Connie Morgan in the fur country
by James B. Hendryx · English · Gutenberg #28574 · 365,265 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Connie Morgan in the fur country
Author: James B. Hendryx
Release date: April 21, 2009 [eBook #28574]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONNIE MORGAN IN THE FUR COUNTRY ***
Produced by K Nordquist, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
Transcriber's Note
The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully
preserved. Only obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Connie Morgan
in the
Fur Country
[Illustration]
_By_ James B. Hendryx
· ILLUSTRATED ·
_By James B. Hendryx_
The Promise
The Gun Brand
The Texan
The Gold Girl
Prairie Flowers
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Mounted
Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country
[Illustration: "For there, standing close beside the fire, his head and
huge shoulders thrust into the doorway, his eyes gleaming like live
coals, stood the great grey leader of the wolf pack."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
CONNIE MORGAN
IN THE
FUR COUNTRY
BY
JAMES B. HENDRYX
AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA," ETC.
[Illustration]
_ILLUSTRATED_
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
Copyright, 1921
by
James B. Hendryx
Made in the United States of America
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--DOG, OR WOLF? 1
II.--'MERICAN JOE 17
III.--NERVE 32
IV.--BRASS 49
V.--THE PLAGUE FLAG IN THE SKY 76
VI.--AT THE END OF RENÉ'S TRAIL 95
VII.--AT FORT NORMAN 111
VIII.--BAIT--AND A BEAR 123
IX.--OUT ON THE TRAP LINE 138
X.--THE TRAIL OF THE _CARCAJO_ 149
XI.--THE CARIBOU HUNT 168
XII.--THE TRAIL IN THE SNOW 184
XIII.--AT THE CAMP OF THE _HOOCH_-RUNNERS 200
XIV.--THE PASSING OF BLACK MORAN 216
XV.--SETTING THE FOX TRAPS 238
XVI.--THE VOICE FROM THE HILL 254
XVII.--THE-LAKE-OF-THE-FOX-THAT-YELLS 269
XVIII.--THE MAN IN THE CAVE 290
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"FOR THERE, STANDING CLOSE BESIDE THE FIRE,
HIS HEAD AND HUGE SHOULDERS THRUST
INTO THE DOORWAY, HIS EYES GLEAMING
LIKE LIVE COALS, STOOD THE GREAT GREY
LEADER OF THE WOLF PACK" _Frontispiece_
"IN THE WHIRLING BLIZZARD, WITHOUT PROTECTION
OF TIMBER, ONE PLACE WAS AS GOOD
AS ANOTHER TO CAMP, AND WHILE THE INDIAN
BUSIED HIMSELF WITH THE DOGS, CONNIE
PROCEEDED TO DIG A TRENCH IN THE SNOW" 54
"THE THIRD DAY DAWNED COLD AND CLEAR,
AND DAYLIGHT FOUND THE OUTFIT ON THE
MOVE" 70
"IT WAS A TERRIBLE THING TO LOOK UPON TO
THOSE TWO WHO KNEW ITS SIGNIFICANCE--THAT
FLAG GLOWING LIKE A SPLOTCH OF
BLOOD THERE IN THE BRAZEN SKY" 80
"THE SNARE WAS SET ONLY A FOOT OR TWO
FROM THE STUFFED RABBIT SKIN AND
STICKS AND BRUSH SO ARRANGED THAT IN
ORDER TO REACH THE RABBIT THE LYNX
MUST LEAP STRAIGHT INTO THE SNARE" 130
"'MERICAN JOE CLIMBED THE TREE AND A FEW
MINUTES LATER CONNIE HEARD THE BLOWS
OF HIS BELT AX AS HE HACKED AT THE
LIMB THAT HELD THE CLOG" 156
"AS DARKNESS SETTLED OVER THE NORTH
COUNTRY, A LITTLE FIRE TWINKLED IN THE
BUSH, AND THE ODOUR OF SIZZLING BACON
AND FRYING LIVER PERMEATED THE COZY
CAMP" 182
"AS HE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOORWAY HE
WAS SEIZED VIOLENTLY FROM BEHIND" 218
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country
CHAPTER I
DOG, OR WOLF?
In the little cabin on Ten Bow Waseche Bill laid his week-old newspaper
aside, knocked the ashes from his pipe against the edge of the woodbox,
and listened to the roar of the wind. After a few moments he rose and
opened the door, only to slam it immediately as an icy blast, freighted
with a million whirling flakes of snow, swept the room. Resuming his
seat, he proceeded very deliberately to refill his pipe. This
accomplished to his satisfaction, he lighted it, crammed some wood into
the little air-tight stove, and tilted his chair back against the log
wall.
"Well, son, what is it?" he asked, after a few moments of silence
during which he had watched his young partner, Connie Morgan, draw rag
after rag through the barrel of his rifle.
"What's what?" asked the boy, without looking up.
"What's on yo' mind? The last five patches yo've drug through that gun
was as clean when they come out as when they went in. Yo' ain't cleanin'
no rifle--yo' studyin' 'bout somethin'."
Connie rested the rifle upon his knees and smiled across the little
oilcloth-covered table: "Looks like winter has come in earnest," he
said. "Listen to her trying to tear the roof off. I've been wishing it
would snow for a week."
"Snow fer a week?"
"No. Wishing for a week."
"Well, now it's come, what yo' goin' to do with it?"
"I'm going out and get that Big Ruff."
"Big Ruff! Yo' mean kill him?"
Connie shook his head: "No. I'm going to catch him. I want him."
Waseche laughed: "What in thunder do yo' want of him, even pervidin'
he's a dog, which the chances is he ain't nothin' but a wolf. An' yo'
don't even know they's any such brute rompin' the hills, nohow. Stories
gits goin' that-a-way. Someone, mebbe, seen a dog or a wolf runnin' the
ridge of Spur Mountain late in the evenin' so he looked 'bout half agin
the size he was, an' they come along an' told it. Then someone else sees
him, er another one, an' he recollects that he heard tell of a monstr'us
big wolf er dog, he cain't recollect which, so he splits the difference
an' makes him half-dog an' half-wolf, an' he adds a big ruff onto his
neck fer good measure, an' tells it 'round. After that yo' kin bet that
every tin-horn that gits within twenty mile of Spur Mountain will see
him, an' each time he gits bigger, an' his ruff gits bigger. It's like a
stampede. Yo' let someone pan out mebbe half a dozen ounces of dust on
some crick an' by the time the news has spread a hundred mile, he's took
out a fortune, an' it's in chunks as big as a pigeon's aig--they ain't
nary one of them ever saw a pigeon's aig--but that's always what them
chunks is as big as--an' directly the whole crick is staked an' a lot of
men goes broke, an' some is killed, an' chances is, the only ones that
comes out ahead is the ones that's staked an' sold out."
"But there are real wolf-dogs--I've seen plenty of 'em, and so have you.
And there are real strikes--look at Ten Bow!"
"Yeh, look at it--but I made that strike myself. The boys down to
Hesitation know'd that if I said they was colour heah it was heah. They
didn't come a kihootin' up heah on the say-so of no tin-horn."
"Yes, and there's a big wolf-dog been over on Spur Mountain for a week,
too. I didn't pay any attention when I first heard it. But, Dutch Henry
saw him yesterday, and today when Black Jack Demeree came up with the
mail he saw him, too."
Waseche appeared interested: "An' did they say he was as big as a cabin
an' a ruff on him like the mainsail of a whaler?"
"No, but they said he was the biggest dog they ever saw, and he has got
the big ruff, all right--and he was running with two or three wolves,
and he was bigger than any of them."
"Well, if Dutch Henry an' Black Jack seen him," agreed Waseche with
conviction, "he's there. But, what in time do yo' want of him? If he
was runnin' with wolves he's buildin' him up a pack. He's a bad actor.
You take them renegade dogs, an' they're worse than wolves an' worse
than dogs--an' they're smarter'n most folks."
"That's why I want him. I want to make a leader out of him."
"You can't catch him--an' if you could, you couldn't handle him."
"I'll tell you more about that after I've had a try at him," grinned the
boy.
"Who's going along?"
"No one. I don't want to divide him up with anyone, and anyone I could
hire wouldn't be worth taking along."
"He'll eat you up."
"I hope he tries it! If he ever gets that close to me--he's mine!"
"Or yo'll be his'n," drawled Waseche Bill. "Howeveh, if I was bettin'
I'd take yo' end of it, at that."
Connie rose, laid the rifle upon the table, and began to overhaul his
gear. Waseche watched him for a few moments, and blew a cloud of blue
smoke ceilingward: "Seems like yo' jest nach'lly cain't set by an' take
things easy," he said; "heah's yo', with mo' money than yo' kin eveh
spend, gittin' ready to hike out an' live like a Siwash in the bush when
yo' c'd go outside fer the winteh, an' live in some swell _hotel_ an'
nothin' to do but r'ar back in one of them big leatheh chairs with yo'
feet in the window an' watch the folks go by."
Connie flashed him a grin: "You've got as much as I have--and I don't
notice you sitting around any swell hotels watching the folks go by."
Waseche's eyes twinkled: and he glanced affectionately at the boy: "No,
son. This heah suits me betteh. But, yo' ain't even satisfied to stay
heah in the cabin. When my laig went bad on me an' I had to go outside,
you hit out an' put in the time with the Mounted, then last winteh,
'stead of taking it easy, you hit out fo' Minnesota an' handed that
timbeh thievin' bunch what was comin' to 'em."
"Well, it paid, didn't it?"
"Sho' it paid--an' the work with the Mounted paid--not in money, but in
what yo' learnt. But you don't neveh take things easy. Yo' pa was like
that. I reckon it's bred in the bone."
Connie nodded: "Yes, and this winter I've got a trip planned out that
will make all the others look piking. I'm going over and have a look at
the Coppermine River country--over beyond the Mackenzie."
Waseche Bill stared at the boy in astonishment: "Beyond the Mackenzie!"
he exclaimed, then his voice dropped into a tone softly sarcastic. "Yo'
ought to have a right pleasant trip. It ain't oveh a thousan' miles oah
so, an' only about fifteen er twenty mountain ranges to cross. The trail
ought to be right nice an' smooth an' plain marked. An' when yo' git
theah yo' sho' ought to enjoy yo'self. I caint' think of no place in the
world a man had ought to keep away from worse than right theah. Why,
son, they tell me that beyond the Mackenzie they ain't _nothin'_!"
"There's gold--and copper," defended the boy.
"Did Dutch Henry an' Black Jack Demeree tell yo' that, too?"
Connie laughed: "No, I read about it in a book."
Waseche snorted contemptuously, "Read it in a book! Look a heah, son,
it don't stand to reason that if anyone know'd they was gold an' coppeh
up theah they'd be foolin' away theah time writin' books about it, does
it? No suh, they'd be be right up amongst it scoopin' it out of the
gravel, that's wheah they'd be! Books is redic'lus."
"But the man that wrote the book didn't know where the gold is----"
"You bet he didn't! That's the way with these heah fellows that writes
books. They don't know enough about gold to make 'em a livin' diggin'
it--so they write a book about it. They's mo' ways than one to make a
livin' out of gold--like sellin' fake claims, an' writin' books."
"I'm going to roll in, now, because I want to get an early start. It's
that book up there on the shelf with the green cover. You read it, and
when I come back with Big Ruff, we'll talk it over."
Again Waseche snorted contemptuously, but a few minutes later as he lay
snuggled between his blankets, Connie smiled to himself to see his big
partner take the book from the shelf, light his pipe, and after settling
himself comfortably in his chair, gingerly turn its pages.
Spur Mountain is not really a mountain at all. It is a long sparsely
timbered ridge only about seven hundred feet in height that protrudes
into the valley of the Ten Bow, for all the world like a giant spur. The
creek doubles sharply around the point of the spur which slants upward
to a deep notch or pass in the range that separates the Ten Bow from the
valley of the Tanana.
It was past noon when Connie Morgan swung his dogs from the creek-bed
and headed back along the base of the spur toward the main range. He had
covered the fifteen miles slowly, being forced almost constantly to
break trail ahead of the dogs through the new-fallen snow.
He turned into a patch of timber that slanted obliquely upward to the
crest of the ridge, and working his outfit halfway to the top, pitched
his tent on a narrow ledge or shoulder, protected from every direction
by the ridge itself, and by the thick spruce timber. The early darkness
had settled when he finished making camp and as he ate his supper he
watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. After replenishing
his fire, he removed his _mukluks_ and mackinaw, and slipped into his
sleeping bag.
Two hours later he opened his eyes and listened. From beyond the
ridge--far down the valley of the Ten Bow, floated the long-drawn howl
of a wolf. A moment of silence followed, and from across the valley
sounded an answering call. Outside the little tent a dog whined softly.
The boy smiled as his eyes rested for a moment upon the glowing coals of
his fire. "What anybody wants to live in a city for when they can lie
out in the timber and listen to that, is more than I know--I love it!"
The next moment he was sitting bolt upright, his hands fighting his
sleeping bag, as the hair of his scalp seemed to rise like the quills of
an enraged porcupine, and a peculiar tickly chill ran down his spine.
The silence of the night was shattered by a sound so terrible that his
blood seemed to chill at the horror of it. It was a wolf cry--but unlike
the cry of any wolf he had ever heard. There was a swift rush of dark
bodies and Connie's four dogs dived into the tent, knocking him over in
their haste, their feet scratching up a shower of snow which caused the
glowing coals of the little fire to sizzle and smoke. The cry of the
wolves had floated--but this new cry seemed to hurl itself through the
night--a terrifying crescendo of noise that sounded at once a challenge
and wail. For a full minute after the sound ceased the boy sat tense
and motionless, staring wide-eyed beyond the fire, while behind him, in
the farthest corner of the tent the _malamutes_ huddled and whined. Then
he shook himself and laughed. "Some howl!" he muttered, "I bet they
heard that in Ten Bow. That's the Big Ruff, all right--and he ain't far
away."
Hastily wriggling from his sleeping bag the boy drew on his _mukluks_
and mackinaw and stepped from the tent. Overhead the stars glittered
brilliantly, and he noted with satisfaction that objects were visible at
a distance of several hundred yards against the background of new-fallen
snow. Drawing a heavy parka over his mackinaw, he fastened on his
snowshoes, caught up his rifle, and headed upward for the crest of the
ridge. "Maybe I can get a look at him anyway," he thought. "He'll gather
his wolves and the chances are that sometime before morning they'll run
the ridge."
A half-hour later the boy slipped into a tangle of brush that marked the
upper end of his patch of timber. The bare summit of the ridge stretched
away in the half-light to merge in a mysterious blur with the
indistinct valley of the Ten Bow. The wind was blowing gently from the
ridge and the boy figured that if the wolf pack followed the summit as
he hoped, they must pass within twenty yards of him. "If it don't go and
cloud up before they get here I can see 'em plain as day," he thought,
as he settled himself comfortably for his long wait. An hour passed and
the boy was thankful he had thought to bring his parka. Mushing a hard
trail, a man can dispense with his parka at twenty degrees below zero,
but sitting still, even at zero, the heavy moosehide garment is
indispensable. For another hour Connie divided his attention between
watching the fantastic changes of pale aurora and scanning the distant
reach of the ridge. He shifted his weight to his other hip to stretch a
cramped leg; and suddenly became motionless as a stone. Far down the
ridge his trained eye had caught a blur of motion. His fists clenched in
anticipation as he stared into the dim distance. Yes, there it was
again--something moving, like a swift shadow along the bald surface of
the snow. Again the silent shadow shape vanished and again it
appeared--nearer, now--near enough so that the boy could distinguish
not one, but many shapes. In fascination he watched that silent run of
the wolf pack. Nearer they swept, running easily and swiftly along the
wind-swept ridge. Instinctively Connie reached for his rifle but
withdrew his arm before his hand touched the weapon.
There were ten or twelve wolves in all, but his attention was riveted
upon the leader. Never in his life had he seen such an animal. In the
starlight his coat gleamed like molten silver in contrast with the dark
tawny coats of the pack that ran at his heels. They reached a point
nearly opposite to the boy's hiding place, and distant not more than
fifty yards, when suddenly the huge leader halted in his tracks. So
sudden was his action that the wolves running behind him were unable to
stop until they had carried six or eight yards beyond. One or two
jostled the leader in passing and were rewarded with swift, silent
slashes of his great jaws. Luckily for themselves, the culprits escaped
death by inches, and leaping swiftly aside, mingled with their
companions, while the great grey leader stood squarely upon his feet
sniffing the air.
Connie's heart raced wildly as he stared at the magnificent animal. It
seemed incredible that the brute had caught his scent against the wind,
and yet, if not, why had he halted so suddenly? And why did he stand
there sniffing the air? The wolves settled upon their haunches with
tongues a-loll and eyed their leader, or moved nervously back and forth
in the background sniffing inquisitively. During this interval the boy
took in every detail of the great brute he had set out to capture. More
conspicuous even than his great size was the enormous ruff of long hair
that covered the animal's neck and shoulders--a feature that accentuated
immeasurably the ferocious appearance of the pointed wolfish muzzle and
gleaming eyes. Every detail of coat, of muzzle, of eyes, of ears, or of
legs bespoke the wolf breed--but there were other details--and the heart
of the boy leaped as he noted them. The deep, massive chest, the
peculiar poise of the head, and the over-curl of the huge brush of the
tail showed unmistakably the breed of the dog. "I wonder what his heart
is?" thought Connie. "Is it wolf, or dog, or part wolf and a part dog?"
As these thoughts flashed through his mind the boy saw the great grey
shape turn abruptly and trot toward the opposite side of the ridge at a
right angle to his former course. The wolves followed at a respectful
distance and as they disappeared over the crest Connie wriggled from his
place of concealment and crawling to the top, peered down the slope.
The wolves had vanished completely. Nothing was in sight except the long
white sweep of snow, with here and there a black patch of bushes and
scrub. He was about to return to his camp when, from one of the patches
of scrub burst a scattering of tawny shapes. Singly, and in groups of
two or three, crowding each other in their mad haste, they fled into the
open and ranging themselves in a semicircle, waited expectantly.
Presently another wolf emerged from the thicket, dragging himself on his
belly, ploughing the snow. As Connie watched curiously he noticed that
the wide, flat trail left by the slowly crawling wolf showed broad, dark
streaks and blotches. The waiting wolves knew the meaning of that
darkened trail and the next moment they were upon him. Connie shifted
his position for a better view of this midnight tragedy of the wild,
when his foot caught under a root concealed by the snow and he pitched
heavily forward. To save himself he grasped the dead branch of a stunted
tree. The branch snapped with a report that rang through the silence of
the night like an explosion and the boy pitched headforemost into the
snow. The great grey leader shot from the scrub, and with the pack at
his heels disappeared in the thicker timber at the base of the ridge.
CHAPTER II
'MERICAN JOE
When Connie regained his feet Spur Mountain was silent as the tomb, and
for several moments he stood motionless gazing at the tawny shape that
lay still at the end of the stained trail, and at the patch of scrub
from which the shape had emerged. What was in that dark patch of brush?
Why had the wolves burst from it in terror? Why had the great leader
stayed until the snapping of the limb had frightened him away? And what
had happened to the wolf that lay dead in the snow? Slowly the boy
returned to his hiding place, picked up his rifle, and descended the
slope toward the patch of scrub. He stooped to examine the body of the
wolf. As he rolled it over his thoughts leaped to the great grey leader.
"Maybe his heart's all wolf," he muttered thoughtfully, as he stared at
the long slash that extended from the bottom of the flank upward almost
to the backbone--a slash as clean as if executed with a sharp knife,
and through which the animal's entrails had protruded and his life blood
had gushed to discolour the snow. "What did he do it for?" wondered
Connie as he turned from the carcass and proceeded cautiously into the
scrub.
Ten yards in he stumbled over a snow-covered object. It was a sledge of
curious design. "That's no Alaska sled," he muttered, as he stared about
him, his eyes seeking to pierce the darker gloom of the scrub. A few
feet from him was a curious white mound. Before the mound were many wolf
tracks, and there it was that the blotched trail began. Moving
cautiously, the boy examined the irregular snow-covered mound. At the
point where the wolf tracks converged he noticed a small triangular
patch of darkness close to the ground. Stooping he examined it closely
and found to his surprise that it was the opening of a shelter tent or
wikiup. Dropping upon his hands and knees he peered inside. In the
darkness he could make out nothing. Throwing off his mittens, he lighted
a match, and as the tiny flame threw its feeble light upon the interior
he made out at the farther side a gruesome looking mound of blankets.
The match burned his finger tips and the miserable shelter was once more
plunged in blackness. Involuntarily Connie shuddered. His first
inclination was to leave that place--to return to his camp and harness
his dogs and hit the back trail for Ten Bow--then, tomorrow--Even with
the thought his jaw stiffened: "If I do it'll be because I'm afraid," he
sneered. "What would my dad have done? What would Waseche do? Or Dan
McKeever? Or any of the boys? The very last thing in the world they
would do would be to run away! And I won't either. The first thing is to
find out who he is and how he comes to be lying dead way up here on Spur
Mountain."
Methodically the boy kicked the snow back from the door of the low
shelter tent, and gathering some dry branches built a fire. Then he
crawled inside, and by the light of the crackling flames proceeded to
examine the interior. One glance told the story. A battered aluminum
kettle, a small frying pan, and a canvas bag which contained nothing but
a small handful of tea, and the blankets he was wrapped in, constituted
the man's whole outfit. There was no grub--no weapon of any kind with
which to procure grub. He laid a hand on the blanket to roll the man
toward the light--and started so violently that he sent the frying pan
rattling against the kettle. For, instead of the rigid corpse of solid
ice he had expected to find, the blanket yielded beneath the pressure of
his hand! Either the man was alive, or had died so recently that his
body had not had time to freeze! Recovering himself instantly, Connie
ran his hand beneath the blanket. Yes, he was alive--there was heat
there--not much--but enough body-warmth to show that he still lived.
Scooping up a kettle of snow the boy set it upon the fire and, as it
melted, without uncovering the man, he fell to beating him with his
fists, to stimulate the lagging circulation. Heating the frying pan he
thrust it into the canvas bag and slipped it under the blankets and went
on with his beating. When the water began to boil, he withdrew the bag
and threw the tea into the kettle. Then he removed the outer blanket and
succeeded in rolling the unconscious form nearer to the fire. When he
uncovered the face he saw that the man was an Indian--a young buck of
twenty-five or thirty, and he wondered the more at his plight. Removing
the kettle from the fire, he set it beside him and succeeded in propping
the Indian's head upon his knees. With a tin cup, he dipped some
scalding tea from the kettle and allowing it to cool a little, dropped a
small quantity between the man's lips. At the third dose, the Indian
shuddered slightly, his lips moved, and he swallowed feebly. The next
time he swallowed as much as a spoonful, and then, double that amount.
After that his recovery was rapid. Before the cup was half empty he had
opened his eyes and blinked foolishly into Connie's face. He gulped
eagerly at the hot liquid, but the boy would allow him only a mouthful
at a time. When the cup was empty Connie refilled it. The Indian's lips
moved. He seemed to be trying to speak.
"Talk English?" encouraged the boy with a smile.
The other nodded: "Yes--_kloshe wawa_--me spik good."
"What's your name--_kahta mika nem_?"
The Indian seemed delighted to find that the boy could speak the jargon.
He smiled: "_Nika nem_ 'Merican Joe." And having imparted the
information, plunged into a rabble of jargon that the boy was at his
wit's end to follow.
He stopped him in the middle of it: "Look here, 'Merican Joe, you talk
English--she best to talk. You know all 'bout English?"
"Yes."
"Well, you talk it then. Listen--I've got a camp over across the ridge.
Plenty grub. I go get grub. You stay here. Half an hour I come back. We
eat big."
The Indian nodded vigorously, and as Connie turned toward the door he
recoiled, and involuntarily drew the knife from his belt. For there,
standing close beside the fire, his head and huge shoulders thrust into
the doorway, his eyes gleaming like live coals, stood the great grey
leader of the wolf pack!
'Merican Joe struggled to his elbow and stretched his hand toward the
superb brute: "Ah, come Leloo! _Nika skookum tkope leloo!_" (My big
white wolf). With a bound the great animal was at the Indian's side,
nuzzling, rooting at him, licking his hands and face with his long red
tongue. Connie sat fascinated at the sight, as the Indian tugged
playfully at the pointed ears and buried his hand in the long
shimmering hair of the enormous ruff. Then the great brute settled down
close against the blanket and, raising his head, eyed Connie
indifferently, and as if to emphasize his indifference he opened his
huge jaws in a prodigious yawn--a yawn that exposed the interior of his
cavernous mouth with its wealth of gleaming fangs.
The Indian thumped the brute on the ribs and pointed to the boy.
"_Skookum tillicum._" Leloo rose, stalked to the boy, deliberately
sniffed him over from top to toe, and resumed his place.
"Is he yours?" asked Connie eagerly. "Where did you get him? Have you
got any more of 'em?"
'Merican Joe laughed: "No--no more! No more lak heem een de worl'. Leloo
you frien', now. You com' een de daytam--een de night--Leloo no hurt."
"I hope you're right," laughed the boy, "I'm going after that grub now."
And throwing some more wood on the fire, he slipped from the scrub. As
he did so, there was a scattering of tawny shapes, and where the carcass
of the dead wolf had been, there were only gnawed fragments of bones.
When he returned Leloo met him at the edge of the scrub, eyed him for a
moment, and turning deliberately, led the way to the shelter tent.
Connie viewed 'Merican Joe's attack on the food with alarm. In vain he
cautioned the Indian to go slow--to eat lightly at first--but his only
answer was a grin, and a renewed attack on the grub. The boy had brought
with him from the camp, three cans of baked beans, a bag of pilot bread,
and several pounds of pemmican, and not until the last vestige of food
was consumed, did 'Merican Joe even pause. Then he licked his fingers
and asked for more. Connie told him that in the morning they would break
camp and hit for Ten Bow. Also, that when they crossed the ridge he
could have all the grub he wanted, and with that the Indian had to
content himself. While 'Merican Joe ate the boy cooked up some fish for
Leloo, who accepted it from his hand and then settled himself beside him
upon the blanket.
"Where did you come from? And where are you are going? And how did you
come to be out of grub?" asked Connie, when 'Merican Joe had lighted a
villainous looking black pipe.
"Me--I'm com' far," he pointed toward the east. "I'm goin' to
Kuskokwim. A'm liv' on Kuskokwim--be'n gon' t'ree year. I'm los' my
outfit w'en de ice brek on Charley River, 'bout ten day 'go."
"And you kept on for the Kuskokwim without any grub, and with no rifle!"
"Yes--I'm lucky I'm hav' my blankets an' kettle on de front of de
sled--de ice no ketch."
"But where did you get the dog--or wolf--or whatever Leloo is?"
"I'm git heem ver' far--" again he paused and pointed to the east.
"Beyond the big mountains?"
"Yes."
"Beyond the big river--the Mackenzie?"
"Yes. I'm desert from de whaler wan year 'go. I com' on de--w'at you
call Innuit. I liv' wit dem long tam. All tam snow. All tam ice. All tam
col'. 'Cross de big water--de sea--" he pointed north. "Cross on ice.
Com' on de lan'--beeg lan', all rock, an' snow an' ice. We hunt de musk
ox. T'ree, four day we mush nort'. _Spose_ bye-m-bye we fin' ol'
_igloo_. Woof! Out jomp de beeg white wolf! Mor' bigger as any wolf I
ever seen. I take my rifle an' shoot heem, an' w'en de shot mak' de
beeg noise, out com' anudder wan. She aint' so beeg--an' she ain' white
lak de beeg wolf. She ron an' smell de dead wolf. She look on us. She
look on our sled dogs. She com' close. Den she run off agin. An' she
mak' all de tam de leetle whine. She ain' no wolf--she dog! Bye-m-bye
she ron back in _igloo_. Ol' Sen-nick him say dat bad medicine--but me,
I ain' care 'bout de Innuit medicine, an' I fol' de dog. I start to
crawl een de _igloo_ an' dat dog she growl lak she gon eat me oop. I
com' back an' mak' de snare an' pull her out, an' I gon' on een, an' I
fin' wan leetle pup. He ees de gran pup. Him look lak de beeg white wolf
an' I ketch um. Een de snow w'ere de roof cave een sticks out som'
seal-skin _mukluks_. Lays a dead man dere. I tak hol' an' try to pull um
out but she too mooch froze. So I quit try an' lef' heem dere."
"Was it a white man?" cried Connie.
'Merican Joe shook his head: "I ain' know--I can't pull heem out. Dat
good plac' to lef' heem anyhow. He frooze lak' de iron. I hont roun' an'
he ain' lef' no grub. Him starve an' freeze, an' hees dogs is all dead
but wan, an' she mate oop wit' de beeg white wolf. I giv' ol' Sen-nick
de dog an' I kep' de pup. See, Leloo ees de pup. Mos' two year ol'--an'
de bes' sled dog een all de worl'!"
As Connie watched 'Merican Joe refill his pipe he thought how near
history had come to repeating itself. The boy studied Leloo as he lay
quiet upon the edge of the blanket. He had heard of the great white
wolves that inhabit the drear lone lands that lie beyond the arctic
coast--larger even than the grey caribou wolves of the barren lands. He
knew, now, that these stories were true.
"You called Leloo a dog," he said, "but he's only half dog, and sometime
he may turn wolf."
'Merican Joe shrugged: and eyed the great wolf-dog sombrely: "No, him
ain' never turn wolf--Leloo. Him half-wolf--half-dog, but de wolf an' de
dog ain' separat', lak de front legs, an' de hin' legs. De wolf an' de
dog is mix', lak de color een de hair. You savvy? Leloo ain' never all
wolf--an' he ain' never all dog. All de tam' he wolf an' dog mix'."
Connie nodded eagerly. "I see!" he answered, and his thoughts flew to
the great brute he had seen only a few hours before running at the head
of the wolf pack. No hint of the dog in that long-drawn wolf-howl that
had brought him tensely erect in his tent and started the hair roots to
prickling along his scalp, and no hint of the dog in the silent slashes
with which he had resented the crowding of the pack. And yet a few
moments later he had defended his helpless master from that same wolf
pack--and in defending him with the devotion of the dog, he had ripped
with the peculiar flank-slash that is the death thrust of the wolf.
Later, in the tent, he had fawned dog-like upon his master--but,
wolf-like, the fawning had been soundless.
"You know Leloo well," he said.
'Merican Joe smiled: "I raised heem from de pup. I learn heem to pull.
He ees de gran' leader. I train heem to hont de caribou--de moose--de
deer. I show you som' tam. He kin fight--kill any dog--any wolf. He ain'
never git tire. He work all day lak de dog--an' all night mebbe-so he
ron wit' de wolf-pack."
"You say you've been over east of the Mackenzie; is there gold over
there?"
"I ain' see no gold."
"I'm going over there."
"W'en you go?"
"Just as soon as I can get an outfit together."
"Me--I'm goin' 'long."
"Going along! Will you go?"
'Merican Joe nodded: "You _skookum tillicum_. 'Merican Joe, she
dead--she starve--she froze--you com' 'long, mak' de fire--give de
grub--I ain' dead no mor'. I go 'long."
"Do you think there's a good chance to prospect over there? What's the
formation?"
"I ain' know mooch 'bout dat, w'at you call, fo'mation. Plent'
riv--plent' crick. Mebbe-so plent' gol'--I ain' know. But, on de barrens
is Injuns. W'en I com' way from de Innuit, I fin' um. Dey got plent'
fur. Eef you got nuff stake for tradin' outfit you mak' de beeg
money--you ain' care eef de gol' aint' dere."
"You meaning trading with the Indians--free trading?"
"Yes--de free traders skin 'em--dey cheat 'em--an' sell de hooch----"
"But--the Hudson's Bay Company! How about them?"
"De H.B.C. all right--but dey ain' go out after de Injun. Dey got de
reg'lar post. De Injun got to mush mebbe-so mor' as hondre mile--two
hondre. _Spose_ de free traders ketch um firs'. De Injun never git to de
post. You got nuff for de stake?"
Connie laughed: "Yes, I've got enough for the stake, all right. But I'm
not so keen for the trading outfit. We can take along some traps,
though, and if there isn't any gold--we'll take out some fur. And,
you'll sure go with me? When can you start?"
The Indian glanced out of the low door. "It daylight--le's go."
"But, how about the Kuskokwim?"
'Merican Joe shrugged. "Kuskokwim kin wait. She ain' no good. Me--I'm
stay 'long wit' you. You pay me wages w'at you want. I good man--me. You
wait--I show you. You good man, too. I seen plent' good man--plent' bad
man--I know--me."
The Indian reached out his hand, and Connie shook it--and thus was the
bargain struck.
"Will you sell Leloo?" asked the boy.
The Indian shook his head: "No!"
"Five hundred dollars?"
"No! Fi' hondre dolla--fi't'ousan' dolla--no!" The Indian crawled out
the door followed by Connie and Leloo. Going to the sled, 'Merican Joe
picked up a loop of _babiche_ line and threw it about Leloo's neck. He
handed the end of the line to Connie. "Leloo heem you dog," he said.
"What!" cried the boy.
"Heem b'long you--I giv' heem----"
"No! No! Let me buy him."
The Indian drew himself erect: "I ain' sell Leloo. You giv' me my
life--I giv' you Leloo. Me--'Merican Joe good man. You good man. Wan
good man wit' anodder. It ees frien's."
So Connie Morgan took the line from the hand of 'Merican Joe and as his
eyes rested upon the superb lines of the great silver brute, his heart
thrilled with the knowledge that he was the possessor of the greatest
wolf-dog in all the North.
CHAPTER III
NERVE
On the morning after Connie Morgan had hit the trail for the avowed
purpose of capturing the huge wolf-dog that had been reported on Spur
Mountain, his big partner, Waseche Bill, lighted his pipe and gazed
thoughtfully through the window of the little log office which was
situated on the bank of Ten Bow Creek, overlooking the workings. His
eyes strayed from the intricate system of pipes and flumes to the cloud
of white vapour that rose from the shaft house where the never-tiring
steam-point drills forced their way slowly down, down, down into the
eternal frost.
"Jest three years ago since me and the kid staked this valley," he
mused. "An' now we're rich--an' I'm an 'office miner' with a game laig,
an' more gold than I could spend if I lived to be as old as Methooslum."
His glance strayed to the modern building across the creek with its
iron roof, and white painted siding. In this building, erected a month
before, were the general offices of the partners, the construction and
hydraulic engineers, the chemist, the purchasing agent, the paymaster,
the bookkeeper, and a score of clerks and stenographers.
There, also, Waseche Bill had had his own office, as general manager of
the mine, but after an uncomfortable four weeks of hardwood floors,
ground glass doors, and polished desk tops, he moved his office into the
one-roomed log cabin across the creek, and upon this, the first day of
his installation in his new quarters, he grinned happily out of the
window as he watched Cain, the construction engineer, wallow through the
new-fallen snow and climb the slippery bank, on his first trip of
consultation. And Waseche's grin widened as he heard the engineer
endeavouring to remove the snow and sticky mud from his boots before
entering.
"Stomp 'em off inside, Cain," he called. "The floor's solider, an'
you'll have better luck."
"Beastly place for an office!" growled the engineer, as he unrolled a
blue print, spread it upon the rough pine desk, and glanced with
disapproval about the room. "Your office in the main building was so
much more convenient."
"Yup," answered Waseche. "That was the trouble. About every five minutes
in would pop one of you birds an' pester me with some question or
'nother. What I hire you-all for is to get results. What do I care
whether you use a double-jointed conniption valve, or a reverse English
injector on the donkey engine, so you get the water into them sluices?
Or what do I care whether the bookkeeper keeps all the accounts
separate, or adds gum-boots, an' cyanide, an' sandpaper, an' wages all
up in one colyumn? Or whether the chemist uses peroxide of magentum, or
sweet spirits of rawhide, so he gits the gold? The way it is now,
you-all's goin' to do a little figgerin' fer yourself before you'll wade
through the water an' mud, or waller through the snow, to git over here.
An' besides I cain't think right without I can rare back with my feet on
the table an' my back ag'in' a good solid log wall."
Cain, who understood and loved his employer, chuckled heartily. A few
minutes later he rolled up the blue print and buttoned his mackinaw. "By
the way, Waseche," he said, with his hand in the door latch, "I'm
sending you over a stenographer----"
"_Me_ one!" cried Waseche Bill in alarm.
"Yes, you need one. Be reasonable, and let me talk for a minute. Here
you are, one of the gold magnates of Alaska, and a lot of the
correspondence that comes in you've got to handle yourself. You know
your spelling and Mr. Webster's don't always agree, and your handwriting
is almost illegible in pencil--and worse in ink----"
"Well, ain't we got a half dozen stenographers now?"
"Yes, but they're all up to their ears in work, and we've been paying
them overtime to transcribe your scrawls into readable English. So I
heard of this fellow in Fairbanks, and sent for him. He came in
yesterday, with Black Jack Demeree's mail team." Cain's eyes twinkled as
he paused and grinned. "He's only been in the country a few weeks--a
rank _chechako_--but try to put up with him, because stenographers are
hard to get and he seems to be a good one. I'll send him over with a
couple of men to carry his outfit. I thought I ought to break the news
to you----"
"An' I ort to break your neck," growled Waseche. "But send him
along--mebbe my spellin' an', as the fellow says, chiropody, aint what
it ort to be--anyway we'll try him."
A few minutes later the door opened and a couple of miners entered with
a chair and a table, upon which they deposited a typewriter. Waseche
glared as the miners withdrew, and a young man of twenty-one or-two
stepped into the room. He was a tall, pale young man with store clothes
and nose glasses. Waseche continued to glare as the newcomer addressed
him:
"Is this Mr. Antrim? I'm the new stenographer. You were expecting me,
sir?"
Waseche eyed him from top to toe, and shook his head in resignation.
"Well--almost, from what Cain said--but not quite. Was you born in
servitude?"
The newcomer shifted his weight to the other foot. "Sir?" he asked,
doubtfully.
Waseche deliberately filled his pipe and, tilting his chair against the
wall, folded his arms. "Yup--that's what I meant--that 'sir,' an' the
'Mister Antrim.' I ain't no Englishman. I'm an American. I ain't no
'sir,' nor likewise 'mister.' My name's Waseche Bill. It's a good
name--good enough to live by, an' to be called by--an' good enough to
write at the bottom of a check. What's yourn?"
"Percival Lafollette."
"Percival Lafollette," repeated Waseche, gravely rolling the name upon
his tongue. "'Was you in the original Floradora Sextette?"
"Why, no, sir----"
"No what?"
"No--no--" stammered Percival, in confusion.
"That's it--no!--just plain _no_! When you've got that said, you're
through with that there partic'lar train of thought."
"No--they were girls--the Floradora Sextette."
"So they was," agreed Waseche, solemnly. "Did you bring the mail over?"
"Yes, s--yes, here it is." He placed a handful of letters on the pine
table that served as Waseche's desk.
"All right, just take off your cloak an' bonnet, an' pry the lid off
that there infernal machine, an' we'll git to work."
A few minutes later the new stenographer stood at attention, notebook in
hand. Waseche Bill, who had been watching him closely, noted that he
shivered slightly, as he removed his overcoat, and that he coughed
violently into a handkerchief. Glancing into the pale face, he asked
abruptly: "Sick--lunger?"
Percival nodded, and Waseche motioned him close, and when he stood at
his side reached out and unbuttoned his vest, then his thin shirt, and
took his undershirt between his thumb and finger. Then he snorted in
disgust. "Look a-here, young fellow, you an' me might's well have it
out. I aint' a-goin' to have no lunger workin' fer me!"
At the words, the other turned a shade paler, buttoned his clothing, and
reached for his overcoat.
"Come back here! Where you goin'?"
"Why--I thought----"
"You ain't hired to think. I've got a shanty full of thinkers over
acrost the crick. You're hired to spell. An' after a while you'll learn
that you'll know more about what I'm sayin' if you wait till I git
through. In the first place, fire that there book an' pencil over in the
corner, an' put on your coat an' hat an' hit over to Scotty MacDougall's
store an' tell him to give you a reg'lar man's outfit of clothes. No
wonder you're a lunger; dressin' in them hen-skins! Git plenty of good
thick flannel underwear, wool socks, _mukluks_, a couple of pairs of
good britches, mackinaw, cap, mittens, sheep-lined overcoat--the whole
business, an' charge 'em up to me. You didn't come through from
Fairbanks in them things?"
"Yes, Mr. Demeree----"
"You mean Black Jack?"
"Yes, Black Jack loaned me a parka."
"Well, git now--an' put them new duds on, an' come back here, pausin'
only long enough to stick them hen-skins in the stove--shoes, overcoat,
an' the whole mess. You're in a man's country, now, son," continued
Waseche in a kindly tone. "An' you've got to look like a man--an' act
like a man--an' _be_ a man. You've got a lot to live down--with a name
like that--an' a woman's job--an' a busted lung--an' a servant's
manners. I never seen anyone quite so bad off to start with. What you'll
be in a year from now is up to you--an' me. I guarantee you'll have good
lungs, an' a man's name--the rest is fer you to do. Git, now--an' hurry
back."
The young man opened his lips, but somehow the words would not come,
and Waseche interrupted him. "By the way, did you tell anyone your name
around here?" he asked.
The other shook his head, and as he turned to get his overcoat a
commotion drew both to the window. A dog team was climbing the creek
bank. Connie Morgan was driving, urging the dogs up the deep slope, and
on the sled was an Indian wrapped in blankets. Neither Connie nor the
Indian received more than a passing glance, for in the lead of the team,
sharp pointed muzzle low to the ground and huge shoulders heaving into
the harness, was the great wolf-dog that Connie had found guarding the
unconscious form of his master from the attack of the wolf pack. A cry
escaped the stenographer's lips and even Waseche gasped as he took in
the details of the superb animal.
Percival instinctively drew closer. "It's--it's--the great wolf we saw
on the trail! Black Jack Demeree said he'd never seen his like. Oh, he
can't get in here, can he?"
Waseche shook the speaker roughly by the shoulder. "Yes--he can," he
answered. "He'll be in here in just about a minute--an' here's where
you start bein' a man. Don't you squinch back--if he eats you up! The
next ten minutes will make or break you, for good an' all." And hardly
were the words out of his mouth than the door burst open and Connie
entered the office, closely followed by the Indian and Leloo, the great
ruffed wolf-dog.
"I got him, Waseche!" he cried. "He's mine! I'll tell you all about it
later--this is 'Merican Joe."
The Indian nodded and grinned toward the boy.
"_Skookum tillicum_," he grunted.
"You bet!" assented Waseche, and as Connie led the great dog to him, the
man laid his hand on the huge ruff of silvered hair.
"Some dog, son," he said. "The best I ever seen." He flashed a swift
glance at Percival who stood at his side, and saw that his face was
white as death, that his lips were drawn into a thin, bloodless line,
and that little beads of sweat stood out like dew on the white brow. But
even as he looked, the stenographer stretched out his hand and laid it
on the great dog's head, and he, too, stroked the silvery hair of the
great ruff.
Waseche, noticing that Connie cast an inquiring glance at the newcomer,
introduced him, abruptly: "Son, this here's Roarin' Mike O'Reilly, from
over on the Tanana. He's our new stenographer, an' while he goes an'
gits on his reg'lar clothes, you an' me an' the Injun will knock off fer
noon, an' go over to the cabin."
During the preparation of the midday meal Connie told Waseche of how he
had found 'Merican Joe, starved and unconscious in his little
snow-covered shelter tent, and of how, out of gratitude, the Indian had
presented him with Leloo. Waseche eyed the great ruffed animal sombrely,
as Connie dwelt upon his curiously mixed nature--how he ran the ridges
at night at the head of the wolf pack, and of how, ripping and slashing,
he had defended his helpless master against the fangs of those same
wolves.
"Well, son," he drawled, when the boy had concluded, "he's the finest
brute I ever seen--barrin' none. But keep your eye on him. If he ever
gits his dates mixed--if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to be
dog--_good-night_!"
"I'll watch him," smiled the boy. "And, Waseche, where do you think
'Merican Joe came from?"
"Well," grinned his big partner, "fetchin' such a lookin' brute-beast as
that along with him--I'd hate to say."
"He came from beyond the Mackenzie! He knows the country."
"That's prob'ly why he come away," answered Waseche, dryly.
"But he's going back--he's going with me. We're going to hit the trail
for Dawson tomorrow, and hit across the mountains by way of Bonnet Plume
Pass, and outfit at Fort Norman on the Mackenzie, and then strike out
for the eastern end of Great Bear Lake, and the barren grounds. We're
going to trap the rest of the winter and next summer we're going to
prospect and figure on starting a trading post. We've got it all worked
out."
"Oh, jest like that, eh? It ort to be right smart of a little ja'nt.
With nothin' between Dawson an' Fort Norman--an' nothin' beyond."
"We might make another strike. And if we don't we can trap."
"Yup, that's a great idee--that trappin'. If you both work like a dog
all winter out in them there barren lands, an' freeze an' starve, an'
have good luck with your traps, you'd ort to clean up as much as two
dollars a day."
"But look at the country we'd see! And the fun we'd have!"
"Ain't they country enough to see here in Alaska? An' as fer fun--some
folks idee of humour gits me! Who ever heard of anyone goin' 'leven
hundred miles into nowheres for to have fun? I tell you, son, I've
know'd stampedes to start on mighty slim information, but never as slim
as what you've got. I read your book, an' all them old parties had to go
on was the stories of some Injuns--an' the whole mess of 'em's be'n dead
most two hundred years! An' I think the book's a fake, anyhow--'cause I
don't believe gold's been invented that long! No, sir, take it from me,
it's the dog-gonedest wild goose chase ever undertook by anyone--but, at
that--if it wasn't for this game laig of mine, I b'lieve I'd go 'long!"
After dinner Connie started to overhaul his trail outfit while Waseche
looked on. After a while the man rose, and put on his mackinaw.
"I've got to go back to the office," he said. "Me an' Roarin' Mike
O'Reilly has got to tackle that mail."
Connie shot his big partner a long, sidewise glance. "He must be some
rough bird to earn a name like that over on the Tanana."
"Rough as pig iron," answered Waseche solemnly. "He eats 'em alive,
Roarin' does."
"What--pancakes?"
"Yup--pancakes, an' grizzlies. Roarin' Mike, he takes 'em as they come.
Didn't you see him lay holt of your wolf-dog?"
"Yes," answered the boy, as solemn as an owl. "And I don't like folks to
be so rough with Leloo."
"He promised he wouldn't hurt your dog when we seen you comin' up the
hill."
"It's a good thing you've got him where you can keep your eye on him. If
he ever gets loose he's liable to run the crew off the works."
"Yup. I'll watch out for that. He's a stenographer. It's claimed he kin
spell--better'n what I kin. An' when he gits a letter wrote down, it kin
be read without a jury."
"I think you've picked a winner, at that, Waseche. I was watching him
when he put out his hand to touch Leloo. He would rather have shoved it
into the fire. There's something to him, even if the names did get mixed
on the package when they shipped him in. I suppose that somewhere over
on the Tanana there's a big, red-eyed, double-fisted roughneck charging
around among the construction camps packing a name like 'Nellie.'"
Waseche grinned. "Percival Lafollette, to be exact. I furnished the
Roarin' Mike O'Reilly part, along with a full an' complete outfit of
men's wearin' apparel. When he gets to where he can live up to the
Roarin' Mike name, he can discard it an' take back his own. Might's well
give the boy a chanct. Cain thought he'd put it over on me, 'count of my
movin' my office where he'd have to waller acrost the crick to it. But
I'll fool him good an' proper. The kid's a lunger, an' the first thing
to do is to git him started in to feelin' like a man. I figured they was
somethin' to him when I first seen him. If they wasn't, how did he get
up here in the middle of Alaska an' winter comin' on--an' nothin'
between him an' freezin' but them hen-skin clothes? An' I was watchin',
too, when he laid his hand on the dog's head. He was so scairt that the
sweat was jest a-bubblin' out of him--an' yet, he retch out an' done
like I done--an' believe me, I wasn't none too anxious to fool with that
brute, myself. I done it to see if he would. I'm goin' to take holt an'
make a reg'lar man out of him. I figger we kin git through the office
work by noon every day. If we don't, them birds over in the thinkers'
shack is in for more overtime. In the afternoons I'm goin' to keep him
out in the air--that's all a lunger needs--plenty air, an' good grub.
We'll tromp around the hills and hunt. We'll be a pair to draw to--him
with his busted lungs, an' me with my game laig. We was all _chechakos_
onct. They's two kinds of _chechakos_--the ones with _nerve_ an' the
ones with _brass_. The ones with the real nerve is the kind that stays
in the big country. But the other kind of _chechakos_--the ones with
brass--the bluff an' bluster--the counterfeit nerve that don't fool no
one but theirself--the luckiest thing that can happen to them is they
should live long enough to git back to the outside where they come
from--an' most of 'em's lucky if they live long enough to starve to
death."
"I guess he's the first kind," opined Connie. "When I come back I
expect he'll be a regular sourdough."
"When you're gone I reckon I'll jest have him move his traps up here. I
won't be so lonesome, an' I can keep cases on him----"
"But--" interrupted Connie.
Waseche divined his thoughts and shook his head. "No, they ain't no
danger. My lungs is made of whang leather, an' besides, he ain't no
floor spitter--I watched him in the office. Even if he was it wouldn't
take mor'n about a minute to break him of that."
By nightfall Connie and 'Merican Joe had the outfit all ready for the
trail, and the following morning they departed at daylight, with half of
Ten Bow waving good-bye, as the great silver wolf-dog swung out onto the
long snow trail at the head of the team.
CHAPTER IV
BRASS
It was high noon, just two weeks from the day Connie Morgan and 'Merican
Joe pulled out of Ten Bow, and the two halted their dogs on the summit
of Bonnet Plume Pass and gazed out over the jumbled mass of peaks and
valleys and ridges that lay to the eastward. The first leg of the long
snow trail, from Ten Bow to Dawson, had been covered over a
well-travelled trail with road houses at convenient intervals. Over this
trail with Connie's team of seven big malamutes, headed by the great
ruffed wolf-dog, they had averaged forty miles a day.
At Dawson they outfitted for the trip to Fort Norman, a distance of
about five hundred miles. Connie was fortunate in being able to purchase
from a prospector eight Mackenzie River dogs which he presented to
'Merican Joe, much to the Indian's surprise and delight. The Alaska
sled was replaced by two toboggans, and 'Merican Joe nodded approval at
Connie's selection of supplies. For from now on there would be no road
houses and, for the most of the way, no trail. And their course would
thread the roughest country on the whole continent. Therefore, the
question of outfitting was a problem to be taken seriously. Too little
grub in the sub-arctic in winter means death--horrible, black-tongued,
sunken-eyed death by starvation and freezing. And too much outfit means
overstrain on the dogs, slower travel, and unless some of it is
discarded or _cached_, it means all kinds of trouble for the trail
mushers.
The surest test of a sourdough is his outfit. Connie figured the trip
should take thirty-five days, which should put them into Fort Norman on
the fifth of November. But Connie had been long enough in the North to
take that word "should" none too literally. He knew that under very
favourable conditions the trip might be made in twenty days, and he knew
also that it might take fifty days. Therefore although the month was
November, a very favourable month for hunting, and the country to be
traversed was good game country, he did not figure his rifle for a
single pound of meat. If meat were killed on the journey, well and good.
But if no meat were killed, and if they lost their way, or encountered
blizzard after howling blizzard, and their journey lengthened to fifteen
or twenty days beyond the estimated time, Connie was determined that it
should also be well and good.
He remembered men who had been found in the spring and
buried--_chechakos_, most of them who had disregarded advice, and whose
outfits had been cut down to a minimum that allowed no margin of safety
for delay. But some of them had been sourdoughs who had taken a chance
and depended on their rifles for food--it had been the same in the end.
In the spring the men who buried them read the whole story of the
wilderness tragedy in visiting their last few camps. Each day the
distance between them shortened, here a dog was killed and eaten, here
another, and another, until at the very last camp, half buried in the
sodden ashes of the last fire, would be found the kettle with its scraps
of moccasins and bits of dog harness shrivelled and dried--moccasin
soup, the very last hopeless expedient of the doomed trail musher. And
generally the grave was dug beside this fire--never far beyond it.
And so Connie added a safety margin to the regular sub-arctic standard
of grub for the trail, and when the outfit pulled out of Dawson the
toboggans carried three and one half pounds of grub apiece for each of
the thirty-five days, which was a full half pound more than was needed,
and this, together with their outfit of sleeping bags, clothing,
utensils, and nine hundred pounds of dog food, totalled thirteen hundred
and fifty pounds--ninety pounds to the dog, which with good dogs is a
comfortable load.
The summit of the Bonnet Plume pass is a bleak place. And dreary and
bleak and indescribably rugged is the country surrounding it. Connie and
'Merican Joe, seated in the lee of their toboggans, boiled a pot of tea
over the little primus stove.
"We've made good time so far," said the boy. "About three hundred miles
more and we'll hit Fort Norman."
'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, but we got de luck. On dis side we ain' gon'
hav' so mooch luck. Too mooch plenty snow--plenty win'. An' tonight,
mor' comin'." He indicated the sky to the northward, where, beyond the
glittering white peaks, the blue faded to a sullen grey.
"You're right," answered Connie, dropping a chunk of ice into his cup of
scalding tea. "And I'd sure like to make a patch of timber. These high,
bare canyons are rotten places to camp in a blizzard. If you camp in the
middle of 'em you've got to tie yourself down or the wind might hang you
on a rock somewhere, and if you camp out of the wind against a wall, a
snow cornice might bust loose and bury you forty feet deep."
'Merican Joe grinned. "You sourdough--you know. I know you sourdough
w'en I seen you han'le de dogs--an' I know w'en you buy de grub. But
mos' I know w'en you pack de toboggan--you ain' put all de grub on wan
toboggan an' all de odder stuff on de odder toboggan----"
Connie laughed. "Lots of men have made that mistake. And then if they
get separated one dies of starvation, and the other freezes to death, or
if they lose one toboggan they're in the same fix."
'Merican Joe returned the dishes and stove to the pack and glanced at
the sky. "I ain' t'ink we mak' de timber tonight. She git dark queek
now--seven, eight mile mor' we got to camp."
"Yes," assented Connie. "And the days are getting so short that from now
on we'll quit camping at noon. We'll pull once and make a day of
it--anyway till we get a moon."
[Illustration: "In the whirling blizzard, without protection of timber,
one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian busied
himself with the dogs, Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the snow."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
To this plan the Indian readily agreed and a moment later struck out
ahead as "forerunner" to break trail for the dogs. Despite the fact that
there was more snow on the eastern slope, the two soon found it
insufficient to check the toboggans upon the series of steep pitches and
long slopes they now encountered. At the end of a mile a halt was made,
Connie's dogs were turned loose to follow, both toboggans were hitched
behind the Mackenzie River dogs, and while 'Merican Joe plodded ahead,
Connie had all he could do at the tail rope. An hour later the wind
suddenly changed and came roaring out of the north. The whole sky became
overcast and stinging particles of flinty snow were driven against their
faces. The storm increased in fury. The stinging particles changed to
dry, powdery snow dust that whirled and eddied about them so thickly
that Connie could not see the dogs from the rear of the toboggans.
Covering their noses and mouths, the two bored on through the white
smother--a slow moving, ghostly procession, with the snow powder matted
thick into the hairy coats of the dogs and the clothing of the mushers.
Not until darkness added to the impenetrability of the storm did
'Merican Joe halt. In the whirling blizzard, without protection of
timber, one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian
busied himself with the dogs Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the
snow. This trench was as long as the toboggans, and wide enough to
accommodate the two sleeping bags placed side by side. Three feet down
the boy struck ice. The sleeping bags, primus stove, and part of the
food were dumped into the trench. The loaded toboggans were tipped on
edge, one along either side, and the heavy canvas shelter tarp was
stretched over these and weighted down by doubling its edges under the
toboggans. The open ends were blocked with snow, the dogs fed and left
to make their own beds, and the two crawled into their snug quarters
where by the light of a candle they prepared a good hot meal on the
little stove and devoured it in warmth and comfort while the storm
roared harmlessly over their heads.
For two days they were storm bound, venturing out only to feed the dogs
and from time to time to relieve the tarp roof of its burden of snow.
The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found the outfit on
the move. They were following a creek bed, and the depth of the snow,
together with the easing of the slope, permitted the use of both teams.
No halt was made at noon and when they camped at dark they estimated
they had made fifteen miles. Five days of fair cold weather followed and
each night found them from fifteen to eighteen miles from the camp of
the night before. No game had been sighted, but on two of the nights
Leloo had left camp, and once, from some ridge far to the northward,
they had heard his long-drawn howl of the kill.
On the sixth day another storm broke. They were following the
snow-covered bed of a fair-sized river which Connie hoped would prove to
be the head-waters of the Gravel, which empties into the Mackenzie some
forty-five miles above Fort Norman. They had left the highest mountains
behind, and patches of timber appeared at frequent intervals along the
banks of the stream. As the storm thickened they camped, setting up
their tent in the shelter of a thicket, and in the morning they pushed
on despite the storm. It was nearly noon when Connie called to 'Merican
Joe, and when the Indian made his way back, the boy pointed to Leloo.
The great wolf-dog had halted in the traces and stood with nose up
sniffing the air, while the huge ruff seemed to swell to twice its size,
and the hair along its spine bristled menacingly.
They had stopped opposite a patch of timber taller than any they had
passed, the tops of the trees being visible between the gusts of
whirling snow. "Moose or a bear in there," ventured Connie. "Let's go
get him."
'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ketch de man scent. He ain'
ac' lak dat for moose an' bear."
"Man scent! What would any men be doing up here?"
The Indian shrugged. "Hunt, trap, mebbe-so prospeck. Com' on, le's go.
It ain' no good we go in dere." He paused and pointed to the dog. "Bad
mans in dere--Leloo, he know. Bad mans smells one way--good mans smells
anudder way. Leloo ain' git mad for good mans."
"We can't go away and leave them," Connie answered. "They may be out of
luck--may need help."
Again 'Merican Joe shrugged, but offered no further objection, and
releasing Leloo from his harness the two followed him into the timber. A
short distance back from the edge they came upon a rude log cabin,
glaringly the work of inexperienced builders. No tracks were seen about
the door, and no smoke rose from the stovepipe that served as a chimney.
'Merican Joe pushed open the door.
"It's 'bout time you was comin'--an' me crippled," came a petulant voice
from the bed. "But what do you care--" The voice ceased suddenly, and
'Merican Joe sprang back from the doorway so swiftly that he knocked
Connie into the snow. As the boy picked up himself he again heard the
voice. "Git out of here, you thievin' Injun or I'll blow yer head off!"
Ignoring the protest of 'Merican Joe, Connie thrust his head in at the
doorway. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, sharply. "Are you
crazy?"
The man in the bed stared a moment and with seeming reluctance lowered
his rifle. "Who're you?" he asked, sullenly. "If you want grub y're out
of luck. We ain't got none to spare--an' I got a rifle here that says
you don't git none of it." Involuntarily, Connie's glance swept the
supplies piled along the walls and upon the shelves, and estimated a
four-man outfit.
"How many of you are there?" he asked. "And why haven't you got a fire?"
"They's two of us, an' I ain't got no fire 'cause my partner ain't
showed up to build none. I'm crippled--sunk an ax in my foot a couple
days back."
"Where is your partner?"
"I dunno. He went to look at the traps yesterday an' he ain't got back
yet." He noticed the snow clinging to Connie's garments. "Is it
snowin'?" he asked, in sudden alarm.
"Snowing!" exclaimed the boy. "Of course it's snowing--it's been snowing
since yesterday noon."
The man's voice dropped into a whine. "The winders is frosted so you
can't see out. I bet he's lost. Go find him, can't you? What're you
standin' there fer?"
Righteous indignation succeeded the flash of disgust engendered by the
man's first words. And Connie stepped closer. "Look here, who do you
think you're talking to? I don't know who you are, and I don't want to.
What I can't figure is how you ever got this far. If nobody else had
bothered to knock some common sense and decency into you it's a wonder
your partner hasn't. But I guess he don't know the difference between
you and a man or he wouldn't be your partner." Connie turned on his heel
and started for the door.
"Hey, where you goin'?" wailed the man on the bunk.
"I'm going out and tend to my dogs," answered the boy.
"Build a fire first, an' cook me some grub! I ain't had nothin' since
yesterday."
"After the dogs," said Connie as he banged the door behind him.
"Le's mush," said 'Merican Joe, when they returned to the dogs.
Connie grinned. "No, we can't do that. I've seen some pretty raw
_chechakos_, but never one like him. If we pulled out they'd probably
both die."
'Merican Joe gave an expressive shrug. "_S'pose_ we ain't got no grub.
He ain' care _we_ die."
"No, but we're men, and he----"
"He ain' so good lak Injun dog," interrupted 'Merican Joe.
"Just about--but we can't go off and leave him, at that."
Twenty minutes later Connie and the Indian entered the cabin.
"You took yer time about it," complained the man. "Hustle around now an'
cook me up a meal of vittles."
"Where's your firewood?" asked the boy, smothering his wrath.
"Go out an' cut it, same as we do."
"Don't you keep any ahead, nor any kindlings?"
"Naw, it's bad enough to cut a little at a time."
Connie's glance sought the room. "Where's the ax?"
"Out in the brush, I guess. My partner cut the wood last. I don't know
where he left it."
"Well, it's under about two feet of snow now," answered the boy dryly,
as 'Merican Joe departed to get their own ax and cut some wood.
By the time the cabin was warmed and the man fed, the storm had ceased.
"Let me have a look at your foot," said Connie. "I expect it had better
be tended to." The man assented, and the boy turned back the covers and,
despite much groaning and whining complaint, removed the bandage and
replaced it with a clean one.
"Pretty bad gash," opined Connie. "How did it happen?"
"Cuttin' firewood--holdin' the stick with my foot an' the ax struck a
knot."
"You've got to learn a lot, haven't you?"
"What d'you mean--learn? How you goin' to cut firewood without you hold
it with yer foot?"
"Nex' tam dat better you hol' de chunk wit' you neck," advised 'Merican
Joe.
"Is that so! Well, believe me, I ain't takin' no advise offen no Siwash,
nor no kid, neither!"
Connie pulled his cap down over his ears and drew on his mackinaw and
mittens. "We're wasting time here, the days are short and if we're going
to find your partner we've got to get at it. How long is your trap
line, and where does it run?"
"We got about twenty-five martin traps out. They're acrost the river up
the first crick--strung along about three or four mile."
"Twenty-fi' trap! Three or four mile!" exclaimed 'Merican Joe. "How long
you be'n here?"
"Just a month. What's the matter with that? We've got eight martin an' a
wolverine an' a link!"
The Indian gave a snort of contempt. "Me--if I ain' set mor' trap as dat
every day I ain' t'ink I done nuttin'." He followed Connie to the door.
"You might's well move yer junk in here if you got your own grub. You
kin keep the fire goin' nights in case Tom don't show up, an' besides I
ain't had no one to talk to fer goin' on two months except Tom, an' we
don't git on none too good."
"Thanks," said Connie. "But we'll put up the tent when we come
back--we're a little particular, ourselves."
"They ain't no use of both of you goin' out to hunt him. One of you stay
here and tend the fire, an' cook supper in case the other one don't git
back in time."
Connie glared at the man for a moment, and burst out laughing. "If you
had a little more nerve and a whole lot less _brass_, there might be
some hope for you yet," he opined. "Did your partner have any dogs with
him?"
"Naw, we had six when we come in, but they was worked down skin pore
when we got here, an' some of 'em died, an' the rest run off. They
wasn't no good, nohow."
Connie banged the door in disgust and, taking Leloo with them, the two
struck across the river. They found the creek without difficulty and had
proceeded scarcely a mile when Leloo halted in his tracks and began
sniffing the air. This time the hair of his neck and spine did not
bristle, and the two watched him as he stood, facing a spruce-covered
hill, his head moving slightly from side to side, as his delicate
pointed nostrils quivered as if to pick up some elusive scent. "Go on,
Leloo. Go git um!" urged 'Merican Joe, and the wolf-dog trotted into the
spruce, followed by Connie and the Indian. Halfway up the slope the dog
quickened his pace, and coming suddenly upon a mound in the new-fallen
snow circled it several times and squatted upon his haunches. It took
Connie and the Indian but a few moments to scrape away the snow and
disclose the skinned carcass of a moose.
'Merican Joe pointed to the carcass. "It be'n snowin' quite a w'ile w'en
he skin de moose. He ain' goin' carry dat hide far. She heavy. He ain'
know nuttin' 'bout skinnin', an' lef' lot of meat stick to de hide. He
start hom' an' git los'."
"Lost!" exclaimed Connie. "Surely he wouldn't get lost within a mile of
his cabin!"
'Merican Joe nodded. "Him _chechako_--git los' anywheres. Git los'
somtam w'en she snowin' bad, hondre steps from cabin. Me--I know. One
git los' an' froze dead, wan tam, he go for water not so far you kin
t'row de stone."
"Well, he's probably home by this time. If he was lost he'd camp, and
he's had plenty of time since it stopped snowing."
The Indian was not so hopeful. "No, I'm t'ink he ain' got sense 'nough
to camp. He walk an' git scare, an' den he mebbe-so run till he fall
down."
"He won't do much running with that hide," grinned Connie. "Let's
separate and hunt for him. Come, Leloo--go find him!"
The two continued to the top of the timbered slope. "I don't see how
anyone could possibly get lost here. Surely he would know enough to go
down hill to the creek, and follow it to the river, wouldn't he?"
"No, w'en dey git scairt dey don't know up an' down an' crossways."
As the two were about to separate both suddenly paused to listen.
Faintly upon the air, seemingly from miles away, came the call of a
human voice. Leloo heard it too, and with ears stiffly erect stood
looking far out over the ridges. Raising his rifle, Connie fired into
the air, and almost immediately the sound of the shot was answered by
the faint call for help.
"That's funny," cried the boy. "Sound don't travel very fast. How could
he possibly have answered as soon as that?"
Placing his hands to his mouth, 'Merican Joe launched a yell that seemed
fairly to tear through the spaces, echoing and re-echoing across, the
valley.
Again came the answering call, faintly, as from a great distance.
Locating the direction of the sound which seemed to come from somewhere
near the head of a parallel valley, they plunged straight down the
opposite slope. At the bottom they paused again, and again the Indian
sent his peculiar penetrating yell hurtling through the air. Again it
was answered, but this time it came from up the slope. Faintly it
reached their ears, seemingly farther away than before. The sound was
repeated as the two stood looking at each other in bewilderment.
'Merican Joe's eyes seemed bulging from his head. "_Tamahnawus_," he
whispered. "W'at you call, de ghos'. He git froze, an' hees ghos' run
'roun' de hills an' yell 'bout dat! Me--I'm gon'!" Abruptly the Indian
turned and started as fast as his webs would let him in the direction of
the river.
"Come back here!" cried Connie. "Don't be a fool! There ain't any
_tamahnawuses_--and if there are, I've got the medicine that will lick
'em! I brought one in once that had run a whole tribe of Injuns off
their hunting ground."
'Merican Joe, who had halted at the boy's command, looked dubious. "I
ain' huntin' no _tamahnawus_--I ain' los' none!"
"You come with me," laughed the boy, "and I'll show you your
_tamahnawus_. I've got a hunch that fellow has dropped into a cave or
something and can't get out. And he can't be so very far off either."
With Connie in the lead they ascended the slope in the direction of the
sound which came now from a point upstream from where they had
descended. Once more Leloo paused and sniffed, the hair of his back
bristling. Whatever the object of his attention, it seemed to lie
beneath the outspreading branches of a large spruce. Connie peered
beneath the branches where an oblong of snow appeared to have been
disturbed from under the surface. Even as he looked the sound of a
voice, plain enough now to distinguish the words, reached his ears.
"Git me out of here! Ain't you never comin'? Or be you goin' to leave me
here 'cause I burnt them pancakes?"
"Come on out," called Connie. "What's the matter with you?"
"Come on out! How kin I? Who be you?"
Connie reached the man's side and proceeded to scrape away the snow,
while 'Merican Joe stood at a respectful distance, his rifle at full
cock. "Come on Joe!" the boy called, at length. "Here's your
_tamahnawus_--and it's going to take two of us to get him out."
When the snow had been removed both Connie and the Indian stared in
surprise. There lay the man closely wrapped in his moose skin, fur side
in, and the heavy hide frozen to the hardness of iron!
"I'm all cramped up," wailed the man. "I can't move."
The man was wrapped, head and all, in the frozen hide. Fortunately, he
had left an air space but this had nearly sealed shut by the continued
freezing of his breath about its edges.
Rolling him over the two grasped the edge of the heavy hide and
endeavoured to unroll it, but they might as well have tried to unroll
the iron sheathing of a boiler.
"We've got to build a fire and thaw him out," said Connie.
"Tak' um to de cabin," suggested the Indian. "Kin drag um all same
toboggan."
The plan looked reasonable but they had no rope for a trace line. Connie
overcame the difficulty by making a hole with his hand ax in a flap of
the hide near the man's feet, and cutting a light spruce sapling which
he hooked by means of a limb stub into the hole.
By using the sapling in the manner of a wagon tongue, they started for
the cabin, keeping to the top of the ridge where the snow was shallow
and wind-packed.
All went well until they reached the end of the ridge. A mile back,
where they had ascended the slope, the pitch had not been great, but as
they neared the river the sides grew steeper, until they were confronted
by a three hundred foot slope with an extremely steep pitch. This slope
was sparsely timbered, and great rocks protruded from the snow. Connie
was for retracing the ridge to a point where the ascent was not so
steep, but 'Merican Joe demurred.
[Illustration: "The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found
the outfit on the move."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
"It git dark queek, now. We git um down all right. Turn um roun' an'
mak de pole lak de tail rope on de toboggan--we hol' um back easy." The
early darkness was blurring distant outlines and the descent at that
point meant the saving of an hour, so Connie agreed and for the first
twenty yards all went well. Then suddenly the human toboggan struck the
ice of a hillside spring and shot forward. The pole slipped from the
snowy mittens of the two and, enveloped in a cloud of flying snow, the
man in the frozen moose hide went shooting down the slope! Connie and
'Merican Joe barely saved themselves from following him, and, squatting
low on their webs they watched in a fascination of horror as the flying
body struck a tree trunk, shot sidewise, ploughed through the snow,
struck a rock, bounded high into the air, struck another rock and,
gaining momentum with every foot, shot diagonally downward--rolling,
whirling, sliding--straight for the brink of a rock ledge with a sheer
drop of twenty-five or thirty feet. Over the edge it shot and landed
with a loud thud among the broken rock fragments of the valley floor.
"We ought to have gone back!" shuddered the boy. "He's dead by this
time."
'Merican Joe shrugged. "Anyhow, dat com' queek. Dat better as if he lay
back onder de tree an' froze an' starve, an' git choke to deat' w'en his
air hole git froze shut. He got good strong coffin anyhow."
Relieved of their burden it was but the work of a few moments to gain
the floor of the valley and hasten to the form wedged tightly between
two upstanding boulders, where they were greeted by the voice of the
man raised in whining complaint.
"Are you hurt?" eagerly asked Connie, kneeling at the man's side and
looking at him closely.
"Naw, I ain't hurt but can't you pick out no smoother trail? I'm all
jiggled up!" In his relief at finding the man unharmed, Connie
laughingly promised a smoother trail, and as he and the Indian pried him
from between the rocks with a young tree, the boy noted that the frozen
moose hide had scarcely been dented by its contact with the trees and
rocks.
In the cabin the stove was crammed with wood and the man laid upon the
floor close beside it, but it was nearly daylight the following morning
before the hide had thawed sufficiently for the combined efforts of
Connie and the Indian to unroll it. All night the two tended the fire
and listened to the petty bickering and quarrelling of the two helpless
partners, the man in the bunk taunting the other with being a fool for
wrapping up in a green moose hide, and being in turn called a fool for
chopping his own foot. It was disgusting in the extreme to Connie but at
last the humour of the situation got the better of his disgust, and he
roared with laughter, all of which served to bring down the combined
reviling of both men upon his head.
When at last the man was extricated from his prison and found to be
little the worse for his adventure, he uttered no word of thanks to his
rescuers. Indeed, his first words were in the nature of an indirect
accusation of theft.
"Whur's my marten?" he asked, eying them with suspicion.
"What marten? We didn't see any marten," answered the boy.
"Well, I hed one. Tuk it out of a trap just before I seen the moose.
It's funny you didn't see it." Connie answered nothing, and as the man
devoured a huge breakfast without asking his rescuers to join him, he
continued to mutter and growl about his lost marten. Daylight was
breaking and Connie, bottling his wrath behind tight-pressed lips, rose
abruptly, and prepared to depart.
"Whur you goin'?" asked the man, his cheeks distended with food. "You
lay around here soakin' up heat all night; looks like you could anyways
cut a little wood an' help worsh these dishes! An', say, don't you want
to buy some moose meat? I'll sell you all you want fer two-bits a
pound, an' cut it yerself."
For a moment Connie saw red. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard
but once more his sense of humour asserted itself, and looking the man
squarely in the eye he burst into a roar of laughter, while 'Merican
Joe, who possessed neither Connie's self-restraint nor his sense of
humour, launched into an unflattering tirade of jumbled Indian, English,
and jargon, that, could a single word of it have been understood, would
have goaded even the craven _chechakos_ to warfare.
Two hours later, as they sat in their cozy tent, pitched five miles down
the river, and devoured their breakfast, Connie grinned at his
companion.
"Big difference in men--even in _chechakos_, ain't there, Joe?"
"Humph," grunted the Indian.
"No one else within two hundred miles of here--his partner crippled so
he never could have found him if he tried, and he never would have
tried--a few more hours and he would have been dead--we come along and
find him--and he not only don't offer us a meal, but accuses us of
stealing his marten--and offers to _sell_ us moose meat--at two-bits a
pound! I wish some of the men I know could have the handling of those
birds for about a month!"
"Humph! If mos' w'ite men I know got to han'le um dey ain' goin' live no
mont'--you bet!"
"Anyway," laughed the boy, "we've sure learned the difference between
_nerve_ and _brass_!"
CHAPTER V
THE PLAGUE FLAG IN THE SKY
It was nearly noon of the day following the departure of Connie Morgan
and 'Merican Joe from the camp of the two _chechakos_.
The mountains had been left behind, and even the foothills had flattened
to low, rolling ridges which protruded irregularly into snow-covered
marshes among which the bed of the frozen river looped interminably. No
breath of air stirred the scrub willows along the bank, upon whose naked
branches a few dried and shrivelled leaves still clung.
'Merican Joe was travelling ahead breaking trail for his dogs and the
boy saw him raise a mittened hand and brush at his cheek. A few minutes
later the Indian thrashed his arms several times across his chest as
though to restore circulation of the blood against extreme cold. But it
was not cold. A moment later the boy brushed at his own cheek which
stung disagreeably as though nipped by the frost. He glanced at the tiny
thermometer that he kept lashed to the front of his toboggan. It
registered zero, a temperature that should have rendered trailing even
without the heavy parkas uncomfortably warm. Connie glanced backward
toward the distant mountains that should have stood out clean-cut and
distinct in the clear atmosphere, but they had disappeared from view
although the sun shone dazzlingly bright from a cloudless sky. A dog
whimpered uneasily, and Connie cracked his whip above the animal's head
and noted that instead of the sharp snap that should have accompanied
the motion, the sound reached his ears in a dull pop--noted, too, that
the dogs paid no slightest heed to the sound, but plodded on
methodically--slowly, as though they were tired. Connie was conscious of
a growing lassitude--a strange heaviness that hardly amounted to
weariness but which necessitated a distinct effort of brain to complete
each muscle move.
Suddenly 'Merican Joe halted and, removing his mitten, drew his bare
hand across his eyes. Connie noticed that the air seemed heavy and dead,
and that he could hear his own breathing and the breathing of the dogs
which had crouched with their bellies in the snow whimpering uneasily.
Wild-eyed, the Indian pointed aloft and Connie glanced upward. There was
no hint of blue in the cloudless sky. The whole dome of the heavens
glared with a garish, brassy sheen from which the sun blazed out with an
unwholesome, metallic light that gleamed in glints of gold from millions
of floating frost spicules. Even as the two stood gazing upward new suns
formed in the burnished sky--false suns that blazed and danced and
leaped together and re-formed.
With a cry of abject terror 'Merican Joe buried his face in his arms and
stood trembling and moaning, "_Hyas skookum kultus tamahnawus--mesahchee
tamahnawus!_" (a very strong bad spirit--we are bewitched). The words
puled haltingly from lips stiff with fright. The next moment the boy was
beside him, thumping him on the back and choking him roughly:
"_Tamahnawus_ nothing!" he cried. "Buck up! Don't be a fool! I've seen
it before. Three years ago--in the Lillimuit, it was. It's the white
death. Waseche and I hid in an ice cave. Tonight will come the strong
cold."
The boy's voice sounded strangely toneless and flat, and when he
finished speaking he coughed. 'Merican Joe's hands had dropped to his
side and he stood dumbly watching as Connie loosened the heavy woollen
muffler from his waist and wound it about the lower half of his face.
"Cover your mouth and don't talk," the boy commanded. "Breathe through
your muffler. We can still travel, but it will be hard. We will be very
tired but we must find shelter--a cave--a cabin--a patch of timber--or
tonight we will freeze--Look! Look!" he cried suddenly, pointing to the
northward, "a mirage!"
Both stared awe-struck as the picture formed rapidly before their eyes
and hung inverted in the brassy sky just above the horizon foreshortened
by the sweep of a low, snow-buried ridge. Both had seen mirages
before--mirages that, like a faulty glass, distorted shapes and
outlines, and mirages that brought real and recognizable places into
view like the one they were staring at in spell-bound fascination. So
perfect in detail, and so close it hung in the heavy, dead air that it
seemed as though they could reach out and touch it--a perfect inverted
picture of what appeared to be a two or three mile sweep of valley, one
side sparsely wooded, and the other sloping gently upward into the same
low-rolling ridge that formed their own northern horizon. Each stunted
tree showed distinctly, and in the edge of the timber stood a cabin,
with the smoke rising sluggishly from the chimney. They could see the
pile of split firewood at its corner and even the waterhole chopped in
the ice of the creek, with its path leading to the door. But it was not
the waterhole, or the firewood, or the cabin itself that held them
fascinated. It was the little square of scarlet cloth that hung limp and
motionless and dejected from a stick thrust beneath the eave of the tiny
cabin. It was a horrible thing to look upon for those two who knew its
significance--that flag glowing like a splotch of blood there in the
brazen sky with the false suns dancing above it.
"The plague flag!" cried Connie.
And almost in the same breath 'Merican Joe muttered:
"De red death!"
[Illustration: "It was a terrible thing to look upon to those two who
knew its significance--that flag glowing like a splotch of blood there
in the brazen sky."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
Even as they spoke the cabin door opened and a man stepped out. His
features were indistinguishable, but both could see that he was a large
man, for his bulk had filled the doorway. He swung a heavy pack to a
toboggan which stood waiting before the door with the dogs in harness.
The next moment the form of a woman appeared in the doorway. She
evidently called to the man, for he halted abruptly and faced about,
shook his fist at her and, turning, resumed his course, while with an
appealing gesture the woman stretched out her arms toward him.
Then rapidly as it had formed, the picture faded and the two awe-struck
watchers stood gazing at the frost spicules that glittered brassily in
the unwholesome light of the false suns.
Once more the Indian buried his face in his arms and muffled, moaning
words fell from his lips: "De red death--de white death! It is
_mesahchee tamahnawus_! We die! We die!"
Again Connie shook him roughly, and meeting with no response, beat his
arms from his face with the loaded butt of his dog whip.
"You're a crazy fool!" cried the boy, with his lips close to the
Indian's ear. "We're _not_ going to die--anyway, not till we've had a
run for our money! We're going to mush! Do you hear? _Mush!_ And we're
going to keep on mushing till we find that cabin! And if you hang back
or quit, I'm going to wind this walrus hide whip around you till I cut
you in strips--do you get it?" And, without another word, the boy
turned, whipped the dogs to their feet, and leaving the river abruptly,
led off straight into the north across the low, snow-covered ridge.
* * * * *
Of the two brothers Bossuet, Victor, the elder, was loved in the North;
and René was hated. And the reason for this lay in the men themselves.
Both were rivermen--good rivermen--and both laboured each year during
the long days of the summer months, together with many other rivermen,
in working the Hudson's Bay brigade of scows down the three great
connecting rivers to the frozen sea. For between Athabasca Landing and
Fort McPherson lie two thousand miles of wilderness--a wilderness whose
needs are primitive but imperative, having to do with life and death.
And the supplies for this vast wilderness must go in without fail each
year by the three rivers, the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie.
These are not gentle rivers flowing smoothly between their banks, but
are great torrents of turbulent waters that rush wildly into the North
in miles upon miles of foaming white water, in sheer cascades, and in
boiling, rock-ribbed rapids. So that the work of the rivermen is man's
work requiring skill and iron nerve, and requiring also mighty muscles
for the gruelling portages where cargoes must be carried piece by piece
over rough foot trails, and in places even the heavy scows themselves
must be man-hauled around cascades.
Seeing the two brothers together, the undiscriminating would
unhesitatingly have picked René, with his picturesque, gaudy attire, his
loud, ever-ready laughter, his boisterous, bull-throated _chansons_, and
his self-confident air, as the typical man of the North. For beside him
Victor, with faded overalls, his sockless feet thrust into worn shoes,
his torn shirt, and his old black felt hat, cut a sorry figure.
But those who know recall the time that old Angus Forgan, the drunken
trader of Big Stone, fell out of a scow at the head of the Rapids of the
Drowned. They will tell you that of the twenty rivermen who witnessed
the accident only two dared to attempt a rescue, and those two were René
and Victor Bossuet. And that René, being the stronger, reached the
struggling man first and, twisting his fingers into his collar, struck
out for a flat shelf of rock that edged the first suck of the rapids.
They will tell you how he reached the rock and, throwing an arm upon its
flat surface, endeavoured to pull himself up; but the grip of the
current upon the two bodies was strong and after two or three attempts
René released his grip on the drowning man's collar and clambered to
safety. Then they will tell you how Victor, who had managed to gain
shore when he saw René reach the rock, plunged in again, straight into
the roaring chute, of how he reached Forgan in the nick of time, of how
the two bodies disappeared completely from view in the foaming white
water, and of how a quarter of a mile below, by means of Herculean
effort and a bit of luck, Victor managed to gain the eddy of a side
channel where he and his unconscious burden whirled round and round
until the rivermen running along the bank managed to throw a rope and
haul them both to safety.
Also, they will tell you of Gaspard Petrie, a great hulking bully of a
man, who called himself "The Grizzly of the Athabasca," whose delight it
was to pick fights and to beat his opponents into unconsciousness with
his fists. And of how the mighty Petrie whose ill fame had spread the
length of the three rivers, joined the brigade once at Fort McMurry and
of how the boisterous René became the bright and shining mark of his
attentions, and of the fight that sent René to the brush before he was
"licked," after which René stood the taunts and insults of "The Grizzly
of the Athabasca" for many days like the craven he was, before the eyes
of all men, until one day Petrie used words that brought insult upon the
mother of René--who was also the mother of Victor. René paid them no
heed but Victor rose from his place beside the fire and slowly removed
his mackinaw and his torn felt hat and, walking over to Petrie, demanded
that he retract the words. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" eyed him in
astonishment, for Victor had been a figure in the brigade so
insignificant as to have entirely escaped his attention. The ramping one
threw out his huge chest and roared with laughter. "See!" he taunted,
"the weasel defies the bear!" And with that he reached out and with his
thumb and forefinger grasped Victor by the nose and jerked him roughly
toward him.
The next instant the air rushed from his throat in a grunt of agonized
surprise for the violent jerk on his nose seemed to release steel
springs in Victor's body and before Petrie could release his grip both
of Victor's fists and the heel of one shoe had been driven with all the
force of mighty muscles directly into the bully's stomach. The
unexpected onslaught staggered the huge bully, and then began the fight
that ridded the rivers of Gaspard Petrie. In and out flashed the lighter
man, landing a blow here and a kick there--round and round, and in and
out. "The Grizzly of the Athabasca" roared with rage, and struck mighty
blows that, had they landed, would have annihilated his opponent on the
spot but they did not land. Victor seemed tireless and his blows rained
faster and faster as his opponent's defence became slower and slower. At
last, from sheer exhaustion, the heavy arms could no longer guard the
writhing face and instantly Victor began to rain blow after blow upon
eyes and nose and mouth until a few minutes later "The Grizzly of the
Athabasca" collapsed entirely, and whimpering and puling, he retracted
his words, and then amid the frenzied jeers of the rivermen, he made up
his pack and slunk away into the bush--and the fame of Victor Bossuet
travelled the length of the three rivers. Thus it was that Victor became
known as the better man of the two. But it was in the winning of Hélène
Lacompte that he gained his final triumph. René had boasted upon the
rivers that he would marry her,--boastings that reached the ears of the
girl in her father's little cabin on Salt River and caused her to smile.
But as she smiled her thoughts were not of René and his gaudy clothing,
his famous blue _capote_, his crimson scarf, and his long tasselled cap
of white wool--but of Victor--who spoke seldom, but saved his money each
year and refrained from joining in the roistering drinking bouts of the
rivermen.
Then one day at Fort Norman in the hearing of all the rivermen René
boldly told her that he was coming to take her when the scows returned,
and she laughingly replied that when she changed her name from Lacompte,
she would take the name of Bossuet. Whereat René drank deeper, bragged
the more boisterously, and to the envy of all men flaunted his good
fortune before the eyes of the North. But Victor said nothing. He quit
the brigade upon a pretext and when the scows returned Hélène bore the
name of Bossuet. For she and Victor had been married by the priest at
the little mission and had gone to build their cabin upon a little
unnamed river well back from the Mackenzie. For during the long winter
months Victor worked hard at his trap lines, while René drank and
gambled and squandered his summer wages among the towns of the
provinces.
When René heard of the marriage he swore vengeance, for this thing had
been a sore blow to his pride. All along the three rivers men talked of
it, nor did they hesitate to taunt and make sport of René to his face.
He sought to make up in swashbuckling and boasting what he lacked in
courage. So men came to hate him and it became harder and harder for him
to obtain work. At last, in great anger, he quit the brigade altogether
and for two summers he had been seen upon the rivers in a York boat of
his own. The first winter after he left the brigade he spent money in
the towns as usual, so the following summer the source of his income
became a matter of interest to the Mounted Police. Certain of their
findings made it inadvisable for René to appear again in the towns, and
that autumn he spent in the outlands, avoiding the posts, stopping a
day here--a week there, in the cabins of obscure trappers and camping
the nights between, for he dared not show his face at any post. Then it
was he bethought himself of his brother's cabin as a refuge and, for the
time being laying aside thoughts of vengeance, he journeyed there.
He was welcomed by Victor and Hélène and by the very small Victor who
was now nearly a year old. Victor and Hélène had heard of the threats of
vengeance, but knowing René, they had smiled. Was not René a great
boaster? And the very young Victor, who knew nothing of the threats,
thought his big uncle a very brave figure in his blue _capote_, his red
muffler, and his white stocking cap of wool.
René worked willingly enough side by side with Victor upon the trap
line, and with the passing of the days the envy of his brother's lot
grew, and in his heart smouldered a sullen rage. Here was Victor, a man
at whom nobody would look twice in passing, happy and contented with his
little family, untroubled by any haunting fear of the hand of the law,
enjoying the respect of all men, and a veritable hero the length of the
three rivers. And beside him, of his own flesh and blood, was himself,
a bold figure of a man, a roisterer and a poser, who had sought to gain
the admiration and respect of the men of the rivers without earning it,
and who had failed--and failed most miserably. The sullen rage grew in
his heart, and he plotted vengeance by the hour--but his hand was stayed
by fear--fear of Victor and fear of the law.
And so a month passed, and one day as the two brothers finished their
lunch and lighted their pipes upon a log beside a tiny fire, Victor
spoke that which for several days had been passing in his mind: "It has
been good to have you with us, my brother," he began, being a man of
indirect speech.
"The joy has been all mine, I assure you," replied René, wondering what
would come next.
"But three people eat more than two, and I laid in supplies for two to
last until the holiday trading."
"I have no money, but I will leave the pay for my keep at Fort Norman
next summer."
A swift flush of anger reddened the cheek of Victor. "Pay! Who talks of
pay? Think you I would accept pay from my own brother?"
"What then?"
"Only this, you must make the trip to Fort Norman for food. I will give
you a note to McTavish, and the stuff will be charged to me. It is three
days travelling light, and four on the return. You can take my dogs.
They know the trail."
There was a long pause before the younger man spoke. "I cannot go to
Fort Norman. I cannot be seen on the river."
Victor glanced up in surprise. "Why?"
René shifted uneasily. "The police," he answered. "They think I have
broken their law."
"Have you?" The older man's eyes were upon him, and René groped in his
mind for words. "What if I have?" he blurted. "What was I to do? I
cannot work with the brigade. They will not have me. Because I am a
better man than the rest of them, they are jealous and refuse to work
beside me." René rose from the log and began to strut up and down in the
snow, swinging his arms wide and pausing before his brother to tap
himself upon the chest, thrown out so the blue _capote_ swelled like the
breast of a pouter pigeon. "Behold before you one whose excellence in
all things has wrought his ruin. Julius Cæsar was such a man, and the
great Napoleon, and I, René Bossuet, am the third. All men fear me, and
because of my great skill and prodigious strength, all men hate me. They
refuse to work beside me lest their puny efforts will appear as the work
of children. I am the undisputed king of the rivers. Beside me none----"
Victor interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Beside you none will work
because of your bragging!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "You are a good
enough riverman when you mind your business, but there are plenty as
good--and some better. What law have you broken?"
"I have traded _hooch_ upon the rivers."
"And when you found that the men of the Mounted were upon your trail you
came here," continued the older man. "You thought you would be safe here
because the police, knowing of your loud-bawled threats against me,
would think we were mortal enemies."
"You knew of that--of my threats?" gasped René in surprise, "and you
allowed me to stay!"
Victor laughed shortly. "Of course I knew. But what are threats between
brothers? I knew they were but the idle boastings of a braggart. You
would not dare harm me, or mine. You are a great coward, René, and it is
to laugh and not to fear. You strut about like a cock partridge in the
springtime, you clothe yourself with the feathers of the bluejay, and
speak with the tongue of the great grey wolf but your heart is the heart
of the rabbit. But talk gets us nowhere. We will go to the cabin, now.
In the morning I will start for Fort Norman, and you will remain to look
after Hélène and the little Victor." The older man rose and faced his
brother. "And if harm comes to either of them while I am gone _may the
wolves gnaw your bones upon the crust of the snow_. That little cabin
holds all that I love in the world. I never boast, and I never
threaten--nor do I ever repent the work of my hands." He paused and
looked squarely into his brother's eyes, and when he spoke again the
words fell slowly from his lips--one by one, with a tiny silence
between--"_You have heard it, maybe--scarcely disturbing the silence of
the night--that sound of the crunching of bones on the snow._" A hand of
ice seemed to reach beneath René's blue _capote_ and fasten upon his
heart, there came a strange prickling at the roots of his hair, and
little chills shot along his spine. Somewhere back in the forest a tree
exploded with the frost, and René jumped, nervously. Then, side by side,
the brothers made their way to the cabin in silence.
CHAPTER VI
AT THE END OF RENÉ'S TRAIL
The ridge up which Connie Morgan laboured at the head of his dogs was a
sparsely timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away.
To the boy that smoothly rolling sky line looked ten miles ahead of him.
No breath of wind stirred the stinging dead air. His snowshoes became
great weights upon his feet which sought to drag him down, down into
immeasurable depths of soft warm snow. The slope which in reality was a
very easy grade assumed the steepness of a mountain side. He wanted
above all things to sleep. He glanced backward. 'Merican Joe's team had
stopped, and the Indian was fumbling listlessly with his pack. Halting
his own dogs, the boy hastened back. The effort taxed his strength to
the limit. His heavy whiplash swished through the air, and 'Merican Joe
straightened up with a howl of pain.
"Come on!" cried Connie, as he prepared to strike again. "That cabin's
only just over the ridge, and if you stop here you'll freeze!"
"No use," mumbled the Indian. "De red death--de white death. We goin'
die annyhow. Me--I'm lak I'm sleep."
"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Get up there and take my dogs and I'll
take yours. No more laying down on the job or I'll lay on this whip in
earnest. If we mush we'll be there in an hour--_Skookum_ Injun! Where's
your nerve?"
'Merican Joe smiled. "_Skookum tillicum_," he muttered gravely, pointing
his mittened hand toward the boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you till I die.
We mak' her, now. We speet on de _kultus tamahnawus_ in hees face!"
"You bet we will!" cried the boy. "Get up there now, and keep those dogs
moving. I'll follow along with yours."
A half hour later the two stood side by side upon the crest of the ridge
and looked down into the valley. Both were breathing heavily. Each had
fallen time out of number, but each time had scrambled to his feet and
urged on his dogs. As they stood now with the false suns dancing above
them, the cold seemed to press upon them like a thing of weight. Connie
glanced at his thermometer. It had dropped forty degrees! Across a half
mile of snow they could see the little cabin in the edge of the timber.
Only, now the smoke did not rise from the chimney but poured from its
mouth and fell heavily to the roof where it rolled slowly to the ground.
Motioning with his arm, 'Merican Joe led off down the slope and Connie
followed, holding weakly to the tail rope of his toboggan. The going was
easier than the ascent had been, but the "strong cold" seemed to strike
to the very bone. After what seemed hours, the boy found himself before
the door of the cabin. Beside him 'Merican Joe was bending over
unharnessing the dogs. Connie stooped to look at the thermometer.
"Seventy-two below!" he muttered, "and she only goes to seventy-six!"
Frantically the boy worked helping 'Merican Joe to unharness the dogs
and when the last one was freed he opened the door and, closely followed
by the Indian, stumbled into the cabin.
The next thing Connie knew he was lying on a bunk and a woman was seated
beside him holding a spoon to his lips while she supported his head on
her arm. The boy swallowed and a spoonful of hot liquid trickled down
his throat. He felt warm, and comfortable, and drowsy--so drowsy that it
was with an effort that he managed to swallow other spoonfuls of the hot
liquid. Slowly he opened his eyes and then struggled to a sitting
posture. 'Merican Joe sat upon the floor with his back against the log
wall. He became conscious of a stinging sensation in his face and he
prodded his cheek with an inquisitive finger.
The woman noticed the action. "It is not bad," she explained. "Your nose
and your cheeks they were frozen but I thawed them out with the snow."
Suddenly her expression changed and a look of fear haunted her eyes. She
pointed toward the door. "But--what is it--out there? The sky is all
wrong. There are no clouds, yet it is not blue, and there are many suns
that move and jump about. It is a time of great evil. Did you not see
the plague flag? And my man is away. Maybe it is the end of all things.
I am afraid. Why are there many suns?"
"It is the white death," answered the boy. "You needn't fear. Only stay
in the house and don't breathe the outside air. I have seen it once
before. Tonight will come the northern lights and they will hiss and pop
and snap. And they will be so bright it will look like the whole world
is on fire. Then the wind will come, and tomorrow it will be gone, and
everything will be the same as before."
"I have heard of the white death," said the woman. "My father and some
of the old men have seen it--beyond Bear Lake. My father and some of the
others crawled under their blankets and lay for more than a day but some
of the old men died."
The thin wail of an infant sounded from a pole crib at the other end of
the room, and the woman rose quickly and crossed to its side. Connie saw
her stoop over the crib and mutter soft, crooning words, as she patted
the tiny bed clothing with her hand. The wailing ceased, and the woman
tiptoed back to his side. "It is the little Victor," she explained, and
Connie noticed that her eyes were wet with tears. Suddenly she broke
down and covered her face with her hands while her body swayed to and
fro. "Oh, my little man! My little soft baby! He must die--or be
terribly scarred by the hand of the red death! So beautiful--so little,
and so good, and so beautiful! And I have nothing to feed him, for René
has taken the milk. René is a devil! I would have killed him but he took
the gun." The woman stopped speaking, and the silence of the little
cabin was punctuated by the sound of her muffled sobs.
Connie felt a strange lump rising in his throat. He swallowed and
attempted to speak, but the result was a funny noise way back in his
throat. He swallowed several times and when he finally spoke his voice
sounded hard and gruff. "Quit crying, mam, and help me get this
straight. I don't believe your little kid's got the smallpox." He paused
and glanced about the room. "This ain't the kind of a place he'd get
it--it's too clean. Who told you it was the red death?"
"Oh, no one told me! Who is there to tell? René is a liar, and my man
has gone to Fort Norman. But," she leaped to her feet and regarded
Connie with a tense, eager look, "can it be that you are a doctor?" The
next instant she turned away. "No--you are but a boy!"
"No," repeated Connie, "I am not a doctor. But I used to be in the
Mounted and I learned all there was in the manual about smallpox and
I've seen a good deal of it. What makes you think it's smallpox?"
"I have seen, on his little chest--the red blotches. What else could it
be?"
"How long has he been sick?"
"Since day before yesterday."
"Did he have any fits? Did he vomit? Did he run up a high fever?"
"No--none of these things. But he has not wanted much to eat--and on his
chest are the blotches."
"Let's look at 'em."
The woman led the way to the crib and lifting the baby from it, bared
his chest. Connie examined the red marks minutely. He felt of them with
his fingers, and carefully examined the forehead along the roots of the
hair. Then he turned to the woman with a smile. "Put him back," he said
quietly. "He's a buster of a kid, all right--and he ain't got smallpox.
He'll be well as ever in three or four days. He's got chicken pox--"
The woman clutched at his arm and her breath came fast. "Are you sure?"
she cried, a great hope dawning in her eyes. "How can you tell?"
"It's all in the manual. Smallpox pimples feel hard, like shot, and
they come first on the face and forehead, and there is always high fever
and vomiting, and the pimples are always round. This is chicken pox, and
it ain't dangerous, and I told you I used to be with the Mounted, and
the Mounted is always sure. Now, what about this Rainy person that stole
the little kid's milk?" But the woman was paying no attention. She was
pacing up and down the floor with the baby hugged to her
breast--laughing, crying, talking to the little one all in the same
breath, holding him out at arm's length and then cuddling him close and
smothering him with kisses. Then, suddenly, she laid the baby in his
crib and turned to Connie who, in view of what he had seen, backed away
in alarm until he stood against the door.
"Ah, you are the grand boy!" the woman exclaimed. "You have saved the
life of my little Victor! You are my friend. In four days comes my
man--the little one's papa, and he will tell you better than I of our
thanks. He is your friend for life. He is Victor Bossuet, and on the
rivers is none like him. I will tell him all--how the little one is
dying with the red death, and you come out of the strong cold with the
frost in the nose and the cheeks, and you look on the little Victor who
is dying, and say '_non_,' and pouf! the red death is gone, and the
little baby has got only what you call chickiepok! See! Even now he is
laughing!"
"He's all right," smiled Connie. "But you're way off about my curing
him. He'd have been well as ever in a few days anyhow and you'd have had
your scare for nothing."
The woman's voluble protest was interrupted by a wail from the infant,
and again her mood changed and she began to pace the floor wringing her
hands. "See, now he is hungry and there is nothing to feed him! René is
a devil! He has taken the milk."
"Hold on!" interrupted Connie. "Was it canned milk? 'Cause if it was you
don't need to worry. I've got about a dozen cans out there on the
toboggan. Wait and I'll get it." He turned to the Indian who had been a
silent onlooker. "Come on, Joe, crawl into your outfit. While I get the
grub and blankets off the toboggans, you rustle the wood and water--and
go kind of heavy on the wood, 'cause, believe me, there ain't any
thermometer going to tell us how cold it will get tonight."
A quarter of an hour later Connie dragged in a heavy canvas sack and
two rolls of blankets just as 'Merican Joe stacked his last armful of
wood high against the wall. "I fed the dogs," said the boy as he
rummaged in the bag and handed the cans of milk one by one to the woman,
"and I could tell your husband is an old-timer by the looks of his dog
shelter--warm and comfortable, and plenty of room for two teams. I can
find out all I want to know about a man by the way he uses his dogs."
"He is the best man on the rivers," repeated the woman, her eyes
shining, as she opened a can of milk, carefully measured an amount,
added water, and stirred it as it heated on the stove. Connie watched
with interest as she fed it to the baby from a spoon. "Again you have
saved his life," she said, as the last spoonful disappeared between the
little lips.
"Aw, forget that!" exclaimed the boy, fidgeting uncomfortably. "What I
want is the dope on this Rainy--how did he come to swipe the kid's milk?
And where is he heading for? I'm in something of a hurry to get to Fort
Norman, but I've got a hunch I'm due for a little side trip. He ain't
going to be far ahead of me tomorrow. If he holes up today and tonight
I'll catch up with him along about noon--and if he don't hole up--the
white death will save me quite a bit of trouble."
"Ah, that René!" exclaimed the woman, her face darkling with passion,
"he is Victor's brother, and he is no good. He drinks and gambles and
makes the big noise with his mouth. Bou, wou, wou! I am the big man! I
can do this! I can do that! I am the best man in the world! Always he
has lived in the towns in the winter and spent his money but this winter
he came and lived with us because his money was gone. That is all right
he is the brother of my husband. He is welcome. But one does not have to
like him. But when my husband tells him to go to Fort Norman for food
because we did not know there would be three, he made excuse, and my
husband went and René stayed. Then the next day the little Victor was
sick, and I saw the hand of the red death upon him and I told René that
he should run fast after Victor and tell him. But he would not! He swore
and cursed at his own ill luck and he ran from the house into the woods.
I made the plague flag and hung it out so that no traveller should come
in and be in danger of the red death.
"By and by René came in from the woods in a terrible rage. He began to
pack his outfit for the trail and I stayed close by the side of my
little one for fear René would do him harm in his anger. At last he was
ready and I was glad to see him go. I looked then and saw that he had
taken all the food! Even the baby's milk he had taken! I rushed upon him
then, but I am a woman and no match for a big man like René, and he
laughed and pushed me away. I begged him to leave me some food, and he
laughed the more--and on my knees I implored him to leave the baby's
milk. But he would not. He said he had sworn vengeance upon Victor, and
now he would take vengeance. He said, 'The brat will not need the milk
for he will die anyway, and you will die, and Victor will follow me, and
I will lead him to a place I know, and then he will die also.' It was
then I rushed for the gun, but René had placed it in his pack. And I
told him he must not go from a plague house, for he would spread the
terrible red death in all the North. But he laughed and said he would
show the North that he, René Bossuet, was a god who could spread death
along the rivers. He would cause it to sweep like a flame among the
rivermen who hated him, and among the men of the Mounted."
The woman paused and Connie saw that a look of wonderful contentment had
come into her eyes.
"The good God did not listen to the curses of René," she said, simply,
"for as I lay on the floor I prayed to Him and He sent you to me,
straight out of the frozen places where in the winter no men are. Tell
me, did not the good God tell you to come to me--to save the little
baby's life?" There was a look of awed wonder in the woman's eyes, and
suddenly Connie remembered the mirage with the blazing plague flag in
the sky.
"Yes," he answered, reverently, "I guess maybe He did."
That night the wind came, the aurora flashed and hissed in the heavens,
and early in the morning when Connie opened the door the air was alive
with the keen tang of the North. Hastily he made up his pack for the
trail. Most of the grub he left behind, and when the woman protested he
laughed, and lied nobly, in that he told her that they had far too much
grub for their needs. While 'Merican Joe looked solemnly on and said
nothing.
With the blessing of the woman ringing in their ears they started on the
trail of René Bossuet. When they were out of sight of the cabin, the
Indian halted and looked straight into the boy's eyes.
"We have one day's grub, for a three-day's trail if we hit straight for
Fort Norman," he announced. "Why then do we follow this man's trail? He
has done nothing to us! Why do you always take upon yourself the
troubles of others?"
"Where would _you_ have been if I didn't?" flashed the boy angrily. "And
where would the trapper have been and that woman and little baby? When I
first struck Alaska I was just a little kid with torn clothes and only
eight dollars and I thought I didn't have a friend in the world. And
then, at Anvik, I found that every one of the big men of the North was
my friend! And ever since that time I have been trying to pay back the
debt I owe the men of the North--and I'll keep on trying till I die!"
With a shrug 'Merican Joe started his dogs and took up the trail. Two
hours later Connie took the lead, and pointed to the tracks in the snow.
"He's slowing up," he exclaimed. "If we don't strike his camp within a
half an hour, we'll strike--something else!"
A few minutes later both halted abruptly. Before them was a wide place
in the snow that had been trampled by many feet--the soft padded feet of
the wolf pack. A toboggan, with its pack still securely lashed, stood at
the end of René Bossuet's trail. Small scraps of leather showed where
the dogs had been torn from the harness. Connie closed his eyes and
pictured to himself what had happened there, in the night, in the sound
of the roaring wind, and in the changing lights of the brilliantly
flashing aurora. Then he opened his eyes and stepped out into the
trampled space and gazed thoughtfully down upon the few scattered bits
that lay strewn about upon the snow--a grinning skull, deeply gored here
and there with fang marks, the gnawed ends of bones, and here and there
ravellings and tiny patches of vivid blue cloth. And as he fastened the
toboggan behind his own and swung the dogs onto the back-trail, he
paused once more and smiled grimly:
"He had always lived in the North," he said, "but he didn't know the
North. He ran like the coward he was from the red death when there was
no danger. And not only that, but he stole the food from a woman and a
sick baby. He thought he could get away with it--'way up here. But
there's something in the silent places that men don't understand--and
never will understand. I've heard men speak of it. And now I have seen
it--the working of the justice of the North!"
CHAPTER VII
AT FORT NORMAN
No trading post in all the North is more beautifully situated than Fort
Norman. The snug buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company and the Northern
Trading Company are located upon a high bank, at the foot of which the
mighty Mackenzie rushes northward to the frozen sea. On a clear day the
Rocky Mountains are plainly visible, and a half mile below the post,
Bear River, the swift running outlet to Great Bear Lake, flows into the
Mackenzie. It is to Fort Norman that the Indians from up and down the
great river, from the mountains to the westward, and from Great Bear
Lake, and a thousand other lakes and rivers, named and unnamed, to the
eastward, come each year to trade their furs. And it was there that
Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe arrived just thirty-seven days after they
pulled out of Dawson.
Except at the time of the holiday trading, winter visitors are few at
the isolated post, and the two were heartily welcomed by the agents of
the rival trading companies, and by the two priests of the little Roman
Catholic Mission.
Connie learned from the representatives of both companies that from all
indications fur would be plentiful that year, but both expressed doubt
that Fort Norman would get its share of the trading.
"It's this way," explained McTavish, a huge, bearded Scot, as they sat
about the fur trader's roaring stove upon the evening of their arrival.
"The mountain Indians--the moose eaters, from the westward--are trading
on the Yukon. They claim they get better prices over there an' maybe
they do. The Yukon traders get the goods into the country cheaper, an'
they could sell them cheaper, an' I ain't blamin' the Indians for
tradin' where they can do best. But, now comes reports of a free trader
that has trailed up the Coppermine from the coast to trade amongst the
caribou eaters to the eastward. If that's so--an' he gets 'em to trade
with him--God help those Indians along towards spring."
The man relapsed into silence and Connie grinned to himself. "They've
had it all their way up here for so long it makes them mad if anybody
else comes in for a share of their profits," thought the boy. Aloud, he
asked innocently:
"What's the matter with the free traders?"
McTavish frowned, and Berl Hansen, the Dane who managed the affairs of
the Northern Trading Company's post, laughed harshly.
"Go down along the railroads, boy," he said, "if you want to see the
handiwork of the free traders, an' look at the Indians that has dealt
with 'em. You can see 'em hanging around them railroad towns, that was
once posts where they handled good clean furs. Them Injuns an' their
fathers before 'em was good trappers--an' look at 'em now!"
"Yes," interrupted Connie, "but they are the victims of the bootleggers
and the whiskey runners! How about the free trader that won't handle
liquor?"
"There ain't no such a free trader!" exclaimed Hansen, angrily. "They're
a pack of lying, thievin'----"
"There, there, Berl, lad!" rumbled McTavish, checking the irate Dane,
who had fairly launched upon his favourite theme. "Ye're right, in the
main--but the lad's question was a fair one an' deserves a fair answer.
I'm an older man, an' I've be'n thirty years in the service of the
Company. Let me talk a bit, for there are a few traders that for aught I
know are honest men an' no rum peddlers. But, there's reasons why they
don't last long." The old Scotchman paused, whittled deliberately at his
plug tobacco, and filled his pipe. "It's this way," he began. "We'll
suppose this trader over on the Coppermine is a legitimate trader. We
will handle his case fairly, an' to do that we must consider first the
Hudson's Bay Company. For two hundred an' fifty years we have been
traders of the North--we know the needs of the North--an' we supply
them. The Indian's interests are our interests, and we trade nothing but
the best goods. For two centuries an' a half we have studied the North
and we have dealt fairly. And may I say here," with a glance toward
Hansen, "that there are several other companies with sound financial
backing and established posts that have profited by our experience and
also supply only the best of goods, and deal fairly. With them we have
no quarrel--honest competition, of course, we have--but no quarrel.
Comes now the free trader. He is a man of small capital. His goods are
cheap, they are of inferior quality. He cannot give 'debt,' as the
credit of the North is called. He cannot carry a large number of Indians
for six months or a year as we do. If he attempts it, his creditors
press him and he goes to the wall--or the Indians find out before time
for payment comes that the goods are inferior, and they repudiate their
debt. It is bad all around--bad for the Indians, bad for the free
traders, and bad for us----"
"I should think it would be good for you," interrupted Connie.
The factor shook his head: "I told you the Indians' interests are our
interests. I will show you. Take it at this very post. We will suppose
that the beaver are becoming scarce around here; what do we do? We say
to the Indians, 'Do not kill any beaver this year and next year.' And
they obey us--why? Because we will not buy any beaver here during that
time. They will not kill what they cannot sell. Then, when the beavers
have become numerous again, we resume trade in them. Were it not for
this policy, many fur-bearing animals that once were numerous would now
be extinct.
"But--suppose there are free traders in the country--we will pay nothing
for beavers, so they begin to buy them cheap--they can name their own
price, and the Indians will keep on killing them. The Indian says: 'It
is better that I should sell this beaver now at six skins than that my
neighbour should sell him in two years at twelve skins.' Then, soon,
there are no more beavers left in that part of the country. Another
thing, in the fur posts our word is law. We tell the Indians when they
can begin to take fur, and when they must stop. The result is we handle
only clean, prime pelts with the flesh side white as paper. With the
free trader a pelt is a pelt, prime or unprime, it makes no difference.
So the killing goes merrily on where the free traders are--and soon all
the fur-bearing animals are exterminated from that section. What does
the free trader care? He loads his fly-by-night outfit into canoes or a
York boat, and passes on to lay waste another section, leaving the poor
Indians to face the rigours of the coming winter with ruined credit,
cheap, inadequate clothing, cheap food, and worthless trinkets, and
their hunting grounds barren of game."
"But," objected Connie, "suppose a free trader dealt in goods as good as
yours----"
McTavish laughed. "I have yet to see that trader in thirty years'
experience. Admit that his goods did measure up to our standard. What
would he have to charge for them? We buy in vast quantities--in some
cases we take the entire output of factories, and we have an established
system of transportation to get it into the wilds. No free trader can
compete with us--cost plus freight would ruin him, especially as he must
allow the Indians a debt."
"How much debt do they get?"
"That depends upon several things. First of all upon the Indian--his
reputation for honesty, and his reputation as a hunter. It also depends
upon the size of his family, the distance of his hunting ground from the
post, and his general prospects for the season. It varies from one
hundred to five or six hundred, and in exceptional cases even to a
thousand skins."
"What do you mean by a skin?"
"A skin," explained McTavish, "is our unit of trade. Instead of saying
a certain thing is worth so many dollars, we say it is worth so many
'skins' or 'made beaver.'. At this post the value of the made beaver is
a half-dollar." The factor opened a drawer and drew forth a handful of
brass tokens which he handed to Connie for inspection. "These are skins,
or made beaver. We offer an Indian so many skins for his pack of furs.
He has little idea of what we mean when we tell him he has five hundred
skins' worth of fur, so we count out five hundred of these made
beaver--he can see them, can feel them--the value of his catch is
immediately reduced to something concrete--something he can
understand--then we take away the amount of his debt, and if there are
still some made beaver remaining, he knows he has something left over to
spend for finery and frippery. Rarely does he use these extra skins for
the purchase of food or necessary clothing--he contracts a new debt for
that. But, wait till spring when the Indians come in, and you will
witness the trading for yourself. It is then you will see why it is that
the free trader has small chance of doing business at a profit north of
sixty."
"But, why wouldn't it be just as easy to figure it in dollars?" asked
the boy.
McTavish laughed. "There were several reasons, although, with the
government paying treaty in cash nowadays, the Indians are beginning to
know something of money. But the main reason is that when the made
beaver was first invented, no one seems to know just when or where or by
whom, there was no money in the country--everything was traded or
bartered for some other thing. And because the skin, and particularly
the beaver skin, was the thing most bartered by Indians, the unit of
value came to be known as a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Another reason why
money has never been popular with us is because of its destructibility.
Take this post, for instance. Suppose we were compelled to ship silver
dollars back and forth between here and Edmonton? Ten thousand of them
would weigh close to six hundred pounds! Six hundred pounds would mean,
on scows, six pieces--and mighty valuable pieces too, to be loaded and
unloaded a dozen times, carried over portages, shot through dangerous
rapids, carried up and down slippery river banks and across slippery
planks to the scows. Suppose one of these pieces were dropped overboard
by one of the none too careful half-breed rivermen? The Company would
lose just so many dollars. Or, suppose the riverman very conveniently
dropped the piece into the water where he could recover it again? A
dollar is a dollar--it can be spent anywhere. But suppose that the piece
contained only a supply of these brass 'made beaver'--the whole ten
thousand would only make one piece--and if it dropped into the river the
Company would lose only so much brass. Then if the riverman afterward
recovered it, instead of finding himself possessed of dollars which he
could spend anywhere, he would only have a hundred pounds or so of brass
tokens whose value had been cancelled. And, again, the expense of
transportation, even granted the consignment arrived safely at its
destination, would be against the dollar. One hundred pounds, where
freight costs sixteen cents a pound to move, is much cheaper to move
than six hundred pounds."
"Yes," agreed Connie, "but how about using paper money?"
"Worse, and more of it!" exclaimed McTavish. "In the first place the
piece, or package, would be lighter and of greater value--therefore
much easier to make away with. Some lone bandit, or gang of bandits,
might find it well worth their while to hold up the scow brigade and
make off with that little piece. And, besides, until very recently, the
Indians have had no sense of the value of paper money. An Indian cannot
see why one piece of paper should be worth five dollars, and another
exactly like it in size and colour should be worth ten, or twenty, or
fifty--and another piece of paper be worth nothing at all. I am sure no
one at the posts would welcome the carrying on of business upon a cash
basis--I know I should not. The Canadian North is the cleanest land in
the world, in so far as robbery is concerned, thanks to the Mounted. But
with its vast wilderness for hiding places and its lack of quick
transportation and facility for spreading news, I am afraid it would not
long remain so, if it became known that every trading post possessed its
cash vault. As it is, the goods of the North, in a great measure,
protect themselves from theft by their very bulk. A man could hardly
expect to get out of this country, for instance, with even a very few
packs of stolen fur. The Mounted would have him before he could get
half way to the railroad."
"It seems funny," grinned Connie, "to find an outfit that doesn't like
to do business for cash!"
"Funny enough, till you know the reason--then, the most natural thing in
the world. And, there is yet one more reason--take the treaty money. The
Indians bring the treaty money to us and buy goods with it. We make the
profit on the goods--but if they had bought those same goods for fur--we
would have made the profit on the fur, also--and primarily, we are a fur
company--although every year we are becoming more and more of a trading
company and a land company. I am glad I shall not live to see the last
of the fur trade--I love the fur--it speaks a language I know."
A short time later the company broke up, Berl Hansen returned to his own
quarters, and Connie and 'Merican Joe were given the spare room in the
factor's house where for the first time since leaving Dawson they slept
under a roof.
CHAPTER VIII
BAIT--AND A BEAR
The business of outfitting for the balance of the winter occupied two
whole days and when it was finished down to the last item Connie viewed
the result with a frown. "It's going to take two trips to pack all that
stuff. And by the time we make two trips and build a cabin besides, we
won't have much time left for trapping."
"Where you headin' for?" queried McTavish.
"Somewhere over on the Coppermine," answered the boy. "I don't know just
where--and I guess it don't make much difference."
The big Scotchman laughed. "No, lad, it won't make no great difference.
What put it in your head to trap on the Coppermine?"
"Why, the truth is, it isn't so much the trapping I'm interested in. I
want to try my hand at prospecting over there."
"Gold?"
"Yes--mainly."
McTavish shook his head forebodingly.
Connie smiled. "You don't believe there's any gold there?" he asked.
"'Gold's where you find it,' you know."
"There must be lots of it there, then. Nobody's ever found it. But, it's
a bad time of year to be hittin' for the Coppermine country. It's bleak,
an' barren, an' storm ridden. An' as for trappin' you'll find nothin'
there to trap but foxes this time of year, an' you won't be able to do
any prospectin' till summer. You might better trap in closer to the post
this winter, an' when the lake opens you can take a York boat an' a
canoe an' cover most of the distance by water."
Connie frowned. "I started out for the Coppermine," he began, but the
factor interrupted him with a gesture.
"Sure you did--an' you'll get there, too. It's this way, lad. You're a
sourdough, all right, I knew that the minute I saw you. An' bein' a
sourdough, that way, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that it ain't in
reason to do. There's a deal of difference between a determination to
stick to a thing an' see it through in the face of all odds when the
thing you're stickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin' to a thing that
ain't worth doin' out of sheer stubbornness. The first is a fine thing
an' the second is a foolish thing to do."
"I guess that's right," agreed Connie, after a moment of silence.
"Of course it's right!" interrupted McTavish. "You ought to find a good
trappin' ground down along the south shore, somewheres between the
Blackwater and Lake Ste. Therese. Ought to be plenty of caribou in there
too, an' what with droppin' a few nets through the ice, an' what you can
bring in with your rifles you won't need to draw in your belts none."
"How far is it from here?" asked the boy.
"Not over a hundred an' fifty miles at the outside, an' if you'll wait
around a couple of days, there'll be some of the Bear Lake Indians in
with some fish from the Fisheries. They're due now. You can hire them
for guides. They'll be bringin' down a couple of tons of fish, so
they'll have plenty sled room so you can make it in one trip."
And so it was decided that Connie and 'Merican Joe should winter
somewhere on the south shore of Great Bear Lake, and for a certain band
of Indians that had established their camp upon the river that flows
from Lake Ste. Therese into the extreme point of McVicker Bay, it was
well they did.
The Bear Lake Indians appeared the following day, delivered their fish
at the post, and Connie employed two of them with their dog teams to
make the trip. The journey was uneventful enough, with only one storm to
break the monotony of steady trailing with the thermometer at forty and
even fifty below--for the strong cold had settled upon the Northland in
earnest.
Upon the sixth day 'Merican Joe halted the outfit upon the shore of a
little lake which lay some five miles from the south shore of Keith Bay.
"Build camp here," he said, indicating a low knoll covered with a dense
growth of spruce. Connie paid off the guides with an order on the
Hudson's Bay Company, and hardly had they disappeared before he and
'Merican Joe were busy clearing away the snow and setting up the tent
that was to serve as temporary quarters until the tiny cabin that would
be their winter home could be completed.
The extra sled provided by the Indians, and the fact that they were to
go only a comparatively short distance from the post, had induced Connie
to add to his outfit a few conveniences that would have been entirely
out of the question had he insisted in pushing on to the Coppermine.
There was a real sheet iron stove with several lengths of pipe, a double
window--small to be sure, but provided with panes of glass--and enough
planking for a small sized door and door frame. Although the snow all
about them showed innumerable tracks of the fur bearers, the two paid no
attention to them until the cabin stood finished in its tiny clearing.
And a snug little cabin it was, with its walls banked high with snow,
its chinks all sealed with water-soaked snow that froze hard the moment
it was in place, and its roof of small logs completely covered with a
thick layer of the same wind-proof covering.
On the morning following the completion of the cabin Connie and 'Merican
Joe ate their breakfast by candlelight. Connie glanced toward the pile
of steel traps of assorted sizes that lay in the corner. "We'll be
setting them today, Joe. The fox tracks are thick all along the lake,
and yesterday I saw where a big lynx had prowled along the edge of that
windfall across the coulee."
'Merican Joe smiled. "Firs' we got to git de bait. Dat ain' no good we
set de trap wit'out no bait."
"What kind of bait? And where do we get it?" asked the boy.
"Mos' any kin'--rabbit, bird, caribou, moose. Today we set 'bout wan
hondre snare for de rabbit. We tak' de leetle gun 'long, mebbe-so we git
de shot at de ptarmigan."
"Why can't we take a few fox traps with us? We could bait 'em with
bacon, or a piece of fish."
"No, dat ain' no good for ketch de fox. Dat leetle fox she too mooch
smart. She hard to trap. She ain' goin' fool wit' bacon an' fish. She
stick out de nose an' smell de man-smell on de bacon an' she laugh an'
run away. Same lak de fish--she say: 'De fish b'long in de wataire. How
he git t'rough de ice an' sit on de snow, eh?' An' den she run 'way an'
laugh som' mor'. We ain' goin' trap no fox yet annyhow. Novembaire, she
mos' gon'. Decembaire we trap de marten an' de _loup cervier_. In
Janueer de marten curl up in de stump an' sleep. Den we trap de fox. She
ain' so smart den--she too mooch hongre."
At daylight the two started, 'Merican Joe leading the way to a dense
swamp that stretched from the lake shore far inland. Once in the thicket
the Indian showed Connie how to set snares along the innumerable
runways, or well-beaten paths of the rabbits, and how to secure each
snare to the end of a bent sapling, or tossing pole, which, when
released by the struggles of the rabbit from the notch that held it
down, would spring upright and jerk the little animal high out of reach
of the forest prowlers. During the forenoon Connie succeeded in shooting
four of the big white snowshoe rabbits, and at the noon camp 'Merican
Joe skinned these, being careful to leave the head attached to the skin.
"I didn't know rabbit skins were worth saving," said Connie, as the
Indian placed them together with the carcasses in the pack.
"You wait--by-m-by I show you somet'ing," answered the Indian. And it
was not long after the snare setting had been resumed that Connie
learned the value of the rabbit skins. As they worked deeper into the
swamp, lynx, or _loup cervier_ tracks became more numerous. Near one of
the runways 'Merican Joe paused, drew a skin from his pack, and
proceeded to stuff it with brush. When it had gained something the shape
of the rabbit, he placed it in a natural position beneath the
low-hanging branches of a young spruce and proceeded to set a heavier
snare with a larger loop. The setting of this snare was slightly
different from the setting of the rabbit snares, for instead of a
tossing pole the snare was secured to the middle of a clog, or stout
stick about two inches in diameter and four feet long. The ends of this
clog were then supported upon two forked sticks in such manner that the
snare hung downward where it was secured in position by tying the loop
to a light switch thrust into the snow at either side. The snare was set
only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbit skin and sticks and brush so
arranged that in order to reach the rabbit the lynx must leap straight
into the snare. The remaining rabbit skins were similarly used during
the afternoon, as were the skins of two ptarmigan that Connie managed to
bring down.
"Use de skin for bait de _loup cervier_, an' de meat for bait de
marten--dat de bes' way," explained 'Merican Joe, as they worked their
way toward the edge of the swamp after the last snare had been set.
[Illustration: "The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed
rabbit skin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the
rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
The early darkness was already beginning to fall when Connie stopped
suddenly and stared down at the snow at the base of a huge mass of earth
and moss that had been thrown upward by the roots of a fallen tree. The
thing that caught the boy's attention was a round hole in the snow--a
hole hardly larger in diameter than a silver quarter, and edged with a
lacy filigree of frost spicules. The boy called to 'Merican Joe who had
paused to refasten the thongs of his rackets. At the first glance the
Indian's eyes lighted:
"Bear in dere!" he exclaimed. "We dig um out. We git plenty meat--plenty
bait--an' de good skin besides."
"Hadn't we better wait till tomorrow and bring the heavy rifle?" Connie
asked. "We can't kill a bear with this dinky little twenty-two."
"We ain' need no gun. Me--I cut de good stout club, an' you tak' de ax.
De bear she too mooch sleepy to do no fightin'. Den we git de toboggan
an' haul um in. We only 'bout wan half-mile from camp. Tomor' we got
plenty bait, we set de marten trap. We skin de bear tonight we save wan
whole day." As he talked, the Indian felled a small birch and trimmed
about five feet of its trunk which measured about two inches and a half
in thickness. "Dat fix um good, an' den we cut de t'roat," he explained,
brandishing the club in the air.
"I don't know," replied Connie, dubiously. "Waseche and I have killed
several bears, and there was a time or two when a couple of good
thirty-forty's came near not being big enough."
'Merican Joe grinned. "Dat was grizzlies. I ain' t'ink de grizzly com'
so far from de montaine. Dis leetle black bear, she ain' lak to fight
mooch."
"I hope you're right," grinned the boy, as he fell to work helping the
Indian to trample the snow into good solid footing for a space of ten
feet or more about the airhole. This done, they removed snowshoes and
coats and with ax and pole attacked the snow that covered their quarry.
"I feel um!" cried the Indian, as he thrust his pole deep into the snow
after five minutes of hard work. "We wake um up firs', an' when he stick
out de head we bang um good." 'Merican Joe continued to ram his pole
into the snow where he had felt the yielding mass of the bear's body,
all the time haranguing the bear in jargon, addressing him as "cousin,"
and inviting him to come out and be killed, and in the same breath
apologizing for the necessity of taking his life.
Then--very suddenly--"cousin" came out! There was a mighty upheaval of
snow, a whistling snort, and a mountain of brown fur projected itself
into the rapidly gathering dusk. 'Merican Joe struck valiantly with his
club at the monstrous head that in the half-light seemed to Connie to
measure two feet between the ears. The boy heard the sharp crack of the
weapon as it struck the skull, and the next instant he heard the club
crashing through the limbs of a small spruce. The infuriated bear had
caught it fairly with a sweep of his giant paw. Then Connie struck with
his ax, just as 'Merican Joe, with the bear almost upon him, scrambled
into the branches of a tree. The boy's blow fell upon the bear's hip,
and with a roar the great brute whirled to meet the new attack as Connie
gathered himself to strike again.
Then, a very fortunate thing happened. When 'Merican Joe had removed his
snowshoes he had stuck them upright in the snow and hung his coat over
them. The figure thus formed caught the bear's attention, and with a
lurch he was upon it. There was a crackling of ash bows as the
snowshoes were crushed in the ponderous embrace. And, seeing his chance,
Connie darted forward, for the momentum of the bear's lurch had carried
him on to all fours in the soft snow at the edge of the trampled space.
As the huge animal struggled, belly deep, the boy brought the bit of his
ax down with all his force upon the middle of the brute's spine. The
feel of the blow was good as the keen blade sank to the helve. The next
instant the ax was jerked from his hands and the boy turned to collide
with 'Merican Joe, who had recovered his club and was rushing in to
renew the attack. Both went sprawling upon the trodden snow, and before
they could recover their feet the bear was almost upon them. They sprang
clear, the Indian waiting with upraised club, but the bear advanced
slowly, ripping and tearing at the snow with his huge forepaws with
their claws as long as a man's fingers. Down came the Indian's club upon
the broad skull, but there was no rearing upward to ward off the blow,
and then it was that both saw that the animal was dragging its useless
hinder part. Connie's ax had severed the animal's backbone, and so long
as they kept out of reach of those terrible forepaws they were safe.
While the Indian continued to belabour the bear's head, Connie managed
to slip around behind the animal and recover his ax, after which it was
but the work of a few moments to dispatch the huge bear with a few
well-directed blows.
It was almost dark when the two stood looking down upon the carcass of
the great barren ground grizzly.
"So that's your little black bear that don't like to fight much!"
grinned Connie.
'Merican Joe returned the grin. "All de tam kin learn somet'ing new.
Nex' tam we dig out de den bear we bring de big gun 'long. Annyhow, we
git mor' bait an' dog feed, an' de good meat, an' de bigger skin, an' we
git mor', w'at you call, excite!" He placed his foot upon the head of
the dead bear. "Dat too bad we got to kill you, cousin. But Injun an'
white boy got to git de meat to eat, an' de bait to ketch de leetle
marten. We mooch oblig' you ain' kill us."
'Merican Joe's crushed snowshoes and his coat were dug out of the snow,
and together the two managed to work the carcass on to its back. The
Indian proceeded to build a fire by the light of which he could skin
the bear while Connie fastened on his own rackets and hit out for the
cabin to procure the toboggan and dogs, and an extra pair of snowshoes.
An hour later he returned, just as 'Merican Joe was stripping the hide
from the hind legs. While Connie folded it into a convenient pack, the
Indian took the ax and chopped off the bear's head which he proceeded to
tie to the branches of a small spruce at the foot of which the animal
had been killed.
"What in thunder are you doing?" asked the boy.
'Merican Joe regarded him gravely. "Mus' hang up de skull right where he
git kill," he answered.
"Why?"
"Cause _Sah-ha-lee Tyee_, w'at you call, de Great Spirit, he com' 'long
an' count de bears in de springtime. He count de Injun, too, an' de
moose, an' de beaver' an' all de big people. _S'pose_ he ain' fin' dat
bear. He ain' know dat bear git kill. He t'ink dat bear ain' wake up
yet, or else he hide in de den. If de skull ain' hang up she git cover
up wit' leaves, or sink in de swamp, an' _Sah-ha-lee Tyee_ no kin fin'.
But, w'en he see skull hang up, he say: 'De Injun kill de bear an' git
meat. Dat good. I sen' um nodder bear.' So de bear always plenty in de
Injun country. De white men com' 'long an' kill de bear. Dey ain' hang
up de skull--an' by-m-by, w'ere de white man live de bears is all gon'."
The duty performed to 'Merican Joe's satisfaction, the carcass and skin
were loaded on to the toboggan and by the thin light of the little stars
they started the dogs and wended their way across the narrow lake to the
little cabin in the spruce grove, well satisfied with their first day of
trapping.
CHAPTER IX
OUT ON THE TRAP LINE
Connie Morgan was anxious to be off on the trap line early in the
morning following the adventure with the bear. But 'Merican Joe shook
his head and pointed to the carcass of the bear that for want of a
better place had been deposited upon the floor of the cabin. "First we
got to build de _cache_. We ain' got no room in de cabin--an' besides,
she too warm for keep de meat good. De dog, an' de wolf, an' de _loup
cervier_, an' de _carcajo_, w'at you call 'Injun devil,' dey all hongre
an' hunt de meat. We got to build de _cache_ high up."
The first thing, of course, was to locate the site. This was quickly
done by selecting four spruce trees about three inches in diameter and
ten feet apart, and so situated as to form the corner posts of a rude
square. Taking his ax, the Indian ascended one of these trees, lopping
off the limbs as he went, but leaving the stubs for foot and hand
holds. About twelve feet from the ground he cut off the trunk just above
the place where a good stout limb stub formed a convenient crotch. The
other three trees were similarly treated. Four strong poles were cut and
placed from one crotch to another to form the frame of the _cache_.
These poles were cut long enough to extend about four feet beyond the
corner posts. Upon this frame-work lighter poles were laid side by side
to form the platform of the _cache_--a platform that protruded beyond
the corner posts so far that no animal which might succeed in climbing
one of the posts could possibly manage to scramble over the edge. The
corner posts were trimmed smooth, and a rude ladder, which consisted
simply of a young spruce with the limb stubs left on for the rungs was
made. The last step in the completion of the _cache_ was to cut down all
trees whose limbs over-hung in such manner that a _carcajo_ could crawl
out and drop down upon the platform, and also those trees whose
proximity might tempt a lynx to try a flying leap to the _cache_.
When the carcass of the bear had been quartered and deposited upon the
platform, the brush and limbs cleared away, and the ladder removed, the
two trappers gazed in satisfaction at their handiwork. The stout
_cache_, capable of protecting several tons of meat from the inroads of
the forest prowlers, had been constructed without the use of a single
nail, or bit of rope, or thong, and with no tool except an ax!
It was noon when the task was completed, and after a hasty lunch of tea,
bear's liver, and bannock, 'Merican Joe selected fifteen small steel
traps which he placed in his pack sack. He also carried a light belt ax,
while Connie shouldered the larger ax and reached for the 30-40 rifle.
'Merican Joe shook his head.
"Dat ain' no good to tak' de big gun. Tak' de leetle wan an' mebbe-so
you git som' mor' bait."
"Yes, and what if we run on to another one of your little black bears
that don't like to fight? And what if we should see a caribou? And
suppose we found a lynx in one of those snares?"
"We ain' goin' hunt no caribou. We goin' set marten traps, an' if we
com' on de bear den we wait an' com' back som' odder time."
"But suppose there is a lynx in one of those snares?" persisted the boy.
"Let um be in de snare. We ain' goin' to de swamp. Dat ain' no good to
go 'long de trap line too mooch. Let um be for week--mebbe-so ten day.
We go runnin' t'rough de woods every day same place, we scare everyt'ing
off. Anyhow, we ain' need de big gun for de _loup cervier_. De leetle
gun better, he don' mak' so big hole in de skin. An' if de _loup
cervier_ is in de snare, we ain' need no gun at all. She choke dead."
A half mile from camp, 'Merican Joe set his first trap. The place
selected for the set was the trunk of a large spruce that had been
uprooted by the wind, and leaned against another tree at an angle of
forty-five degrees. Two blows of the light belt ax made a notch into
which the small steel trap fitted perfectly. The bait was placed upon
the tree trunk just above the trap and a small barrier of bark was
constructed close below the trap in such a manner that the marten in
clambering over the barrier must almost to a certainty plant at least
one fore foot upon the pan of the trap. The trap chain was secured to
the tree so that when the marten was caught he would leap from the trunk
and hang suspended in the air, which would give him no chance to free
himself by gnawing his leg off above the jaws of the trap. This leaning
tree set was 'Merican Joe's favourite with the steel traps.
A particularly ingenious set was made upon the trunk of a standing tree
whose bark showed tiny scars and scratches that indicated to the
practised eyes of the Indian that it was frequently ascended by martens.
In this case two short sticks were sharpened and driven into the tree
trunk to form a tiny platform for the trap. Some slabs were then cut
from a nearby dead spruce and these also were sharpened and driven into
the trunk on either side of the trap. Then a piece of bark was laid over
the top for a roof, and the bait placed in the back of the little house
thus formed. The marten must enter from the bottom and in order to reach
the bait, the only possible spot for him to place his feet would be upon
the pan of the trap.
Several sets were also made on the ground in places where the sign
showed right. These ground sets were made generally at the base of a
tree or a stump and consisted of little houses made of bark, with the
bait in the back and the trap placed between the door and the bait. In
the case of these sets, instead of securing the chain to the tree or
stump, it was made fast to a clog, care being taken to fasten the chain
to the middle of the stick.
Three or four sets were made for mink, also. These sets were very
simple, and yet the Indian made them with elaborate care. They consisted
in placing the trap just within the mouth of a hole that showed evidence
of occupation, after first scooping out a depression in the snow. The
trap was placed in the bottom of the depression and carefully covered
with light, dry leaves that had been previously collected. 'Merican Joe
took great care to so arrange these leaves that while the jaws, pan, and
spring were covered, no leaves would be caught in the angle of the jaws
and thus prevent their closing about the leg of the mink. The leaves
were now covered with snow, and the chain carried outward, buried in the
snow, and secured to a tossing pole.
The short sub-arctic day had drawn to a close even before the last set
was made, and in the darkness the two swung wide of their trap line, and
headed for the cabin.
"Fifteen sets isn't so bad for an afternoon's work," opined Connie,
"especially when you had to do all the work. Tomorrow I can help, and we
ought to be able to get out all the rest of the marten traps. There are
only fifty all told."
"Fifty steel traps--we git dem set first. We gon 'bout t'ree, four mile
today. We use up de steel trap in 'bout fifteen mile. Dat good--dey too
mooch heavy to carry. Den we begin to set de deadfall."
"Deadfalls!" cried Connie. "How many traps are we going to put out?"
"Oh, couple hondre marten an' mink trap. We git de trap line 'bout fifty
mile long. Den we set lot more _loup cervier_ snare."
They swung out on to their little lake about a mile above the camp and
as they mushed along near shore Connie stopped suddenly and pointed to a
great grey shape that was running swiftly across the mouth of a small
bay. The huge animal ran in a smooth, easy lope and in the starlight his
hair gleamed like silver.
"Look!" he whispered to the Indian. "There goes Leloo!" Even as he spoke
there came floating down the wind from the direction of the timber at
the head of the lake, the long-drawn howl of a wolf. Leloo halted in
his tracks and stood ears erect, motionless as a carved statue, until
the sound trailed away into silence. A fox trotted out of the timber
within ten yards of where the two stood watching and, catching sight of
Connie as the boy shifted his twenty-two, turned and dashed along a thin
sand point and straight across the lake, passing in his blind haste so
close to Leloo that his thick brush almost touched the motionless
animal's nose. But the big ruffed wolf-dog never gave so much as a
passing glance.
"That's funny," whispered Connie "Why didn't he grab that fox?"
"Leloo, he ain' fool wit' no fox tonight," answered 'Merican Joe. "He
goin' far off an' run de ridges wit' de big people." And even as the
Indian spoke, Leloo resumed his long, silent lope.
"I sure would like to follow him tonight," breathed the boy, as he
watched the great dog until he disappeared upon the smooth, white
surface of the lake where the aurora borealis was casting its weird,
shifting lights upon the snow.
The weather had moderated to about the zero mark and by the middle of
the following afternoon 'Merican Joe set the last of the remaining
marten traps. Connie proved an apt pupil and not only did he set
fourteen of the thirty-five traps, but each set was minutely examined
and approved by the critical eye of 'Merican Joe. When the last trap was
set, the Indian commenced the construction of deadfalls, and again
Connie became a mere spectator. And a very interested spectator he was
as he watched every movement of 'Merican Joe who, with only such
material as came to hand on the spot, and no tools except his belt ax
and knife, constructed and baited his cunningly devised deadfalls. These
traps were built upon stumps and logs and were of the common
figure-of-four type familiar to every schoolboy. The weight, or fall
log, was of sufficient size to break the back of a marten.
"De steel trap she bes'," explained the Indian. "She easy to set, an'
she ketch mor' marten. Wit' de steel trap if de marten com' 'long an'
smell de bait he mus' got to put de foot in de trap--but in de deadfall
she got to grab de bait an' give de pull to spring de trap. But, de
deadfall don't cost nuttin', an' if you go far de steel trap too mooch
heavy to carry. Dat why I set de steel trap in close, an' de deadfall
far out."
For four days the two continued to set deadfalls. The last two days
they packed their sleeping bags, camping where night overtook them, and
the evening of the fourth day found them with an even two hundred traps
and thirty lynx snares set, and a trap line that was approximately fifty
miles long and so arranged that either end was within a half mile of the
cabin.
"We go over de snare line in de swamp tomor'," said 'Merican Joe, as
they sat that night at their little table beside the roaring sheet-iron
stove, "an' next day we start over de trap line."
"About how many marten do you think we ought to catch?" asked Connie.
The Indian shrugged: "Can't tell 'bout de luck--sometam lot of
um--sometam mebbe-so not none."
"What do you mean by a lot?" persisted the boy.
"Oh, mebbe-so, twenty--twenty five."
"About one marten for every eight or ten traps," figured the boy.
The Indian nodded. "You set seven steel trap an' catch wan marten, dat
good. You set ten deadfall an' ketch wan marten, dat good, too."
"We've got six lynx snares down in the swamp to look at tomorrow. How
many lynx are we going to get?"
'Merican Joe grinned. "Mebbe-so not none--mebbe-so one, two. Dat all tam
bes' we count de skin w'en we git hom'."
"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, eh?" laughed Connie.
The Indian looked puzzled. "W'at you mean--chicken hatch?" And when the
boy explained to the best of his ability the old saw, 'Merican Joe, who
had never seen a chicken in his life, nodded sagely. "Dat right--an' you
ain' kin count de fur hatch first, nieder."
CHAPTER X
THE TRAIL OF THE _CARCAJO_
At daylight next morning they crossed the narrow lake, travelling light,
that is, each carried only his lunch in his pack sack, and Connie
carried the light rifle, while 'Merican Joe dragged an empty toboggan
upon which to haul home the rabbits and the lynx if they were lucky
enough to get one.
The toboggan was left at the edge of the swamp and the two entered and
plunged into the maze of rabbit paths that crisscrossed the snow in all
directions. The first two snares were undisturbed, the third was pushed
aside and had to be readjusted. Where the fourth and fifth snares had
been a white snowshoe rabbit dangled from each tossing pole, and they
were promptly transferred to the pack sacks and the snares reset.
Numerous new snares were set, the old ones adjusted, and the rabbits
taken from the tossing poles of the lucky ones. One snare was missing
altogether, and 'Merican Joe pointed to the tracks of a large wolf. "He
run 'long an' git de foot or de nose in de snare, but she ain' strong
'nough to hold um," he explained. At noon they camped at the place where
'Merican Joe had skinned the rabbits on the first trip. They had twelve
rabbits in the packs and these they _cached_ to pick up on the return.
It was not long after they resumed operations on the snare line that
Connie, with a whoop of delight, dashed toward the spot where the first
lynx snare had been set. The sparse underbrush had been broken down, and
for a considerable space the snow had been torn up and trampled in a
manner that told of a furious struggle. And right in the middle of the
trampled space lay the body of a huge lynx doubled into a curious ball
and frozen to the hardness of iron. The struggle had evidently been
brief but furious, and terminated with the lynx sealing his own doom.
Finding himself caught and held by the ever tightening noose, he had
first tried to escape by flight, but the clog immediately caught on the
underbrush and held him fast. The infuriated animal had then begun a
ferocious attack upon the clog, which showed the deep scars of teeth
and claws, and had wound up by catching his powerful hind feet upon the
clog, one on either side of the center where the snare was fastened, and
by straining the great muscles of his legs, literally choked himself to
death.
More rabbits were added to the packs, and a short time later another
_cache_ was made. Connie wanted to set some more lynx snares, but they
had shot no rabbits, and it was impossible to skin the frozen ones they
had taken from the snares without wasting time in thawing them out.
"Let's use a whole one," suggested the boy. "We've got lots of 'em, and
a lynx is worth a rabbit, any time."
'Merican Joe objected. "We got plenty rabbit today--mebbe-so nex' tam we
ain' got none. It ain' no good we waste de rabbit. S'pose we leave de
rabbit for bait; de wolf an' de fox he com' long an' he too mooch smart
to git in de snare, but he git de rabbit jes' de sam'. Anyhow, we ain'
kin make de rabbit look lak he sittin' down w'en de hine legs is
stickin' down straight lak de sawbuck. Nex' tam we got plenty rabbit
skin for set de snare--de _loup cervier_ she run all winter, anyhow."
The next four lynx snares were undisturbed, but the sixth and last had
disappeared altogether.
"It held him for a while, though," said Connie, as he gazed in
disappointment at the snow which had been scratched and thrown in all
directions by the big cat.
The Indian laughed aloud at the evident disappointment that showed in
the boy's face.
"I don't see anything so funny about it!" frowned Connie.
"Dat mak' me laugh I see you sorry 'bout lose de _loup cervier_. You
rich. You got plenty money. An' when you lose wan _loup cervier_, you
look lak you los' de gol' mine."
"It isn't the value of the skin!" exclaimed the boy, quickly. "But when
I start to do a thing I like to do it. It don't make any difference what
it is, and it don't make any difference whether the stakes are high or
low. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right. And if it's worth
starting, it's worth finishing."
'Merican Joe nodded: "I know. We go finish um _loup cervier_, now."
"What do you mean--finish him?" cried Connie, pointing to the tracks in
the snow that led from the scene of the brief struggle with the
snare--tracks that showed where the lynx had fled in powerful,
fifteen-foot leaps. "That don't look much like we'd finish that fellow,
does it? Believe me, he left here in a hurry! He's probably climbing the
North Pole right now!"
"I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no Nort' Poles. W'ere you t'ink de stick go
w'at we fix on de snare?"
Connie examined the scene of the struggle minutely, kicking the loose
snow about, but failed to find the clog.
"Why, he skipped out, clog and all! That clog wasn't very heavy."
"No, she ain' heavy, but she fasten in de middle, an' she ketch in de
brush an' hol' _loup cervier_ tight, you bet! You ain' see no track
w'ere de stick drag, eh?"
Connie scrutinized the trail of the lynx, but the snow gave no sign of
the clog. He turned a puzzled glance upon the Indian. "That's funny. He
certainly didn't leave it here, and he couldn't have dragged it without
leaving a trail, even if it hadn't caught on the brush."
Again 'Merican Joe laughed. "No, he ain' leave it--an' he ain' drag it.
He ol' man _loup cervier_--he smart. He fin' out he ain' kin break
loose, an' he ain' kin drag de stick, so he pick him up an' carry him in
de mout'. But he ain' so mooch smart lak he t'ink. De firs' t'ing de
_loup cervier_ do w'en you chase um--he climb de tree. He t'ink de snare
chase um--so he climb de tree. Den, by-m-by he git tire to hol' de stick
in de mout' an' he let him go. Den he set on de limb long time an'
growl. Den he t'ink he go som' mor', an' he start to climb down de tree.
An' den de stick ketch on de limb an' he can't git down. He pull an'
fight, but dat ain' no good--so he giv' de big jump--an' den he git
hung--lak de mans do w'en dey kill nodder mans. Com' on--he ain' lak to
go far. He lak to climb de tree. We fin' um queek."
That 'Merican Joe knew what he was talking about was soon demonstrated.
For several hundred yards the tracks led straight through the swamp.
Suddenly the Indian halted at the foot of a spruce that reared high
above its neighbours and pointed to the snow which was littered with
needles and bits of bark. There were no tracks beyond the foot of the
tree, and Connie peered upward, but so thick were the branches that he
could see nothing. Removing his snowshoes and pack, 'Merican Joe climbed
the tree and a few moments later Connie heard the blows of his belt ax
as he hacked at the limb that held the clog. There was a swish of
snow-laden branches, and amid a deluge of fine snow the frozen body of
the lynx struck the ground at the boy's feet.
Loading himself with as much as his pack sack could hold, the Indian
struck off to get the toboggan, leaving Connie to pack the carcass of
the lynx and the remaining rabbits back to the noon-time _cache_. This
necessitated two trips, and when Connie returned with the second load he
found 'Merican Joe waiting. "Thirty-two rabbits and two lynx," counted
Connie as they loaded the toboggan. "And let's beat it and get 'em
skinned so we can start out in the morning on the real trap line."
The rabbits were placed just as they were upon the platform of the
_cache_, to be used as needed, and the evening was spent in thawing and
skinning the two lynx.
"Why don't you rip him up the belly like you did the bear?" asked
Connie, as the Indian started to slit the animal's head.
"No. Skin um, w'at you call, case. De bear an' de beaver skin flat.
Case all de rest. Start on de head lak dis. Den draw de skin down over
de body. You see she com' wrong side out. Den you finish on de tail an'
de hine legs an' you got um done--all de fur inside, and de flesh side
out."
Connie watched with interest while the Indian skillfully drew the pelt
from the carcass and stretched it upon splints prepared with his belt
ax.
"Now you skin nex' wan," smiled the Indian. "I bet you mak' de good job.
You learn queek."
Connie set to work with a will and, in truth, he did a very creditable
job, although it took him three times as long as it had taken the
Indian, and his pelt showed two small knife cuts. "Now what do we do
with 'em?" he asked when he had his skin all stretched.
"Dry um."
Connie started to place them close to the hot stove, but 'Merican Joe
shook his head.
[Illustration: "'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few minutes later
Connie heard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held
the clog."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
"No! Dat ain' no good!" he exclaimed. "Dat fat she melt an' de heat she
dry de skin too queek, an' she git, w'at you call, grease burnt. Dat why
we nail de bear skin on de outside of de cabin. De skin she got to dry
in de cold. W'en de frost dry um, den we mus' got to scrape all de fat
an' de meat off, an' wash um, and dry um ag'in--den we got de good prime
skin." The Indian fastened a stout piece of line into the nose of each
pelt, and climbing the ladder, secured them to one of the poles of the
_cache_ in such manner that they hung free to the air, and yet out of
reach of any prowling animals. When they returned to the cabin 'Merican
Joe proceeded to cut thick slices from the hams of the two lynx
carcasses.
"Is that good for bait?" asked the boy.
'Merican Joe laughed. "Dat too mooch good for bait!" he exclaimed. "We
goin' have dat meat for de breakfas'."
"For breakfast!" cried Connie. "You don't mean you're going to eat lynx
meat! Why, a lynx is a cat!"
"Mebbe-so cat--mebbe-so ain't. Dat don't mak' no differ' w'at you call
um. You wait, I fry um an' I bet you t'ink dat de bes' meat you ever
eat."
"I don't believe I could tackle a cat," grinned the boy.
"Dat better you forgit dat cat business. If it good, it good. If it ain'
good, it ain' good. W'at you care you call um cat--dog--pig? Plenty
t'ing good to eat w'en you fin' dat out. De owl, she good meat. De
musquash, w'at you call de mushrat--dat don' hurt de meat 'cause you
call um rat! De skunk mak' de fine meat, an' de porkypine, too."
"I guess Injuns ain't so particular what they eat," laughed Connie.
"De Injun know w'at de good meat is," retorted 'Merican Joe. "By golly,
I seen de white mans eat de rotten cheese, an' she stink so bad dat mak'
de Injun sick."
"I guess you win!" laughed the boy. "I've seen 'em too--but you bet I
never ate any of it!"
"You try de _loup cervier_ steak in de mornin'," the Indian urged
earnestly. "If you don' lak him I bet you my dogs to wan chaw tobac'!"
"I don't chew tobacco," Connie grinned, "but seeing you've gone to all
the trouble of slicing the meat up, I'll take a chance."
"How you lak him, eh?" 'Merican Joe grinned across the little table at
Connie next morning, as the boy gingerly mouthed a small piece of lynx
steak. Connie swallowed the morsel, and, without answering, took another
bite. There was nothing gingerly about the action this time, and the
Indian noted that the boy's jaws worked with evident relish.
"Well," answered Connie, when the second morsel had gone the way of the
first, "if the rest of the things you were telling me about are as good
as this, all I've got to say is: Bring 'em along!"
Daylight found them on the trap line with sleeping bags and provisions
in their packs, for it would require at least two days to "fresh up" the
line.
At noon they camped for lunch almost at the end of the line of steel
traps. So far they had been unusually lucky. Only two traps had been
sprung empty, and eight martens and a mink were in the pack sacks. Only
two of the martens, and the mink were alive when found and Connie
quickly learned the Indian method of killing a trapped animal--a method
that is far more humane and very much easier when it comes to skinning
the animal than the white man's method of beating him on the head with
the ax handle. With the latter practice the skull is crushed with the
result that there is a nasty mess which discolours the flesh side of the
pelt and makes very disagreeable work for the skinner.
The first live marten was in one of the "ground set" traps and upon the
approach of the trappers he arched his back and stood at bay, emitting
sharp squalls and growls of anger. 'Merican Joe simply planted his
snowshoe on him, pressing him into the snow, then with one hand he
reached down and secured a firm hold on the animal's neck and gradually
worked the fore part of his body from under the snowshoe, taking care to
keep the hinder part held fast by the web. Snapping the mitten from his
other hand, the Indian felt just behind the lower ribs for the animal's
heart, and grasping it firmly between thumb and fingers he pulled
quickly downward. The heart was thus torn from its position and the
animal died instantly and painlessly. The mink which was suspended by
the tossing pole, and the other marten which had fallen victim to one of
the "tree sets," of course, could not be held by the snowshoe. As both
were caught by the fore leg, a loop of copper wire was slipped about
their hind legs and the animals thus stretched out and dispatched in the
same manner as the first.
As these three animals were not frozen, 'Merican Joe skinned them at the
noon camp, thereby doing away with the weight of the useless carcasses.
"What are we going to do when we finish up this trap line?" asked
Connie. "It won't be time to look at the snares again."
"No. We tak' a day an' res' up, an' skin de martens an' stretch um. Den
we mus' got to git som' dog feed. We put out de fish nets an' hunt de
caribou. Leloo, he be'n killing caribou wit' de wolf pack--he ain'
hongre w'en we feed de dogs."
But the revelation of the next few miles drove all thought of a day of
rest or a caribou hunt from the mind of the Indian, for real trouble
began with the second trap visited in the afternoon. This trap which had
been set upon the trunk of a leaning tree, was found dangling empty by
its chain, and held firmly between its jaws was the frozen leg of a
marten. The keen eyes of 'Merican Joe saw at a glance that the animal
had neither gnawed nor twisted its own way out of the trap but had been
torn from it by violence. The Indian scowled darkly at certain telltale
tracks in the snow, and an exclamation of anger escaped him.
Connie laughed. "Now who's growling about the loss of a skin? One marten
more or less won't make much difference."
'Merican Joe continued to scowl. "No, one marten don't mak' mooch
differ', but we ain' goin' to git no more marten on dis trap line
_s'pose_ we ain' kill dat _carcajo_! He start in here an' he clean out
de whole line. He steal all de marten, an' he bust up de deadfalls. An'
we got to ketch um or we got got to move som' nodder place!" And in all
truth, the Indian's fears were well justified. For of all the animals of
the North, the _carcajo_ is the most hated by the trappers. And he has
fairly earned every bit of hatred he gets because for absolute malicious
fiendishness this thick-bodied brute of many names has no equal.
Scientists, who have no personal quarrel with him, have given him the
dignified Latin name of _gulo luscus_--the last syllable of the last
word being particularly apt. In the dictionaries and encyclopædias he is
listed as the glutton. In the United States he is commonly known as the
wolverine. The lumberjacks call him the Injun devil. While among the
trappers and the Indians themselves he is known as the _carcajo_, or as
bad dog--which is the Indian's idea of absolute cussedness and
degeneracy.
Connie broke the silence that had fallen upon the two as they stared at
the empty trap. "Well, we won't move!" he cried. "There's no measly
_carcajo_ going to run me out of here! We'll get busy, and in two or
three days from now we'll have that scoundrel's hide hanging up on the
_cache_ with the lynx skins!"
The Indian nodded slowly. "Mebbe-so--mebbe-so not. De _carcajo_, she
smart. She hard to ketch."
"So are we smart!" exclaimed the boy. "Come on--let's go!"
"Ain' no good we go 'long de trap line. De trap she all be bust up. We
go back to de cabin an' git som' beaver trap, an' we start out on de
odder end an' back-track 'long de trap line. Mebbe-so de _carcajo_ ain'
had time to git over de whole line yet. Anyhow, we got to set plenty
trap for him."
Hastening back to the cabin, the frozen martens were thawed out and
skinned, and 'Merican Joe made up his pack for the trail. Connie
refrained from asking questions, as the Indian solemnly made up his
queer pack, but the boy resolved to keep his eyes open the following
day, for of all the things the Indian placed in his pack sack, there
was nothing that appeared to be of any use whatever except the six stout
beaver traps.
Daylight next morning found them at the end of the trap line which they
back-trailed for some five or six miles without seeing any signs of the
presence of the _carcajo_. They had four martens in their packs, and
Connie was beginning to believe that the outlook was not so bad after
all, when they suddenly came upon one of the deadfalls literally torn to
pieces. There had been a marten in this trap, but nothing remained of
him except a few hairs that clung to the bark of the fall-log. The bait
was gone, the bait house was broken apart, and the pieces strewn about
in the most savage and wanton manner. The tracks were only a few hours
old, and Connie was for following them and killing the marauder with the
rifle. But 'Merican Joe shook his head: "No, we ain' kin fin' him. He
climb de tree and den git in nodder tree an' keep on goin' an' we lose
time an' don' do no good. He quit here las' night. He start in ag'in
tonight w'ere he leave off. We go back, now, an' set som' trap w'ere he
ain' be'n."
Retracing their steps to the first unmolested deadfall, the Indian set
one of the beaver traps. But instead of baiting it, or setting it at the
opening of the bait house, he carefully scooped a depression in the snow
at the back of the house. Placing the trap in this depression so that it
lay about two inches below the level of the snow, he carefully laid
small clusters of needles from the pan outward so that they rested upon
the jaws. This was to keep the snow from packing or freezing on the trap
which would prevent it from springing. When the trap was completely
covered the Indian took two pieces of crust from the snow and, holding
them above the trap, rubbed them together, thus grinding the snow and
letting it fall upon the needles until the whole was covered with what
looked like a natural fall of snow. "De _carcajo_ he com' to de trap at
de back an' break it up," he explained as he stood up and examined his
handiwork critically.
"I hope he tries it on that one," grinned Connie, as he followed the
Indian who had already started for the next set.
This set was different, in that it was not made at any trap. The Indian
paused beside a fallen log and with the ax cut a half-dozen green
poles. These he cut into three-foot lengths and laid them one on top of
the other in the shape of a three-cornered crib. Then he took from the
pack some of the articles that had excited Connie's curiosity. An old
coat, tightly rolled, was first placed within the enclosure of the crib.
Then several empty tin cans were placed on top of the coat, and covered
with an old scrap of canvas. On top of the canvas were placed the
snowshoes that had been crushed by the bear. Four of the beaver traps
were now set, one on each side of the crib, close to the wall and one on
top of the snowshoes inside the enclosure. The traps on the outside were
covered in exactly the same manner as the trap set at the deadfall, and
the one inside was simply covered with an old worn-out sock.
"Where does the bait go?" asked Connie, as he glanced curiously at the
contrivance.
"De bait she all ready. We ain' want no meat bait. De _carcajo_ com'
'long, she see de leetle log house. She sniff 'roun' an' she say: 'Dis
is wan _cache_. I bust him up an' steal all de t'ings.' An' so he go to
bust up de _cache_ an' de firs' t'ing she know she got de leg in de
trap. Dat mak' him mad an' he jump 'roun' an' by-m-by anodder leg gits
in odder trap, an' by golly, den he ain' kin git away no mor'!"
"Why don't you fasten the chains to the big log, instead of to those
light clogs?" asked the boy.
"Dat ain' no good way to do," replied the Indian. "If she fasten on de
big solid log, de _carcajo_ git chance to mak' de big pull. He git w'at
you call de brace, an' he pull an' pull, an' by-m-by, he pull hees foot
out. But w'en you mak' de trap on de clog he ain' kin git no good pull.
Every tam he pull, de clog com' 'long a leetle, an' all he do is drag de
stick."
The remaining trap was set at another deadfall, and the two trappers
returned home to await results. But while they waited, they were not
idle. The dog food was running low, so armed with ice chisels and axes
they went out on to the snow-covered lake and busied themselves in
setting their whitefish nets through the ice.
CHAPTER XI
THE CARIBOU HUNT
Connie Morgan and his trapping partner, 'Merican Joe, bolted a hurried
breakfast. For both were eager to know the result of their attempt to
trap the _carcajo_ that had worked such havoc with their line of marten
and mink traps.
"Suppose we do catch this one?" asked Connie as he fastened his rackets.
"Won't there be an other one along in a day or two, so we'll have to do
it all over again?"
"No," explained the Indian. "_Carcajo_ no like nodder _carcajo_. In de
winter tam de _carcajo_ got he's own place to hunt. If nodder wan comes
'long dey mak' de big fight, an' wan gits lick an' he got to go off an'
fin' nodder place to hunt. Injun hate _carcajo_. Marten hate um. Mink,
an fox hate um. Deer hate um. All de peoples hate um--de big peoples,
an' de leetle peoples. _Carcajo_ so mean even _carcajo_ hate _carcajo_!"
A yell of triumph escaped Connie as, closely followed by 'Merican Joe,
he pushed aside the thick screen of spruce branches and came suddenly
upon the crib-like _cache_ that the Indian had constructed to entice the
malicious night prowler. For right in the midst of the wreckage of the
_cache_, surrounded by the broken snowshoes, the tin cans, the old coat,
and the sticks that had formed the crib, was the _carcajo_ himself, a
foreleg in one trap and his thick shaggy tail in another! When he caught
sight of the trappers the animal immediately showed fight. And never had
Connie seen such an exhibition of insensate ferocity as the _carcajo_,
every hair erect, teeth bared, and emitting squall-like growls of rage,
tugged at the rattling trap chains in a vain effort to attack. Beside
this animal the rage of even the disturbed barren ground grizzly seemed
a mild thing. But, of course, the grizzly had been too dopey and dazed
from his long sleep, to really put forth his best efforts.
"Shoot um in de ear," advised 'Merican Joe, "an' it ain' no hole in de
hide an' it kill um queek." And, holding the muzzle of the little
twenty-two close, Connie dispatched the animal with one well-placed
shot. The next instant, 'Merican Joe was laughing as Connie held his
nose, for like the skunk, the _carcajo_ has the power to emit a
yellowish fluid with an exceedingly disagreeable odour--and this
particular member of the family used his power lavishly.
"He too mooch smart to git in de trap in de snow," said the Indian,
pointing to the dead _carcajo_. "He climb up on de log an' den he jump
'cross de leetle space an' put de foot in de trap on top of de pile. Den
w'en he git mad an tear up de _cache_ an' try to git loose, he sit down
in wan more trap, an it ketch him on he's tail."
While 'Merican Joe drew the shaggy brownish-black skin from the thick
body, Connie recovered the traps, removed the clogs, and _cached_ them
where they could be picked up later. Neither of the two traps that had
been set at the backs of the marten traphouses had been disturbed, and
as Connie gathered these and placed them with the others, he learned of
the extreme wariness and caution of the _carcajo_. For the snow told the
story of how the prowler had circled the traphouses several times, and
then lumbered on, leaving them untouched.
"It's a wonder you don't cut some steaks out of him," grinned the boy
as he looked at the fat carcass.
The Indian shook his head. "No. De _carcajo_, an' de mink, an' de
marten, an' de fisher, an' de otter ain' no good to eat. W'en you fin'
de Injun w'at eat 'em--look out! Dat one bad Injun, you bet!"
The work of "freshing up" the trap line in the wake of the _carcajo_
took almost as long as the laying of a new line. For the marauder had
done his work thoroughly and well. Hardly a trap was left unmolested. In
some places the snow showed where he had eaten a marten, but in most
instances the traps were simply destroyed apparently from sheer
wantonness. Three or four martens and one lynx were recovered where they
had been taken from the traps, carried off the line for some distance,
and buried in the snow.
By evening of the third day the task was finished and the two trappers
returned to their cabin.
The following day was spent in getting ready a trail outfit for the
caribou hunt. Both of the toboggans and dog teams were to be taken to
haul home the meat, and provisions for a week's trip were loaded. Only
a few caribou tracks had been seen on the trap line and 'Merican Joe
believed that more would be found to the south-eastward.
The first night on the trail they camped at the edge of a wide _brule_,
some twenty miles from the cabin. No caribou had been sighted during the
day, although tracks were much more numerous than they had been in the
vicinity of the cabin. 'Merican Joe had not brought his heavy rifle,
preferring instead the twenty-two, with which he had succeeded in
bringing down four ptarmigan. And as they sat snug and cozy in the
little tent and devoured their supper of stew and tea and pilot bread,
Connie bantered the Indian.
"You must think you're going to sneak up as close to the caribou as I
did to the _carcajo_, to get one with that gun."
'Merican Joe grinned. "You wait. You see I git mor' caribou wit' de
knife den you git wit' de big gun," he answered. "Me an' Leloo, we ain'
need no gun, do we, Leloo?" The great wolf-dog had been secured in the
tent to prevent his slipping off during the night, and at the mention of
his name he pricked up his ears and searched the faces of the two, as
if trying to figure out what all the talk was about. Far away in the
timber a wolf howled, and Leloo's eyes at once assumed an expression of
intense longing and he listened motionless until the sound died away,
then with a glance at the _babiche_ thong that secured him, settled
slowly to the robe and lay with his long pointed muzzle upon his
outstretched forepaws, and his dull yellow eyes blinking lazily.
Early the following morning they skirted the south shore of Lake Ste.
Therese, crossed the river, and headed for a range of hills that could
be seen to the south-eastward. The day was warm, ten to fifteen degrees
above zero, and the gusty south-east wind was freighted with frequent
snow squalls. Toward noon, as they were crossing a frozen muskeg,
Connie, who was in the lead, stopped to examine some fresh caribou
tracks that led toward the timber of the opposite side in a course
nearly parallel with their own. 'Merican Joe halted his team and came
forward. Leloo nosed the tracks and, with no more show of interest than
a slight twitching of the ears, raised his head and eyed first 'Merican
Joe, then Connie. The trail was very fresh and the scent strong so that
the other dogs sniffed the air and whined and whimpered in nervous
eagerness. The trail was no surprise to Leloo. So keen was his sense of
scent that for a quarter of a mile he had known that they were nearing
it. Had he been alone, or running at the head of the hunt-pack, he would
even now have been wolfing down huge mouthfuls of the warm,
blood-dripping meat. But this case was different. At this moment he was
a dog, and not a wolf. His work was the work of the harness. Leloo's
yellow eyes scrutinized the faces of his two masters as they talked, for
he had been quick to recognize Connie as his new master, although he
never quite renounced allegiance to the Indian. He obeyed alike the
command of either, and both were too wise in the way of dogs to try him
out with conflicting commands just to see "which he would mind."
Leloo knew that his masters would do one of two things. Either they
would follow the caribou and kill them, or they would ignore the trail
and hold their own course. He hoped they would decide to follow the
caribou. For two or three days he had been living on fish, and Leloo did
not like fish and only ate them when there was nothing else to eat. He
watched 'Merican Joe return to his dogs, and fairly leaped into the
collar as Connie swung him on to the trail. Two bull caribou had gone
that way scarcely an hour before. There would be a kill, and plenty of
meat.
A quarter of a mile before reaching the timber, Connie, who was in the
lead, swerved sharply from the trail and headed toward a point that
would carry them to the bush well down wind from the place the caribou
had entered. Leloo cheerfully followed for he understood this move, and
approved it. Arriving in the scrub, Connie and 'Merican Joe quickly
unharnessed the dogs and tied all except the wolf-dog to trees. The boy
removed the rifle from the toboggan and threw a shell into the chamber.
"Hadn't we better put a line on Leloo?" he asked as they started in the
direction of the trail.
'Merican Joe laughed; "No, Leloo he know 'bout hunt--you watch. You want
to see de gran' dog work you jes' shoot wan caribou. Leloo he git' de
odder wan, you bet!"
"You don't mean he'll get him unless he's wounded!"
"Sure, he git him--you see! If you shoot wan an' wound him, Leloo git
de good wan first, an' den he go git de wounded wan."
They cut the trail at the edge of the muskeg and immediately circled
down wind. Leloo trotted quietly beside them, and now and then Connie
noted twitching of the delicate nostrils. Suddenly the animal halted,
sniffing the air. The ruff bristled slightly, and turning at a right
angle to the course, the dog headed directly into the wind.
"He ketch um," said 'Merican Joe. "Close by. Dat ain' no trail
scent--dat body scent!"
The spruce gave place to willows, and creeping to the edge of a frozen
marshy stream, they saw the two caribou feeding upon the opposite side.
Connie set for two hundred yards and fired. The larger bull reared high
in front, pitched sidewise, and after several lurching leaps, fell to
the snow. The other headed diagonally across the open at a trot. Beside
him Connie heard a low growl, there was a flash of silver, and Leloo
shot into the open like an arrow. For several seconds the bull trotted
on, unconscious of the great grey shape that was nearly upon him. When
he did discover it and broke into a run it was too late. As if hurled
from a gun the flying wolf-dog rose from the snow and launched himself
at the exposed flank of the fleeing caribou, which was whirled half way
around at the impact. Leloo sprang clear as the stricken animal plunged
and wobbled on his fast weakening legs. The caribou staggered on a few
steps and lay down. And the wolf-dog, after watching him for a moment to
make sure he was really done for, trotted over and sniffed at the bull
Connie had shot.
While 'Merican Joe, with a quick twist of his sheath knife, cut the
stricken animal's throat, Connie examined the wound that had brought him
down. Leloo had returned to his kill, and as the boy glanced up the
great wolf-dog opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn that exposed his
gleaming fangs, and instantly the boy remembered the words of Waseche
Bill, "Keep your eye on him ... if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to
be dog ... good-night." "It would be 'good-night,' all right," he
muttered, as he turned again to look at the wound--a long slash that had
cut through the thick hide, the underlying muscles, and the inner
abdominal wall and literally disembowelled the animal as cleanly as
though it had been done with a powerful stroke of a sharp knife.
"W'at you t'ink 'bout Leloo, now?" grinned the Indian, as he rose from
his knee and wiped his bloody knife upon his larrigan.
"I think he's some killer!" exclaimed the boy. "No wonder you don't
carry a rifle."
"Don't need no gun w'en we got Leloo," answered 'Merican Joe, proudly.
"De gun too mooch heavy. Injun ain' so good shot lak de w'ite man. Waste
too mooch shell--dat cost too mooch."
The butchering and cutting up of the two caribou took less than an hour,
during which time 'Merican Joe found that no matter how much of a
_chechako_ Connie was in regard to the fur-bearers, he had had plenty of
experience in the handling of meat. When the job was finished, the meat
was covered with the hides, and taking only the livers and hearts with
them, the two started for the toboggans. The low-banked, marshy river
upon which they found themselves made a short turn to the northward a
short distance farther on, and they decided to circle around far enough
to see what lay beyond the wooded point. Rounding the bend, they came
upon what was evidently a sluggish lake, or broadening of the river,
its white surface extending for a distance of two or three miles toward
the north. Far beyond the upper end of the lake they could make out
another ridge of hills, similar to the one to the southward toward which
they were heading. They were about to turn back when Connie pointed to
Leloo who was sniffing the air with evident interest. "He smells
something!" exclaimed the boy, "maybe there are some more caribou in the
willows a little farther on."
The Indian watched the dog narrowly: "Noe he ain' git de body scent--dat
de trail scent. Mus' be de strong scent. He smell um down wind. We go
tak' a look--mebbe-so we git som' mor' meat."
Keeping close to shore they struck northward upon the surface of the
lake and ten minutes later, 'Merican Joe uttered an exclamation and
pointed ahead. Hastening forward they came upon a broad trail. As far as
they could see the surface of the snow was broken and trampled by the
hoofs of hundreds and hundreds of caribou. The animals had crossed the
lake on a long slant, travelling leisurely and heading in a
north-westerly direction for the hills that could be seen in the
distance. The two bulls they had killed were evidently stragglers of the
main herd, for the trail showed that the animals had passed that same
day--probably early in the morning.
"We go back an git de dogs and de outfit, an' follow um up. We git
plenty meat now. Dat good place we camp right here tonight an' in de
mornin' we follow 'long de trail." The short afternoon was well advanced
and after selecting a camping site, the Indian hung the livers and
hearts upon a limb, and the two struck out rapidly for the toboggans.
After hastily swallowing a cold lunch, they harnessed the dogs and
worked the outfit through the timber until they struck the river at the
point where they had slipped upon the two caribou. As they stepped from
the willows Connie pointed toward the opposite shore. "There's something
moving over there!" he exclaimed. "Look--right between the meat piles! A
wolf I guess."
'Merican Joe peered through the gathering dusk. "No, dat _loup cervier_.
De wolf ain' hunt dead meat." Leloo had caught a whiff of the animal and
the hairs of his great ruff stood out like the quills of an enraged
porcupine. Stooping, the Indian slipped him from the harness and the
next instant a silver streak was flashing across the snow. The _loup
cervier_ did not stand upon the order of his going but struck out for
the timber in great twenty-foot bounds. He disappeared in the willows
with the wolf-dog gaining at every jump, and a moment later a young
spruce shivered throughout its length, as the great cat struck its trunk
a good ten feet above the snow. Connie started at a run, but 'Merican
Joe called him back.
"We tak' de outfit long an' load de meat first. We got plenty tam. Leloo
hold um in de tree an' den we go git um." Picking up Leloo's harness the
Indian led the way across the river where it was but the work of a few
minutes to load the meat on to the toboggans.
When the loads were firmly lashed on, the toboggans were tipped over to
prevent the dogs from running away, and taking the light rifle the two
went to the tree beneath which Leloo sat looking up into the glaring
yellow eyes of the lynx. One shot placed squarely in the corner of an
eye brought the big cat down with a thud, and they returned to the
outfit and harnessed Leloo. When they were ready to start, 'Merican Joe
swung the two caribou heads to the top of his load.
"What are you packing those heads for?" asked Connie.
"Mus' got to hang um up," answered the Indian.
"Well, hang them up back there in the woods. There's a couple of handy
limb stubs on that tree we got the lynx out of."
The Indian shook his head. "No, dat ain' no good. De bear head mus' got
to git hang up right where she fall, but de deer an' de moose and de
caribou head mus' got to hang up right long de water where de canoes go
by."
"Why's that?"
The other shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so w'en _Sah-ha-lee
Tyee_ com' to count de deer, he com' in de
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