ such scoldin'."

"Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a
wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded
now. He's sure doin' th' best he can--I _knows_ he's doin' th' best he
can."

"He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maid _two_ year
runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up
his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he
extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin'
Bessie were sendin'."

"Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package
and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'--an' a paper
with some writin'!"

Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out
the message.

[Illustration (handwriting): to dear emily Wishin mery Crismus from
Bessie]

"Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding
regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't
a thing t' send."

"Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an'
runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a
word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from
Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then
Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit
Emily."

"An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked
Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily.

"I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait
till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in
from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help."

"An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured
the tea.

"Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in."

"An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay
th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way
for debt."

"Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis
th' way un always runs."

"'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently.

"The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they
reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin'
Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush."

"Oh, I'm hopin'--I'm hopin' so--for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis
how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th'
doctor--an' he comes back safe."

"I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an'
they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th'
nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad."

"Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's
relievin' my mind wonderful--relievin'--it--wonderful."

There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of
thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for
family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness
in their hearts when they went to their night's rest.




XIV

THE SHADOW OF DEATH


The kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and Mrs. Gray was setting
the breakfast table, when Emily awoke on Christmas morning. Her father
was just coming in from out-of-doors bringing a breath of the fresh
winter air with him.

"A Merry Christmas," he called to her. "A Merry Christmas t' my maid!"

"And did Santa Claus come?" she asked, looking around expectantly.

"Santa Claus? There now!" he exclaimed, "an' has th' old rascal been
forgettin' t' come again? Has you seen any signs o' Santa Claus bein'
here?" he asked of Mrs. Gray, as though thinking of it for the first
time. Then, turning towards the wall back of the stove, he exclaimed,
"Ah! Ah! an' what's _this_?"

Emily looked, and there, sitting upon the shelf, was a doll!

"Oh! Oh, th' dear little thing!" she cried. "Oh, let me have un!"

Mrs. Gray took it down and handed it to her, and she hugged it to her
in an ecstasy of delight. Then she held it off and looked at it, and
hugged again, and for very joy she wept. It was only a poor little rag
doll with face and hair grotesquely painted upon the cloth, and
dressed in printed calico--but it was a doll--a _real_ one--the first
that Emily had ever owned. It had been the dream of her life that some
day she might have one, and now the dream was a blessed reality. Her
happiness was quite beyond expression as she lay there on her bed that
Christmas morning pressing the doll to her breast and crying. Poverty
has its seasons of recompense that more than counterbalance all the
pleasures that wealth can buy, and this was one of those seasons for
the family of Richard Gray.

Presently Emily stopped crying, and through the tears came laughter,
and she held the toy out for her father and mother to take and examine
and admire.

A little later Mrs. Gray came from the closet holding a mysterious
package in her hand.

"Now what be _this_? 'Twere in th' closet an' looks like somethin'
more Santa Claus were leavin'."

"Well now!" exclaimed Richard, "what may _that_ be? Open un an' we'll
see."

An investigation of its contents revealed a couple of pounds of sugar,
some currants, raisins and a small can of butter.

"Santa Claus were wantin' us t' have a plum puddin' _I'm_ thinkin',"
said Mrs. Gray, as she examined each article and showed it to Emily.
"An' we're t' have sugar for th' tea and butter for th' bread. But th'
puddin's not t' get _all_ th' raisins. Emily's t' have some t' eat
after we has breakfast."

Dinner was a great success. There were roast ptarmigans stuffed with
fine-chopped pork and bread, and the unwonted luxuries of butter and
sugar--and then the plum pudding served with molasses for sauce. That
was fine, and Emily had to have two helpings of it. If Bob had been
with them their cup of happiness would have been filled quite to the
brim, and more than once Emily exclaimed:

"Now if _Bob_ was only here!" And several times during the day she
said, "I'm just _wishin'_ t' show Bob my pretty doll--an' won't he be
glad t' see un!"

The report from the Mountaineer Indians that no Nascaupees had been
seen had set at rest their fears for the lad's safety. The
apprehension that he might get into the hands of the Nascaupees had
been the chief cause of worry, for they felt full confidence in Bob's
ability to cope with the wilderness itself.

The day was so full of surprises and new sensations that when bedtime
came Emily was quite tired out with the excitement of it all, and was
hardly able to keep awake until the family worship was closed. Then
she went to sleep with the doll in her arms.

The week from Christmas till New Year passed quickly. Richard Gray was
at home, and this was a great treat for Mrs. Gray and Emily, and with
several of their neighbours who lived within ten to twenty miles of
Wolf Bight driving over with dogs to spend a few hours--for most of
the men were home from their traps for the holidays--the time was
pretty well filled up. Emily's doll was a never failing source of
amusement to her, and she always slept with it in her arms.

Over at the Post it was a busy week for Mr. MacDonald and his people,
for all the Bay hunters and Indians had trading to do, and most of
them remained at least one night to gossip and discuss their various
prospects and enjoy the hospitality of the kitchen; and then there was
a dance nearly every night, for this was their season of amusement and
relaxation in the midst of the months of bitter hardships on the
trail.

Bessie and her mother had not a moment to themselves, with all the
extra cooking and cleaning to be done, for it fell upon them to
provide for every one; and it became quite evident to Bessie that she
could not get away for her proposed visit to Wolf Bight until the last
of the hunters was gone. This would not be until the day after New
Year's, so she postponed her request to her father, to take her over,
until New Year's day. Then she watched for a favourable opportunity
when she was alone with him and her mother. Finally it came late in
the afternoon, when he stepped into the house for something, and she
asked him timidly:

"Father, I'm wantin' t' go on a cruise t' Wolf Bight--t' see
Emily--can't you take me over with th dogs an' komatik?"

"When you wantin' t' go, lass?" he asked.

"I'm wishin' t' be goin' to-morrow."

"I'm t' be wonderful busy for a few days. Can't un wait a week or
two?"

"I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait."

"Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake.

"Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're
wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?"

"'Tis--Emily--I'm wantin'--t'--see," faltered Bessie, blushing
prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly
very much interested.

"Bob's a fine lad--a fine lad--an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father
teasingly.

"Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O'
course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th'
lads yet."

"Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at
Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not
blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself."

"Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept
wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good,"
urged Mrs. Black.

"I wants t' go _so_ much," Bessie pleaded.

"Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin'
'twill be all right," he finally assented.

And it was all right. When the last hunter had disappeared the next
morning, the komatik was got ready. A box made for the purpose was
lashed on the back end of it, and warm reindeer skins spread upon the
bottom for Bessie to sit upon. Then the nine big dogs were called by
shouting "Ho! Ho! Ho!" to them, and were caught and harnessed, after
which Tom cracked a long walrus-hide whip over their heads, and made
them lie quiet until Bessie was tucked snugly in the box, and wrapped
well in deerskin robes.

When at last all was ready the father stepped aside with his whip, and
immediately the dogs were up jumping and straining in their harness
and giving short impatient howls, over eager to be away. Tom grasped
the front end of the komatik runners, pulled them sharply to one side
to break them loose from the snow to which they were frozen, and
instantly the dogs were off at a gallop running like mad over the ice
with the trailing komatik in imminent danger of turning over when it
struck the ice hummocks that the tide had scattered for some distance
out from the shore.

Presently they calmed down, however, to a jog trot, and Tom got off
the komatik and ran by its side, guiding the team by calling out "ouk"
when he wanted to turn to the right and "rudder" to turn to the left,
repeating the words many times in rapid succession as though trying to
see how fast he could say them. The head dog, or leader, always turned
quickly at the word of command, and the others followed.

It was a very cold day--fifty degrees below zero Mr. MacDonald had
said before they started--and Bessie's father looked frequently to see
that her nose and cheeks were not freezing, for a traveller in the
northern country when not exercising violently will often have these
parts of the face frozen without knowing it or even feeling cold, and
if the wind is blowing in the face is pretty sure to have them frosted
anyway.

Most of the snow had drifted off the ice, and the dogs had a good hard
surface to travel upon, and were able to keep up a steady trot. They
made such good time that in two hours they turned into Wolf Bight, and
as they approached the Grays' cabin broke into a gallop, for dogs
always like to begin a journey and end it with a flourish of speed
just to show how fast they _can_ go, no matter how slowly they may jog
along between places.

The dogs at Wolf Bight were out to howl defiance at them as they
approached and to indulge in a free fight with the newcomers when they
arrived, until the opposing ones were beaten apart with clubs and
whips. It is a part of a husky dog's religion to fight whenever an
excuse offers, and often when there is no excuse.

Richard and Mrs. Gray came running out to meet Tom and Bessie, and
Bessie was hurried into the cabin where Emily was waiting in excited
expectancy to greet her. Mrs. Gray bustled about at once and brewed
some hot tea for the visitors and set out a luncheon of bread for
them.

"Now set in an' have a hot drink t' warm un up," said she when it was
ready. "You must be most froze, Bessie, this frosty day."

"I were warm wrapped in th' deerskins, an' not so cold," Bessie
answered.

"We were lookin' for Bob these three days," remarked Mrs. Gray as she
poured the tea. "We were thinkin' he'd sure be gettin' lonesome by
now, an' be makin' a cruise out."

"'Tis a long cruise from th' Big Hill trail unless he were needing
somethin'," suggested Tom, taking his seat at the table.

"Aye," assented Richard, "an' I'm thinkin' th' lad'll not be wantin'
t' lose th' time 'twill take t' come out. He'll be biding inside t'
make th' most o' th' huntin', an' th' fur be plenty."

"That un will," agreed Tom, "an' 'twould not be wise for un t' be
losin' a good three weeks o' huntin'. Bob's a workin' lad, an' I'm not
thinkin' you'll see he till open water comes."

"Oh," broke in Emily, "an' don't un _really_ think Bob's t' come? I
been wishin' _so_ for un, an' 'twould be grand t' have he come while
Bessie's here."

"Bessie's thinkin' 'twould too," said Tom, who could not let pass an
opportunity to tease his daughter.

They all looked at Bessie, who blushed furiously, but said nothing,
realizing that silence was the best means of diverting her father's
attention from the subject, and preventing his further remarks.

"Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from
the table.

"Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so
soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard.

"I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so
promisin' I has t' go."

"Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th'
night."

"When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom.

"Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a _long_ time," plead Emily. "I've been
wishin' t' have she _so_ much. Please be leavin' she a _long_ time."

"Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though
I'd like t' bide longer."

"Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily
a fortnight," her father suggested.

"I'll take th' lass over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard.
"'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be
doin' your lass good."

So it was agreed, and Tom drove away.

It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did
not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and
her presence brightened the cabin very much.

No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by
Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a
splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very
pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the
Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with
"th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security
that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter.

When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's
arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his
earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now,
and Emily was as happy as could be.

Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished
eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home,
admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and
talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the
dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the
threshold.

Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and
his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy
burden upon his shoulders.

It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she
knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she
would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him
and cried in agony:

"Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!"

"Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un."

He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he
sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face
in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child.

Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or
understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint,
and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried
gently to soothe her.

Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little
that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief.

At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----"
upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally
tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the
first effects of the shock.

Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest
detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step,
beginning with the arrival of himself and Dick at the river tilt on
Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and
passed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the
marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller
explanation here and there.

When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked
to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait
until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was
determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was
nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she
made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand
trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained
pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she
raised her head and announced:

"None o' _them_ were ever a part o' Bob's clothes."

"Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her
decision.

"None of un were _Bob's_. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes,
an'--I--_knows_: I _knows_," she insisted.

"But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said
Ed.

"Th' _clothes_ were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my
lad is livin'--somewheres--I _feels_ my lad is livin'," she asserted.

Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other
on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question.

"Why," she asked, "had he two axes?"

It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip
and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the
previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not
likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that
he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for
him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he
left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe
in any of the tilts.

"Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's
axe."

The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found
were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive
that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that
Bob still lived. She asserted that he was alive as one states a fact
that one knows is beyond question. The circumstantial evidence against
her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason,
and her conclusions she will hold against the world.

"I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t'
do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on
th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days
at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door.

Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before
returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie
were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair.

That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs.
Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly
speak:

"Mother."

She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek.

"Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?"

"Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His
mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, lass, an' th'
Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he."

"But," she insisted, "he's an angel now _if_ th' wolves killed un?"

"Yes, dear."

"An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves,
don't He, mother?"

"Be quiet now, lass."

"But He does?" persisted the child.

"Aye, He does."

"Then if Bob were killed, mother, he'll sure be comin' t' see us. His
angel'd never be restin' easy in heaven wi'out comin' t' see us, for
he knows how sore we longs t' see un."

The mother drew the child to her heart and sobbed.




XV

IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN


Day after day the Indians travelled to the northward, drawing their
goods after them on toboggans, over frozen rivers and lakes, or
through an ever scantier growth of trees. With every mile they
traversed Bob's heart grew heavier in his bosom, for he was constantly
going farther from home, and the prospect of return was fading away
with each sunset. He knew that they were moving northward, for always
the North Star lay before them when they halted for the night, and
always a wilder, more unnatural country surrounded them. Finally a
westerly turn was taken, and he wondered what their goal might be.

Cold and bitter was the weather. The great limitless wilderness was
frozen into a deathlike silence, and solemn and awful was the vast
expanse of white that lay everywhere around them. They, they alone, it
seemed, lived in all the dreary world. The icy hand of January had
crushed all other creatures into oblivion. No deer, no animals of any
kind crossed their trail. Their food was going rapidly, and they were
now reduced to a scanty ration of jerked venison.

At last they halted one day by the side of a brook and pitched their
wigwam. Then leaving the women to cut wood and put the camp in order,
the two Indians shouldered their guns and axes, and made signs to Bob
to follow them, which he gladly did.

They ascended the frozen stream for several miles, when suddenly they
came upon a beaver dam and the dome-shaped house of the animals
themselves, nearly hidden under the deep covering of snow. The house
had apparently been located earlier in the season, for now the Indians
went directly to it as a place they were familiar with.

Here they began at once to clear away the snow from the ice at one
side of the house, using their snow-shoes as shovels. When this was
done, a pole was cut, and to the end of the pole a long iron spike was
fastened. With this improvised implement Sishetakushin began to pick
away the ice where the snow had been cleared from it, while Mookoomahn
cut more poles.

[Illustration: "It was dangerous work"]

Though the ice was fully four feet thick Sishetakushin soon reached
the water. Then the other poles that Mookoomahn had cut were driven in
close to the house.

Bob understood that this was done to prevent the escape of the
animals, and that they were closing the door, which was situated so
far down that it would always be below the point where ice would form,
so that the beavers could go in and out at will.

After these preparations were completed the Indians cleared the snow
from the top of the beaver house, and then broke an opening into the
house itself. Into this aperture Sishetakushin peered for a moment,
then his hand shot down, and like a flash reappeared holding a beaver
by the hind legs, and before the animal had recovered sufficiently
from its surprise to bring its sharp teeth into action in
self-defense, the Indian struck it a stinging blow over the head and
killed it. Then in like manner another animal was captured and killed.
It was dangerous work and called for agility and self-possession, for
had the Indian made a miscalculation or been one second too slow the
beaver's teeth, which crush as well as cut, would have severed his
wrist or arm.

There were two more beavers--a male and a female--in the house, but
these were left undisturbed to raise a new family, and the stakes that
had closed the door were removed.

This method of catching beavers was quite new to Bob, who had always
seen his father and the other hunters of the Bay capture them in steel
traps. It was his first lesson in the Indian method of hunting.

That evening the flesh of the beavers went into the kettle, and their
oily tails--the greatest tidbit of all--were fried in a pan. The
Indians made a feast time of it, and never ceased eating the livelong
night. This day of plenty came in cheerful contrast to the cheerless
nights with scanty suppers following the weary days of plodding that
had preceded. The glowing fire in the centre, the appetizing smell of
the kettle and sizzling fat in the pan, and the relaxation and mellow
warmth as they reclined upon the boughs brought a sense of real
comfort and content.

The next day they remained in camp and rested, but the following
morning resumed the dreary march to the westward.

After many more days of travelling--Bob had lost all measure of
time--they reached the shores of a great lake that stretched away
until in the far distance its smooth white surface and the sky were
joined. The Indians pointed at the expanse of snow-covered ice, and
repeated many times, "Petitsikapau--Petitsikapau," and Bob decided
that this must be what they called the lake; but the name was wholly
unfamiliar to him. In like manner they had indicated that a river they
had travelled upon for some distance farther back, after crossing a
smaller lake, was called "Ashuanipi," but he had never heard of it
before.

The wigwam was pitched upon the shores of Petitsikapau Lake, where
there was a thick growth of willows upon the tender tops of which
hundreds of ptarmigans--the snow-white grouse of the arctic--were
feeding; and rabbits had the snow tramped flat amongst the underbrush,
offering an abundance of fresh food to the hunters, a welcome change
from the unvaried fare of dried venison.

Bob drew from the elaborate preparations that were made that they were
to stop here for a considerable time. Snow was banked high against the
skin covering of the wigwam to keep out the wind more effectually, an
unusually thick bed of spruce boughs was spread within, and a good
supply of wood was cut and neatly piled outside.

The women did all the heavy work and drudgery about camp, and it
troubled Bob not a little to see them working while the men were idle.
Several times he attempted to help them, but his efforts were met with
such a storm of protestations and disapproval, not only from the men,
but the women also, that he finally refrained.

"'Tis strange now th' women isn't wantin' t' be helped," Bob remarked
to himself. "Mother's always likin' t' have me help she."

It was quite evident that the men considered this camp work beneath
their dignity as hunters, and neither did they wish Bob, to whom they
had apparently taken a great fancy, to do the work of a squaw. They
had, to all appearances, accepted him as one of the family and treated
him in all respects as such, and, he noted this with growing
apprehension, as though he were always to remain with them.

They began now to initiate him into the mysteries of their
trapping methods, which were quite different from those with
which he was accustomed. Instead of the steel trap they used the
deadfall--wa-neé-gan--and the snare--nug-wah-gun--and Bob won the
quick commendation and plainly shown admiration of the Indians by the
facility with which he learned to make and use them, and his prompt
success in capturing his fair share of martens, which were fairly
numerous in the woods back of the lake.

But when he took his gun and shot some ptarmigans one day, they gave
him to understand that this was a wasteful use of ammunition, and
showed him how they killed the birds with bow and arrow. To shoot the
arrows straight, however, was an art that he could not acquire
readily, and his efforts afforded Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn much
amusement.

"The's no shootin' straight wi' them things," Bob declared to himself,
after several unsuccessful attempts to hit a ptarmigan. "Leastways I'm
not knowin' how. But th' Injuns is shootin' un fine, an' I'm wonderin'
now how they does un."

With no one that could understand him Bob had unconsciously dropped
into the habit of talking a great deal to himself. It was not very
satisfactory, however, and there were always questions arising that
he wished to ask. He had, therefore, devoted himself since his advent
amongst the Indians to learning their language, and every day he
acquired new words and phrases. Manikawan would pronounce the names of
objects for him and have him repeat them after her until he could
speak them correctly, laughing merrily at his blunders.

It does not require a large vocabulary to make oneself understood, and
in an indescribably short time Bob had picked up enough Indian to
converse brokenly, and one day, shortly after the arrival at
Petitsikapau he found he was able to explain to Sishetakushin where he
came from and his desire to return to the Big Hill trail and the Grand
River country.

"It is not good to dwell on the great river of the evil spirits" (the
Grand River), said the Indian. "Be contented in the wigwam of your
brothers."

Bob parleyed and plead with them, and when he finally insisted that
they take him back to the place where they had found him, he was met
with the objection that it was "many sleeps towards the rising sun,"
that the deer had left the land as he had seen for himself, and if
they turned back their kettle would have no flesh and their stomachs
would be empty.

"We are going," said Sishetakushin, "where the deer shall be found
like the trees of the forest, and there our brother shall feast and be
happy."

So Bob's last hope of reaching home vanished.

Manikawan's kindness towards him grew, and she was most attentive to
his comfort. She gave him the first helping of "nab-wi"--stew--from
the kettle, and kept his clothing in good repair. His old moccasins
she replaced with new ones fancifully decorated with beads, and his
much-worn duffel socks with warm ones made of rabbit skins. Everything
that the wilderness provided he had from her hand. But still he was
not happy. There was an always present longing for the loved ones in
the little cabin at Wolf Bight. He never could get out of his mind his
mother's sad face on the morning he left her, dear patient little
Emily on her couch, and his father, who needed his help so much,
working alone about the house or on the trail. And sometimes he
wondered if Bessie ever thought of him, and if she would be sorry when
she heard he was lost.

"Manikawan an' all th' Injuns be wonderful kind, but 'tis not like
bein' home," he would often say sadly to himself when he lay very
lonely at night upon his bed of boughs and skins.

At first Manikawan's attentions were rather agreeable to Bob, but he
was not accustomed to being waited upon, and in a little while they
began to annoy him and make him feel ill at ease, and finally to
escape from them he rarely ever remained in the wigwam during daylight
hours.

"I'm wishin' she'd not be troublin' wi' me so--I'm not wantin' un," he
declared almost petulantly at times when the girl did something for
him that he preferred to do himself.

Mornings he would wander down through the valley attending to his
deadfalls and snares, and afternoons tramp over the hills in the hope
of seeing caribou.

One afternoon two weeks after the arrival at Petitsikapau he was
skirting a precipitous hill not far from camp, when suddenly the snow
gave way under his feet and he slipped over a low ledge. He did not
fall far, and struck a soft drift below, and though startled at the
unexpected descent was not injured. When he got upon his feet again he
noticed what seemed a rather peculiar opening in the rock near the
foot of the ledge, where his fall had broken away the snow, and upon
examining it found that the crevice extended back some eight or ten
feet and then broadened into a sort of cavern.

"'Tis a strange place t' be in th' rocks," he commented. "I'm thinkin'
I'll have a look at un."

Kicking off his snow-shoes and standing his gun outside he proceeded
to crawl in on all fours. When he reached the point of broadening he
found the cavern within so dark that he could see nothing of its
interior, and he advanced cautiously, extending one arm in front of
him that he might not strike his head against protruding rocks. All at
once his hand came in contact with something soft and warm. He drew it
back with a jerk, and his heart stood still. He had touched the shaggy
coat of a bear. He was in a bear's den and within two feet of the
sleeping animal. He expected the next moment to be crushed under the
paws of the angry beast, and was quite astonished when he found that
it had not been aroused.

Cautiously and noiselessly Bob backed quickly out of the dangerous
place. The moment he was out and found himself on his feet again with
his gun in his hands his courage returned, and he began to make plans
for the capture of the animal.

"'Twould be fine now t' kill un an' 'twould please th' Injuns
wonderful t' get th' meat," he said. "I'm wonderin' could I get un--if
'tis a bear."

He stooped and looked into the cave again, but it was as dark as night
in there, and he could see nothing of the bear. Then he cut a long
pole with his knife and reached in with it until he felt the soft
body. A strong prod brought forth a protesting growl. Bruin did not
like to have his slumbers disturbed.

"Sure '_tis_ a bear an' that's wakenin' un," he commented.

Bob prodded harder and the growls grew louder and angrier.

"He's not wantin' t' get out o' bed," said Bob prodding vigorously.

Finally there was a movement within the den, and Bob sprang back and
made ready with his gun. He had barely time to get into position when
the head of an enormous black bear appeared in the cave entrance, its
eyes flashing fire and showing fight. Bob's heart beat excitedly, but
he kept his nerve and took a steady aim. The animal was not six feet
away from him when he fired. Then he turned and ran down the hill,
never looking behind until he was fully two hundred yards from the den
and realized that there was no sound in the rear.

The bear was not in sight and he cautiously retraced his steps until
he saw the animal lying where it had fallen. The bullet had taken it
squarely between the eyes and killed it instantly. This was the first
bear that Bob had ever killed unaided and he was highly elated at his
success.

It was not an easy task to get the carcass out of the rock crevice,
but he finally accomplished it and outside quickly skinned the bear
and cut the meat into pieces of convenient size to haul away on a
toboggan when he should return for it. Then, with the skin as a
trophy, he triumphantly turned towards camp.

Night had fallen when he reached the wigwam and Sishetakushin and
Mookoomahn had already arrived after their day's hunt. It was a proud
moment for Bob when he entered the lodge and threw down the bear skin
for their inspection. They spread it out and examined it, and a great
deal of talking ensued. Bob, in the best Indian he could command,
explained where he had found the "mushku" and how he had killed it,
and his story was listened to with intense interest. When he was
through Sishetakushin said that the "Snow Brother," as they called
Bob, was a great hunter, and should be an Indian; for only an Indian
would have the courage to attack a bear in its den single handed. Bob
had risen very perceptibly in their estimation. All doubt of his skill
and prowess as a hunter had been removed. He had won a new place, and
was now to be considered as their equal in the chase.

The following morning the two Indians assisted Bob to haul the bear's
meat to camp. No part of it was allowed to waste. In the wigwam it was
thawed and then the flesh stripped from the bones, and that not
required for immediate use was permitted to freeze again that it might
keep sweet until needed. The skull was thoroughly cleaned and fastened
to a high branch of a tree as an offering to the Manitou.
Sishetakushin explained to Bob that unless this was done the Great
Spirit would punish them by driving all other bears beyond the reach
of their guns and traps in future.

For several days a storm had been threatening, and that night it broke
with all the terrifying fury of the north. The wind shrieked through
the forest and shook the wigwam as though it would tear it away. The
air was filled with a swirling, blinding mass of snow and any one
venturing a dozen paces from the lodge could hardly have found his way
back to it again. For three days the storm lasted, and the Indians
turned these three days into a period of feasting. A big kettle of
bear's meat always hung over the fire, and surrounding it pieces of
the meat were impaled upon sticks to roast. It seemed to Bob as though
the Indians would never have enough to eat.

Finally the storm cleared, and then it was discovered that the
ptarmigans and rabbits, which had been so plentiful and constituted
their chief source of food supply, had disappeared as if by magic. Not
a ptarmigan fluttered before the hunter, and no rabbit tracks broke
the smooth white snow beneath the bushes.

The jerked venison was gone and the only food remaining was the bear
meat. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to push on
still farther to the northward in the hope of meeting the invisible
herds of caribou that somewhere in those limitless, frozen barrens
were wandering unmolested.




XVI

ONE OF THE TRIBE


If Bob Gray had held any secret hope that the Indians would eventually
listen to his plea to guide him back to the Big Hill trail it was
mercilessly swept away by the next move, for again they faced steadily
towards the north. Whenever he thought of home a lump came into his
throat, but he always swallowed it bravely and said to himself:

"'Tis wrong now t' be grievin' when I has so much t' be thankful for.
Bill'll be takin' th' silver fox an' other fur out, and when father
sells un 'twill pay for Emily's goin' t' th' doctor. Th' Lard saved me
from freezin', an' I'm well an' th' Injuns be wonderful good t' me.
Maybe some time they'll be goin' back th' Big Hill way--maybe 'twill
be next winter--an' then I'll be gettin' home."

In this manner the hope of youth always conquered, and his desperate
situation was to some extent forgotten in the pictures he drew for
himself of his reunion with the loved ones in the uncertain "Sometime"
of the future.

On and on they travelled through the endless, boundless white, over
wind-swept rocky hills so inhospitably barren that even the snow could
not find a lodgment on them, or over wide plains where the few trees
that grew had been stunted and gnarled into mere shrubs by winter
blasts. On every hand the mountains began to raise their ragged
austere heads like grim giant sentinels placed there to guard the way.
Finally they turned into a pass, which brought them, on the other side
of the ridge it led through, to a comparatively well-wooded valley
down which a wide river wound its way northward. The trees were larger
than any Bob had seen since leaving the Big Hill trail, and this new
valley seemed almost familiar to him.

As they emerged from the pass a wolf cry, long and weird, came from a
distant mountainside and broke the wilderness stillness, which had
become almost insufferable, and to the lad even this wild cry held a
note of companionship that was pleasant to hear after the long and
deathlike quiet that had prevailed.

They took to the river ice and travelled on it for several miles
when, rounding a bend, they suddenly came upon a cluster of half a
dozen deerskin wigwams standing in the spruce trees just above the
river bank. An Indian from one of the lodges discovered their
approach, and gave a shout. Instantly men, women and children sprang
into view and came running out to welcome them. It was a curious,
medley crowd. The men were clad in long, decorated deerskin coats such
as Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn wore, and the women in deerskin skirts
reaching a little way below the knees, and all wearing the fringed
buckskin leggings.

The greeting was cordial and noisy, everybody shaking hands with the
new arrivals, talking in the high key characteristic of them, and
laughing a great deal. Two of the men embraced Sishetakushin and
Mookoomahn and shed copious tears of joy over them. These two men it
appeared were Mookoomahn's brothers. The women were not so
demonstrative, but showed their delight in a ceaseless flow of words.

When the first greetings were over Sishetakushin told the assembled
Indians how Bob had been found sleeping in the snow, and that the
Great Spirit had sent the White Snow Brother to dwell in their lodges
as one of them. After this introduction and a rather magnified
description of his accomplishments as a hunter they all shook Bob's
hand and welcomed him as one of the tribe.

A few caribou had been killed, and the travellers received gifts of
the frozen meat with a good proportion of fat, and that night a great
feast was held in their behalf.

With plenty to eat there was no occasion to hunt and the Indians were
living in idleness during the intensely cold months of January and
February, rarely venturing out of the wigwams. This was not only for
their comfort, but because the fur bearing animals lie quiet during
this cold period of the winter and the hunt would therefore yield
small reward for the exposure and suffering it would entail.

They had an abundance of tobacco and tea. Sishetakushin and his family
had been without these luxuries, and it seemed to Bob that he had
never tasted anything half so delicious as the first cup of tea he
drank. His Indian friends could not understand at first his refusal of
their proffered gifts of "stemmo"--tobacco--but he told them finally
that it would make him sick, and then they accepted his excuse and
laughed at him good naturedly.

Manikawan had never ceased her attentions to Bob, and the others of
her family seemed to have come to an understanding that it was her
especial duty to look after his comfort. From the first she had been
much troubled that he had only his cloth adikey instead of a deerskin
coat such as her father and Mookoomahn wore, and she often expressed
her regret that there was no deerskin with which to make him one. He
insisted at these times that his adikey was quite warm enough, but she
always shook her head in 

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