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The Gaunt Gray Wolf: A Tale of Adventure With Ungava Bob

by Dillon Wallace · English · Gutenberg #29374 · 330,641 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Gaunt Gray Wolf: A Tale of Adventure With Ungava Bob

Author: Dillon Wallace


        
Release date: July 11, 2009 [eBook #29374]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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[Transcriber's note: the groups of four question marks below
indicate illegible text in the source page scans]





OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL

Honorary President,           The HON. WOODROW WILSON
Honorary Vice-President,      HON. WILLIAM H. TAFT
Honorary Vice-President,      COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT
President,                    COLIN H. LIVINGSTON, Washington D.C.
Vice-President,               B. L. DULANY,  ????, Tenn.
Vice-President,               MILTON A. McRAE, ????
Vice-President,               DAVID STARR JORDAN, ????
Vice-President,               F. L. SEELY, Asheville, N.C.
Vice-President,               A. STANFORD. WHITE, Chicago, Ill.
Chief Scout,                  ERNEST THOMPSON SETON, ????
National Scout Commissioner,  DANIEL CARTER BEARD, ????

FINANCE COMMITTEE
????

NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
THE FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, 200 FIFTH AVENUE
TELEPHONE   GRAMERCY  545
NEW YORK CITY

ADDITIONAL MEMBERS OF THE EXECUTIVE BOARD
????

July 31, 1913.

TO THE PUBLIC--
In the execution of its purpose to give educational value and moral
worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of America, the
leaders of the Boy Scout Movement quickly learned that to effectively
carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his
out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure
moments. It is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of
daring enterprises and adventurous good times. What now is needful in
not that his taste should be thwarted but trained. There should
constantly be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet
always the books that will be best for the boy. As a matter of fact,
however, the boy's taste is being constantly visited and exploited by
the great mass of  cheap juvenile literature.

To help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this grave
peril, the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America has been
organized. EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY is the result of their labors. All the
books chosen have been approved by them. The commission is composed of
the following members: George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public Library
of the District of Columbia, Washington, D.C.; Harrison W. Graver,
Librarian, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Pa.; Claude G. Leland,
Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York
City; Edward F. Stevens, Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library,
Brooklyn, New York; together with the Editorial Board of our Movement,
William D. Murray, George D. Pratt and Frank Presbrey, with Franklin
K. Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian, as Secretary.

In selecting the books, the Commission has chosen only such as are of
interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of fiction
or stirring stories of adventurous experiences. In later lists, books
of a more serious sort will be included. It is hoped that as many as
twenty-five may be added to the library each year.

Thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to inaugurate
this new department of our work. Without their co-operation in making
available for popular priced editions some of the best books ever
published for boys, the promotion of EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY would have
been impossible.

We wish, too, to express out heartfelt gratitude to the Library
Commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast
experience and immense resources at the service of our Movement.

The commission invites suggestions as to future books to be included
in the Library. Librarians, teachers, parents, and all others
interested in welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by
forwarding to National Headquarters lists of such books as in their
judgment would be suitable for EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY.

Signed, James E. West.

THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF



[Illustration: "They were startled by blood-curdling whoops, and a
half-dozen Indians, guns levelled, rose upon the shore"  (See page
85).]


EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY--BOY SCOUT EDITION

THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF

A TALE OF ADVENTURE WITH "UNGAVA BOB"

BY
DILLON WALLACE

AUTHOR OF
UNGAVA BOB, ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Made in the United State of America

Copyright, 1914, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY


New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago:   17 North Wabash Ave.
London:    21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street

CONTENTS

I.      SHAD TROWBRIDGE OF BOSTON
II.     THE LURE OF THE WILDERNESS
III.    UNGAVA BOB MAKES A RESCUE
IV.     AWAY TO THE TRAILS
V.      IN THE FAR WILDERNESS
VI.     OLD FRIENDS
VII.    WHERE THE EVIL SPIRITS DWELL
VIII.   AFTER THE INDIAN ATTACK
IX.     THE INDIAN MAIDEN AT THE RIVER TILT
X.      THE VOICES OF THE SPIRITS
XI.     MANIKAWAN'S VENGEANCE
XII.    THE TRAGEDY OF THE RAPIDS
XIII.   ON THE TRAIL OF THE INDIANS
XIV.    THE MATCHI MANITU IS CHEATED
XV.     THE PASSING OF THE WILD THINGS
XVI.    ALONE WITH THE INDIANS
XVII.   CHRISTMAS AT THE RIVER TILT
XVIII.  THE SPIRIT OF DEATH GROWS BOLD.
XIX.    THE CACHE ON THE LAKE
XX.     THE FOLK AT WOLF BIGHT
XXI.    THE RIFLED CACHE
XXII.   MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE
XXIII.  TUMBLED AIR CASTLES
XXIV.   THE MESSENGER
XXV.    A MISSION OF LIFE AND DEATH
XXVI.   "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS"
XXVII.  SHAD'S TRIBUTE TO THE INDIAN MAIDEN
XXVIII. TROWBRIDGE AND GRAY, TRADERS
XXIX.   THE FRUIT OF MANIKAWAN'S SACRIFICE



THE GAUNT GRAY WOLF


I

SHAD TROWBRIDGE OF BOSTON

On a foggy morning of early July in the year 1890, the Labrador mail
boat, northward bound from St. Johns, felt her way cautiously into the
mist-enveloped harbour of Fort Pelican and to her anchorage.

For six days the little steamer had been buffeted by wind and ice and
fog, and when at last her engines ceased to throb and she lay at rest
in harbour, Allen Shadrach Trowbridge of Boston, her only passenger,
felt hugely relieved, for the voyage had been a most unpleasant one,
and here he was to disembark.

In June, Allen Shadrach Trowbridge--or "Shad" Trowbridge as the
fellows called him, and as we shall call him--had completed his
freshman year in college. When college closed he set sail at once for
Labrador, where he was to spend his summer holiday canoeing and
fishing in the wilderness.

This was the first extended journey Shad Trowbridge had ever made
quite alone. For many months he had been planning and preparing for
it, and he promised himself it was to be an eventful experience.

He was standing now at the rail, as the ship anchored, peering eagerly
through the mist at the group of low, whitewashed buildings which
composed Fort Pelican post of the Hudson's Bay Company, and at the dim
outline of dark forest behind--a clean-cut, square-shouldered,
athletic young fellow, who carried his head with the air of one
possessing a fair share of self-esteem and self-reliance, and whose
square jaw suggested wilfulness if not determination.

The rugged surroundings thrilled him with promise of adventure. The
historic post of the old fur traders, the boundless, mysterious
forest, and the romantic life of the trappers and dusky tribes which
it sheltered, were pregnant with interest. But his wildest dreams
could not have foretold the part Shad Trowbridge was destined to play
in this primordial land and life before he should bid farewell to its
bleak coast.

"A rough-looking country," remarked the steward, joining Shad at the
rail.

"It's glorious!" exclaimed Shad enthusiastically. "A real frontier!
And back there is a real wilderness! Just the sort of wilderness I've
dreamed about getting into all my life."

"The deck of the mail boat's about as near as I want to get to it,"
said the steward with a deprecatory shrug. "It's a land o' hard knocks
and short grub. You'd better leave it to the livyeres and Indians,
young man, and go back to God's country with the ship."

"No, thank you," said Shad. "I'm going to have a rattling good summer
hunting and fishing here before I see the ship again."

"When we come on our next voyage, a fortnight from now, you'll be
standing out there on the dock looking for us, and mighty glad to see
us," laughed the steward. "You'll have all you want of The Labrador by
then. Shall I put your things ashore?"

"Yes, if you please--all but the canoe. I'll paddle that over, if
you'll send a man to help me launch it."

"Pooh!" thought Shad, as the steward left him. "'Hard knocks and short
grub'! Of course there would be some hard knocks, but he expected
that, for he was going to rough it! But with the woods full of game
and fish there'd be plenty to eat! He didn't expect any Pullman-car
jaunt; he could have had that at home. What kind of a fellow did the
steward take him for, anyway?"

A half-dozen natives on the boat wharf watched Shad curiously as he
paddled to a low stretch of beach adjoining the wharf, and two of them
strolled down to inspect his canoe when he lifted it out of the water
and turned it upon its side at a safe distance above the lapping
waves.

"Now she's what I calls a rare fine canoe," observed one, a tall,
big-boned, loose-jointed fellow with a straggly red beard, and
picturesquely attired in moleskin trousers tucked into the tops of
sealskin boots, a flannel shirt, a short jacket, and the peakless cap
of the trapper.

"That she be, Ed, an' a wonderful sight better'n th' bark canoes th'
Injuns uses," agreed the other, a powerful, broad-shouldered,
deep-chested man, who wore a light-cloth adicky, but whose dress was
otherwise similar to that of his companion.

"She have better lines than th' Injun craft," said the one addressed
as Ed, eyeing the canoe critically.

"An' she's stancher--a wonderful lot stancher," continued the other.

"She is a pretty good canoe, and a splendid white-water craft," Shad
remarked, to break the ice of reserve, and to give the two trappers
the opening for conversation for which they were evidently hedging.

"Aye, sir," said the man in the adicky, "they's no doot o' that. Her
lines be right, sir. She'd be a fine craft in th' rapids, now--a fine
un."

"Be you comin' far, an' be you goin' back wi' th' ship?" asked Ed,
unable to restrain his curiosity longer.

"I came from Boston, and if I can get a guide I shall stay for the
summer and take a canoe trip into the country," answered Shad.

"I'm thinkin' you can get un in th' shop," suggested Ed.

"Get them in the shop?" asked Shad, in astonishment, not quite certain
whether he was misunderstood, or whether the trapper was making game
of him. Ed's respectful manner, however, quickly satisfied him that
the former was the case.

"Aye," said Ed. "They keeps a wonderful stock o' things in the shop."

"I refer to a man," explained Shad. "I wish to employ a man to go into
the country with me to show me about and to assist me."

"'Tis a pilot you wants!" exclaimed Ed, light breaking upon him.

"O' course 'tis a pilot!" broke in the other, with an intonation that
suggested scorn of Ed's ignorance. "A pilot an' a guide be th' same
thing. A pilot be a guide, an' a guide be a pilot."

"I'd like wonderful well t' pilot you myself, sir, but I couldn't do
it nohow," volunteered Ed, in a tone of apology. "You see, I has my
nets out, an' I has t' get in firewood for th' wife, t' last she
through th' winter whilst I be on th' trail trappin'. An Dick here's
fixed th' same. Dick an' me's partners fishin', an' he gives me a hand
gettin' out wood, an' I helps he. This be Dick Blake, sir," continued
Ed, suddenly remembering that there had been no introduction, "an' I
be Ed Matheson."

"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," Shad acknowledged.
"My name is Trowbridge. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where I can
employ a guide. I would appreciate your assistance."

"Le'me see," Ed meditated. "Now I'm thinkin' Ungava Bob might go," he
at length suggested. "He were home th' winter, an' they hauled a rare
lot o' wood out wi' th' dogs, an' his father can 'tend th' nets. What
d'you think, Dick?"

"Aye, Ungava Bob could sure go, whatever," agreed Dick.

"'Ungava Bob' sounds interesting," said Shad. "How old a man is this
Ungava Bob, and is that his real name, or is 'Ungava' a title?"

"He's but a lad-eighteen year old comin' September--but a rare likely
lad--good as a man. Aye, good as a man," declared Ed.

"His real name be Bob Gray," explained Dick, "but we calls him 'Ungava
Bob' for a wonderful cruise he were makin' two year ago comin'
winter."

"Seventeen years of age, and already so famous as to have won a title!
I'm interested, and I'd like to hear more about him," suggested Shad.

"An' you wants t' hear," said Ed. "But now we be a-standin' an'
a-keepin' you, when you wants t' see Mr. Forbes."

"Yes, I wish to see Mr. Forbes, if he is the factor of the post, but
you haven't detained me in the least. I can see him presently,"
reassured Shad.

"Mr. Forbes be wonderful busy till th' ship goes, an' she'll be here
for nigh an hour yet," advised Ed.

"Very well, I'll not call on him, then, till the ship goes," decided
Shad, "and I'd be glad to hear something of Ungava Bob's travels, in
the meantime."

"We might step into th' men's kitchen, where there be seats an' we can
talk in comfort," suggested Ed. "This fog be wonderful chillin'
standin' still."

"That's a good suggestion," agreed Shad. "The fog is cold." And he
followed the two trappers down the long board walk to the men's
kitchen.



II

THE LURE OF THE WILDERNESS

"Ungava Bob's father's name be Richard Gray," began Ed, while he cut
tobacco from a black plug and stuffed it into his pipe, when they were
presently seated in the men's kitchen. "Dick's name, here, be Richard,
too, but we calls he 'Dick,' and Richard Gray, Richard,' so's not t'
get un mixed up. You see, if we calls un both 'Dick' or both
'Richard,'  we'd never be knowin' who 'twas were meant."

"I see," said Shad.

"Well, Richard were havin' a wonderful streak o' bad luck," continued
Ed, striking a match and holding it aloft for the sulphur to burn off,
"wonderful hard luck. His furrin' fails he two years runnin', an' then
th' fishin' fails he, an' his debt wi' th' Company gets so big he's
two year behind, whatever, th' best he does." Ed paused to apply the
match to his pipe.

"Were you ever noticin', Mr. Toobridge--"

"Tumbridge," corrected Dick.

"Be it 'Toobridge' or 'Tumbridge,' sir?" asked Ed, unwilling to accept
Dick's correction.

"Trowbridge."

"Leastways Toobridge were nigher right than Tumbridge," declared Ed,
looking disdainfully at Dick. "Were you ever noticin' how bad luck,
when she strikes a man's trail, follows him like a pack o' hungry
wolves? Well, just at th' time I'm speakin' about, Richard's little
maid Emily falls off a ledge an' hurts she so she can't walk. They
tries all th' cures they knows, but 't weren't no good, an' then they
brings Emily here t' Pelican, t' see th' mail-boat doctor when th'
ship comes.

"Th' mail-boat doctor tells un th' only cure is t' take she t' th'
hospital in St. Johns, an' so they fetches Emily back t' Wolf Bight,
for a trip t' St. Johns takes a wonderful lot o' money, an' Richard
ain't got un.

"Bob thinks a wonderful lot o' Emily. He be only sixteen then, but a
rare big an' stalwart lad for his years, an' unbeknown t' Richard an'
his ma he goes t' Douglas Campbell, an' says t' Douglas, an' he lets
he work th' Big Hill trail on shares th' winter, he's thinkin' he may
ha' th' luck t' trap a silver fox, an' leastways fur t' pay t' send
Emily t' th' hospital."

"Who is Douglas Campbell?" asked Shad.

"Oh, every one knows he, an' a rare old man he be. He comes t' th' Bay
from th' Orkneys nigh forty year ago, workin' as servant for th'
Company, an' then leavin' th' Company t' go trappin'. He done
wonderful well, buyin' traps an' openin' new trails, which he lets out
on shares. Th' Big Hill trail up th' Grand River were a new one.

"Well, Bob goes in wi' me an' Dick an' Bill Campbell, Douglas's lad,
we workin' connectin' trails, an' he done fine. He starts right in
catchin' martens an' silver foxes--a wonderful lot for a lad--"

"He only catches one silver, barrin' th' one after he were lost!"
broke in Dick. "Now don't go yarnin', Ed."

"Leastways, he gets one silver an' a rare lot o' martens an' otters up
t' Christmas, an' a plenty t' send Emily t' th' hospital.

"Then Micmac John--he were a thievin' half-breed as asks Douglas for
th' Big Hill trail, an' feels a grudge ag'in' Bob because Douglas give
un t' Bob--Micmac goes in an' steals Bob's tent when Bob were up
country after deer. A snow comin' on--'twere wonderful cold--Bob gives
out tryin' t' find his tilt, an' falls down, an' loses his senses.
When he wakes up he's in a Nascaupee Injun tent, th' Injuns comin' on
he where he falls an' takin' he with un.

"Bob not knowin' th' lingo they speaks, an' they not knowin' his
lingo, an' he not knowin' how far they took he before he wakes up, or
rightly how t' find his tilt, he sticks t' the' Injuns, an' they keeps
workin' north till they comes t' Ungava."

"A wonderful trip that were! A wonderful trip! No man in th' Bay were
ever t' Ungava before, so we calls he 'Ungava Bob,'" interrupted Dick.

"Then Bob works 'cross th' nu'th'ard country with huskies," continued
Ed, "an' up th' coast with huskies, until he goes adrift on th'
ice--him an' his two huskies he has with  he--an' when they thinks
they's lost, or like t' be lost, they comes on a tradin' vessel froze
in th' ice an' loaded wi' tradin' goods an' furs, an' not e'er a man
aboard she. Bob an' th' huskies sails th' vessel in here, when th' ice
breaks up, an' th' ship goes free.

"That were just one year ago. Me an' Dick gets out from th' trails th'
day Bob gets home, an' Douglas goin' with us, we sails th' vessel,
which were 'The Maid o' the North,' t' St. Johns, an' Bob gets fifteen
thousand dollars salvage money. A rare lot o' money, sir, that were
for any man t' have, let alone a lad."

"What happened to the little girl--his sister?" asked Shad.

"She goes t' th' hospital, an' comes back t' Wolf Bight in September,
cured an' fine. She be a fine little maid, too--a fine little maid,"
Ed asserted.

"What was done to the half-breed Indian--Micmac John, I think you
called him?"

"Micmac? Oh, he were killed by wolves handy t' th' place th' Injuns
finds Bob. Me, wi' Bill an' Dick, here, goes lookin' for Bob an' finds
Micmac's bones where th' wolves scatters un, an' handy to un is Bob's
flatsled an' thinkin' they's Bob's remains I hauls un out in th'
winter, an' his folks buries un proper for his remains before he gets
out in th' spring."

"What an experience for a kid!" exclaimed Shad. "He must have had some
rattling adventures?"

"Aye, that he did," said Ed. "'Twould be a long story t' tell un all,
but there were one, now--"

"Now don't go yarnin', Ed," interrupted Dick, who had stepped out of
doors and returned at this moment. "Ed never tells un straight, Mr.
Trunbridge."

"Troobridge," broke in Ed.

"Trowbridge," volunteered Shad.

"Mr. Trowbridge," continued Dick. "He makes un a lot worse'n Bob tells
un. Fog's clearin', Ed, an' we better be goin' after we eats dinner."

"That we had, an' the fog's clearin'," agreed Ed.

"But how about Ungava Bob? I'd like to meet him. Do you really think I
may be able to engage him to guide me on a two or three weeks' trip?"
asked Shad.

"Aye," said Ed. "I'm thinkin', now, you might. Bob's not startin' for
th' trails for three weeks, whatever, an' he's bidin' home till he
goes, an' not wonderful busy. I'm thinkin' Bob could go."

"That settles it," Shad decided. "I'll look him up."

"You'll be welcome t' a place in our boat," suggested Dick. "'Tis a
two-days' sail, wi' fair wind. They's plenty o' room, an' we can tow
th' canoe. Me an' Ed lives at Porcupine Cove, an' you can paddle th'
canoe over from there t' Wolf Bight in half a day, whatever."

"Done!" exclaimed Shad.

With the assurance of Mr. James Forbes, the factor, that the rivers
flowing into the head of the Bay, a hundred miles inland from Fort
Pelican, offered good canoe routes, Shad felt that a kind fate had
indeed directed him to Fort Pelican, and that he had been particularly
fortunate in meeting the two trappers.

"Bob Gray will be a good man for you if you can engage him, and I
think you can," said Mr. Forbes. "Bob has had some truly remarkable
adventures, and he's an interesting chap. Ed Matheson will probably
relate these adventures to you, properly embellished, if you go up the
Bay with him and Dick Blake. Take Ed's stories, though, with a grain
of salt. He is a good trapper, but he has a vivid imagination."

Shad accepted Mr. Forbes's invitation to dine in the "big house," as
the factor's residence was called, and when, after dinner, Mr. Forbes
accompanied him to the wharf, the trappers had already stowed his
outfit into their boat, and the two mean were awaiting his arrival. No
time was lost in getting away. Sail was hoisted at once, and with
Shad's canoe in tow the boat turned westward into the narrows that
connect Eskimo Bay with the ocean.

"Th' wind's shifted t' nu'th'ard, and when we gets through th' narrows
there'll be no fog," Dick prophesied, and his prophecy proved true.
Presently the sky cleared, the sun broke through the mist, the
freshening north wind swept away the last lingering fog bank, and as a
curtain rises upon a scene, so the lifting fog revealed to Shad
Trowbridge the weird, primitive beauty of the rugged northland that he
was entering.

The atmosphere, so lately clogged with mist, had suddenly become
transparent. To the southward, beyond a broad stretch of gently
heaving waters, rose a range of snow-capped mountains, extending far
to the westward. Reaching up from the nearby northern shore of the
bay, and stretching away over gently rolling hills lay the boundless
evergreen forest.

Somewhere in the distance a wild goose honked. White-winged gulls
soared gracefully overhead. Now and again a seal rose to gaze for an
inquisitive moment at the passing boat, and once a flock of ducks
settled upon the waters. The air was redolent with the pungent odour
of spruce and balsam fir--the perfume of the forest--and Shad,
lounging contentedly at the bow of the boat, drank in great wholesome
lungfuls of it.

All this was commonplace to the trappers, and quite unmindful of it Ed
Matheson launched upon tales of stirring wilderness adventures in
which his imagination was unrestrained, save by an occasional
expostulation from Dick.

The wild region through which they were passing gave proper setting
for Ed's stories, and Shad, a receptive listener, wished that he, too,
might battle with nature as these men did. How tame and uneventful his
own life seemed. Already the subtle lure of the wilderness was
asserting itself.

Three days after leaving Fort Pelican, Shad and the two trappers
sailed their dory into Porcupine Cove. It was mid-afternoon, and Shad,
impatient to reach Wolf Bight and begin his explorations in company
with Ungava Bob, prepared for immediate departure, after a bountiful
dinner of boiled grouse, bread, and tea in Dick Blake's cabin.

"Better 'bide wi' me th' evenin'," invited Dick, "an' take an early
start in th' mornin'. Th' wind's veered t' th' nor'-nor'west, an'
she's like t' kick up some chop th' evenin', an' 'tis a full
half-day's cruise t' Wolf Bight, whatever."

"I can make it all right," insisted Shad. "Bob may not be able to give
me much time, and I want to take advantage of all he can give me."

"Well, if you must be goin', I'd not hinder you; but," continued Dick,
"keep clost t' shore, until you reaches that p'int yonder, an' then
make th' crossin' for th' south shore, keepin' that blue mountain peak
just off your starboard bow, an' you can't be missin' Wolf Bight. If
th' wind freshens, camp on th' p'int, an' wait for calm t' make th'
crossin' t' th' s'uth'ard shore."

"Thank you, I'll follow your advice," said Shad.

"Wait, now," called Ed, who had disappeared into the cabin, and
reappeared with a rope. "I'm thinkin' I'll lash your outfit t' th'
canoe. They's no knowin' what's like t' happen, an' 'tis best t' be
sure, whatever."

Shad felt truly grateful to the two bronzed trappers as he shook their
hands and said adieu to them. It was only his impatience to plunge
into the deep forests reaching away to the westward, and a growing
curiosity to meet Ungava Bob, that induced him to decline the
sincerely extended hospitality of Blake and Matheson.

Afternoon was waning into evening when Shad reached the point Dick had
indicated, and the rising breeze was beginning to whip the wave crests
here and there into white foam.

Dick Blake had advised him to camp here if the wind increased. It had
increased considerably, but Shad had set his heart upon reaching Wolf
Bight that night, and he did not wish to stop. The sun was setting,
but there was to be a full moon, and he would be able to see nearly as
well as by day. The sea, though a little rougher than it had been
during the afternoon, was not, after all, he argued, so bad.

"I'll make a try for it, anyhow; I know I can make it," said he, after
a little hesitation, and turning his back upon the point he paddled
on.

Presently, however, he began to regret his decision. With the setting
sun the wind increased perceptibly. The sea grew uncomfortably rough.
Little by little the canoe began to ship water, and with every moment
the situation became more perilous.

Now, genuinely alarmed, Shad made a vain attempt to turn about, in the
hope that he might gain the lee of the point and effect a landing. But
it was too late. He quickly found that it was quite impossible to stem
the wind, and he had no choice but to continue upon his course.

With full realization of his desperate position, Shad paddled hard and
paddled for his life. He was a good swimmer, but he knew well that
were his canoe to capsize he could not hope to survive long in these
cold waters.

The canoe was gradually filling with water, but he dared not release
his paddle to bail the water out. With each big sea that bore down
upon him he held his breath in fear that it would overwhelm him.

Nearer and nearer the south shore loomed in the moonlight, and with
every muscle strained Shad paddled for it with all his might. If he
could only keep afloat another twenty minutes!

But he had taken too desperate a chance. His goal was still a full
mile away when a great wave broke over the canoe. Then came another
and another in quick succession, and Shad suddenly found himself cast
into the sea, struggling in the icy waters, hopelessly far from shore.



III

UNGAVA BOB MAKES A RESCUE

Twilight was settling into gloom, and the first faint stars were
struggling to show themselves above the distant line of dark fir and
spruce trees that marked the edge of the forest bordering Eskimo Bay.
Dark cloud patches scudding across the sky, now and again obscured the
face of the rising moon. A brisk northwest breeze was blowing, and
though it was mid-July the air had grown chill with the setting of the
sun.

Ungava Bob, alone in his boat, arose, buttoned his jacket, trimmed
sail, and by force of habit stood with his left hand resting upon the
tiller while he scanned the moonlit waters of the bay before resuming
his seat.

He was a tall, square-shouldered, well-developed lad of seventeen,
straight and lithe as an Indian, with keen, gray-blue eyes, which
seemed ever alert and observant. Exposure to sun and wind had tanned
his naturally fair skin a rich bronze, and his thick, dark-brown hair,
with a tendency to curl up at the ends, where it fell below his cap,
gave his round, full face an appearance of boyish innocence.

He was now homeward bound to Wolf Bight from the Hudson's Bay
Company's post on the north shore, where he had purchased a supply of
steel traps and other equipment preparatory to his next winter's
campaign upon the trapping trails of the far interior wilderness; for
Bob Gray, though but seventeen years of age, was already an
experienced hunter and trapper.

Suddenly, as he looked over the troubled sea, a small black object
rising upon the crest of a wave far to leeward caught his eye. The
small black object was Shad's canoe, and one with less keen vision
might have passed it unnoticed, or seeing it have supposed it belated
debris cast into the bay by the rivers, for the spring floods had
hardly yet fully subsided. But Bob's training as a hunter taught him
to take nothing for granted, and, watching intently for its
reappearance from the trough of the sea, he presently discerned in the
moonlight the faint glint of a paddle.

"A canoe!" he exclaimed, as he sat down. "An' what, now, be an Injun
doin' out there this time o' night? An' Injuns never crosses where
this un be. I'll see, now, who it is, an' what he's up to, whatever,"
and, suiting the action to the resolve, he shifted his course to bear
down upon the stranger.

The hunter instinctively attributes importance to every sign, sound,
or action that is not in harmony with the usual routine of his world,
and by actual investigation he must needs satisfy himself of its
meaning. This is not idle curiosity, but an instinct born of necessity
and life-long training, and it was this instinct that prompted Ungava
Bob's action in turning from his direct course homeward.

"'Tis no Injun," he presently said, as with a nearer approach he
observed the stroke.  "'Tis too long an' slow a paddle-stroke."

This puzzled him, for he knew well every white settler of the Bay
within a hundred miles of his home, and he knew, too, that only some
extraordinary mission could have called one of them abroad so late in
the evening, and particularly upon the course this canoe was taking at
a season of the year when all were employed upon their fishing
grounds.

Gradually he drew down upon the canoe, until at length he could make
out its lines, and observed that it was not a birch bark, the only
sort of canoe in use in the Bay by either Indians or white natives.
The canoeist, too, was a stranger in the region. Of this he had no
doubt, though he could not see his features.

He was well within hailing distance, though it was evident the
stranger in the canoe had not yet discovered his approach, when a
black cloud passed over the face of the moon, plunging the sea into
darkness, and when the moon again lighted the waters canoe and
canoeist had vanished as by magic.

Like a flash, realising what had happened, Bob seized a coil of rope,
made one end fast to the stern of his boat, grasped the coil in his
right hand, and, tense and expectant, scanned the sea for the
reappearance of the unfortunate stranger.

Presently he discovered the submerged canoe directly ahead, and an
instant later saw Shad rise to the surface, strike out for it, and
catch and cling to the gunwale.

Bob poised himself for the effort, and as he scudded past, measuring
the distance to a nicety, deftly cast the line directly across the
canoe and within the reach of Shad's hand, shouting as he did so:

"Make un fast!"

Without looking for the result, he sprang forward, lowered sail,
shipped the oars, pulled the boat about, and Shad, who had caught the
rope, had scarcely time to thrust it under a thwart and secure it
before Bob, drawing alongside, caught him by the collar of his shirt
and hauled him aboard the boat. Seizing the oars again, and pulling
safely free from danger of collision with the canoe, Bob hoisted sail,
brought the boat before the wind, and resuming his seat astern had his
first good look at his thus suddenly acquired passenger.

Shad, amidships, was engaged in drawing off his outer flannel shirt,
from which he coolly proceeded to wring, as thoroughly as possible,
the excess water, before donning it again.

Not a word had passed between them, and neither spoke until Shad had
readjusted his shirt, when, by way of opening conversation, Bob
remarked:

"You'm wet, sir."

"Naturally," admitted Shad. "I've been in the Bay, and the bay water
is surprisingly wet."

"Aye," agreed Bob, "'tis that."

"And surprisingly cold."

"Aye, 'tis wonderful cold."

"And I'm profoundly grateful to you for pulling me out of it."

"'Twere fine I comes up before your canoe founders, or I'm thinkin'
you'd be handy t' drownded by now."

"A sombre thought, but I guess you're right. A fellow couldn't swim
far or stick it out long in there," said Shad, waving his arm toward
the dark waters. "I'm sure I owe my life to you. It was lucky for me
you saw me."

"'Tweren't luck, sir; 'twere Providence. 'Twere th' Lord's way o'
takin' care o' you."

"Well, it was a pretty good way, anyhow. But where did you drop from?
I didn't see you till you threw me that line a few minutes ago."

"I were passin' t' wind'ard, sir, when I sights you, an' not knowin'
who 'twere, I sails close in till I makes you out as a stranger, an'
then you goes down an' I picks you up."

"That sounds very simple, but it was a good stunt, just the same, to
get me the line and come around in this chop the way you did, and then
haul me aboard before I knew what you were about--you kept your head
beautifully, and knew what to do--and you only a kid, too!" added
Shad, in surprise, as the moonlight fell full on Bob's face.

"A--kid?" asked Bob, not quite certain what "kid" might be.

"Yes--just a youngster--a boy."

"I'm seventeen," Bob asserted, in a tone which resented the imputation
of extreme youth. "You don't look much older'n that yourself."

"But I am--much older--I'm eighteen," said Shad, grinning.   "My
name's Trowbridge--Shad Trowbridge, from Boston. What is your name?
Let's get acquainted," and Shad extended his hand.

"I'm Bob Gray, o' Wolf Bight," said Bob, taking Shad's hand.

"Not Ungava Bob?" exclaimed Shad.

"Aye, they calls me Ungava Bob here-abouts sometimes."

"Why, I was on my way to Wolf Bight to see you!"

"T' see me, sir?"

"Yes, I came up from Fort Pelican to Porcupine Cove with two trappers
named Blake and Matheson, and they told me about you. They said I
might induce you to take a trip with me."

"A trip with you, sir?"

"Yes. I want to take a little canoe and fishing trip into the country,
and Blake and Matheson suggested that you might have two or three
weeks to spare and could go along with me. I'll pay you well for your
services. What do you think of it?"

"I'm--not just knowin'," Bob hesitated. "I leaves for my trappin'
grounds th' first o' August t' be gone th' winter, an'--I'm thinkin' I
wants t' stay home till I goes--an' my folks'll be wantin' me home."

"Well, let's not decide now. We'll talk it over to-morrow."

"You'm cold," said Bob, after a moment's silence, reaching into a
locker under his seat and bringing out a moleskin adicky. "Put un on.
She's fine and warm."

"Thank you. I'm thoroughly chilled," Shad admitted, gratefully
accepting the adicky and drawing it on over his wet clothing.

"Pull th' hood up," suggested Bob. "'Twill help warm you."

"There, that's better; I'll soon be quite comfortable."

"We don't seem to be making much headway," Shad remarked, observing
the shore after a brief lapse in conversation.

"No," said Bob, "th' canoe bein' awash 'tis a heavy drag towin' she,
but we'll soon be in th' lee, an' out o' danger o' th' sea smashin'
she ag'in' th' boat, an' then I'll haul she alongside an' bring your
outfit aboard."

They were slowly approaching the south shore and presently, as Bob had
predicted, ran under the lee of a long point of land, where in calmer
water the canoe was manoeuvred alongside, and Shad's outfit, so
fortunately and securely lashed fast by Ed Matheson, was found intact,
save the paddle which Shad had been using.

The things were quickly transferred to the boat, and, this
accomplished, Bob bailed the canoe free of water, dropped it astern,
now a light and easy tow, and catching the breeze again in the open,
turned at length into Wolf Bight, where he made a landing on a sandy
beach.

"That's where I lives," said Bob, indicating a little log cabin,
sharply silhouetted against the moonlit sky, on a gentle rise above
them.

When the canoe, quite unharmed, was lifted from the water and all made
snug, Shad silently followed up the path and into the door of the
darkened cabin, where Bob lighted a candle, displaying a large square
room, the uncarpeted floor scoured to immaculate whiteness, as were
also the home-made wooden chairs, a chest of drawers, and uncovered
table.

There were two windows on the south side and one on the north side,
all gracefully draped with snowy muslin. A clock ticked cheerfully on
a rude mantel behind a large box stove. To the left of the door, a
rough stairway led to the attic, and the rear of the room was
curtained off into two compartments, the spotlessly clean curtains of
a pale blue and white checked print, giving a refreshing touch of
colour to the room which, simply as it was furnished, possessed an
atmosphere of restfulness and homely comfort that impressed the
visitor at once as cosy and wholesome.

"My folks be all abed," explained Bob, as he placed the candle on the
table, "but we'll put a fire on an' boil th' kettle. A drop o' hot
tea'll warm you up after your cold souse."

"I would appreciate it," said Shad, his teeth chattering.

"Be that you, Bob?" asked a voice from behind the curtain.

"Aye, Father," answered Bob, "an' I has a gentleman with me, come t'
visit us."

"Now that be fine. I'll be gettin' right up," said the voice.

"Put a fire on, lad, an' set th' kettle over," suggested a woman's
voice, "an' I'll be gettin' a bite t' eat."

"Please don't leave your bed," pleaded Shad. "It will make me feel
that I am causing a lot of trouble. Bob and I will do very nicely."

"'Tis no trouble, sir--'tis no trouble at all," the man's voice
assured.

"Oh, no, sir; 'tis no trouble," echoed the woman's voice. "'Tis too
rare a pleasure t' have a visitor."

Both spoke in accents of such honest welcome and hospitality that Shad
made no further objection.

The fire was quickly lighted, and Shad, as the stove began to send out
its genial warmth, had but just removed his borrowed adicky when the
curtain parted and Mr. and Mrs. Gray appeared.

"Mr. Trowbridge, this be Father and Mother," said Bob; adding as a
second thought, "Mr. Trowbridge lives in Boston."

"'Tis fine t' see a stranger, sir," welcomed Richard Gray, as he shook
Shad's hand warmly, "an' from Boston, too! I have hearn th' fishermen
o' th' coast tell o' Boston more'n once, but I never were thinkin'
we'd have some one from Boston come t' our house! An' you comes all
th' way from Boston, now?"

"Yes," admitted Shad, "but I feel sure I'm causing you and Mrs. Gray
no end of inconvenience, coming at this time of night."

"Oh, no, sir! 'Tis no inconvenience in th' least. We're proud t' have
you," assured Mrs. Gray, taking his hand. "Why, you'm wet, sir!" she
exclaimed, noticing Shad's clinging garments, and her motherly
instinct at once asserted itself. "You must have a change. Bob, lad,
hold th' candle, now, whilst I get some dry clothes."

"Please don't trouble yourself. I'm very comfortable by the fire;
indeed, I am," Shad protested.

But Bob nevertheless held the candle while his mother selected a suit
of warm underwear, a pair of woollen socks, a flannel outer shirt, and
a pair of freshly washed white moleskin trousers from the chest of
drawers.

"These be Bob's clothes, but they'll be a handy fit for you, I'm
thinkin', for Bob an' you be as like in size as two duck's eggs," she
commented, looking the two over for comparison. "Now, Bob, light a
candle an' show Mr. Trowbridge above stairs. When you're changed, sir,
bring your wet things down, an' we'll hang un by th' stove t' dry."

"You're very kind, Mrs. Gray," said Shad gratefully, turning to follow
Bob.

In the attic were three bunks spread with downy Hudson's Bay Company
blankets, two stools, and a small table. It contained no other
furniture, but was beautifully clean. There was an open window at
either end, one looking toward the water, the other toward the spruce
forest, and the atmosphere, bearing the perfume of balsam and fir, was
fresh and wholesome.

"I sleeps here," informed Bob, placing the candle on the table and
indicating one of the bunks, "an' you may have either o' th' other
beds you wants. Now whilst you changes, sir, I'll bring up th' things
from th' boat. Here's a pair o' deerskin moccasins. Put un on," he
added, selecting a new pair from several hanging on a peg.

Shad made his toilet leisurely, and as he turned to descend the stairs
with his wet garments on his arm he met the appetising odour of frying
fish, which reminded him that he had eaten nothing since mid-day and
was ravenously hungry.

In the room below he found the table spread with a white cloth. A
plate of bread and a jar of jam were upon it, and at the stove Mrs.
Gray was transferring from frying-pan to platter some deliciously
browned brook trout. Bob, with his father's assistance, had brought up
Shad's belongings from the boat, and Richard was critically examining
Shad's repeating rifle.

"Let me have un," said he, putting down the gun, and reaching for the
wet garments on Shad's arm proceeded at once to spread them upon a
line behind the stove.

"Set in an' have a bite, now. You must be wonderful hungry after your
cruise," invited Mrs. Gray.

"'Tis only trout an' a bit o' bread an' jam an' a drop o' tea,"
Richard apologised, as he joined Shad and Bob at the table, "but we
has t' do wi' plain eatin' in this country, an' be content with what
th' Lord sends us."

"Trout are a real luxury to me," assured Shad. "We are seldom able to
get them at home, and a trout supper is a feast to be remembered."

"Well, now! Trout a luxury!" exclaimed Richard. "About all we gets t'
eat in th' summer is trout an' salmon, an' we're glad enough when th'
birds flies in th' fall."

"What birds do you get?" asked Shad.

"Duck and geese, and there's plenty of partridge in the winter,"
explained Richard.

"An' I were thinkin', now, you might not care for un," said Mrs. Gray.
"I'm wonderful glad you likes un."

Richard asked the blessing, and then invited Shad to "fall to," and
frequently urged him to take more trout and not to be "afraid of un,"
a quite unnecessary warning in view of Shad's long fast and naturally
vigorous appetite.

"Mr. Trowbridge wants me t' go on a fortnight's trip up th' country
with he," remarked Bob, as they ate.

"A trip up th' country?" inquired Richard.

"Yes," said Shad, "a fishing and canoeing trip."

"But Bob's t' be wonderful busy makin' ready for th' trappin',"
Richard objected.

"So he tells me," said Shad, "but perhaps if we talk it over to-morrow
you can make some suggestion."

"Aye," agreed Richard, with evident relief, "we'll talk un over
to-morrow."

When the meal was finished, Richard devoutly offered thanks, after the
manner of the God-fearing folk of the country.

The mantel clock struck two as they arose from the table. Dawn was
breaking, for at this season of the year the Labrador nights are
short, and Shad, at the end of his long and eventful day, was quite
content to follow Bob above stairs to his attic bunk.



IV

AWAY TO THE TRAILS

Sunshine was streaming through the open south window of the attic when
Shad awoke. Just outside the window a jay was screeching noisily.
Bob's bunk was vacant. It was evident that Shad had slept long and
that the hour was late, and he sprang quickly from his bed and
consulted his watch, but the watch, flooded with water when the canoe
capsized the night before, had stopped.

He paused for a moment at the open window to look out upon the nearby
forest and expand his lungs with delicious draughts of the fragrant
air. It was a glorious day, and as he left the window to make a hasty
toilet his nerves tingled in eager anticipation, for he was at last at
the threshold of the great Labrador wilderness--his land of dreams and
romance. He was certain it held for him many novel experiences and
perhaps thrilling adventures. And he was not to be disappointed.

His clothes, which Richard had hung to dry by the stove the night
before, lay on a stool at his bedside, neatly folded. Some one had
placed them there while he slept. He donned them quickly, and
descending to the living-room found the table spread and Mrs. Gray
preparing to set a pot of tea to brew.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted, adding solicitously: "I hopes you
had a good rest, and feels none the worse for gettin' wet last
evenin'."

"Good morning," said Shad. "I rested splendidly, thank you, and feel
fine and dandy. Whew!" he exclaimed, glancing at the mantel clock.
"Twelve o'clock!"

"Aye. We was wonderful careful t' be quiet an' not wake you, sir," she
explained.      "'Tis well t' have plenty o' rest after a wettin' in
th' Bay. Dinner's just ready," and going to the open door she called,
"Emily! Emily!"

A young girl, perhaps twelve years of age, quickly entered in response
to the summons. She was clad in a cool, fresh print frock and wore
deerskin moccasins upon her feet. Her wavy chestnut-brown hair,
gathered with a ribbon, hung down her back; her oval face, lighted by
big blue eyes, was tanned a healthy brown, and Shad thought her a
rather pretty and altogether wholesome looking child, as she paused in
confusion at the threshold upon seeing him.

"Emily, dear, get Mr. Trowbridge a basin o' water, now; he's wantin'
t' wash up," directed Mrs. Gray. "Mr. Trowbridge, this is our little
maid, Emily."

"I'm glad to know you, Emily," said Shad courteously. "Have you quite
recovered from your injury? When I was at Fort Pelican I heard all
about you and your trip to St. Johns."

"I's fine now, thank you, sir," answered Emily, flushing to the roots
of her hair.

"Yes, Emily's fine an' well now, sir," assured Mrs. Gray, as Emily
turned to fill the basin of water. "But she were wonderful bad after
her fall till she goes t' th' hospital in St. Johns t' be cured.
They's a fresh towel on the peg above th' bench, sir, an' a comb on
th' shelf under th' mirror by th' window," she continued, as Emily
placed a basin of water on a bench by the door.

"Thank you," acknowledged Shad, turning to complete his toilet.

"Now, Emily, dear, call Father an' Bob," said Mrs. Gray; "dinner's
sot." And Emily, glad of a respite from the embarrassing presence of
the stranger, ran out, presently to return with her father and Bob.

When dinner was disposed of, Richard suggested that it was "wonderful
warm so handy t' th' stove," and leaving Mrs. Gray and Emily to clear
the table he conducted Shad and Bob to a convenient seat near the boat
landing, where they could enjoy a cooling breeze from the bay. Here he
drew from his pocket a stick of very black and very strong-looking
tobacco, and holding it toward Shad, asked:

"Does you smoke, sir?"

"No, thank you," declined Shad. "I had just learned to smoke when I
entered college, but I was trying for a place on the 'varsity nine,
and I had to drop smoking. A fellow can't play his best ball, you
know, if he smokes. So I quit smoking before I formed the habit."

"Is that a game like snowshoe racin'!" asked Bob.

"Oh, no!" and Shad described the game and its tactics minutely, with
thrilling detail of battles that his college nine had won and lost
upon the diamond.

"Well, Bob," Shad asked finally, "have you decided to go with me for a
trip into the country?"

"I'm not rightly knowin', sir, where you wants t' go," said Bob.

Shad stated the object of his journey, and the three talked over the
possibilities of making such a trip as he desired within the time at
Bob's disposal.

"Countin' on bad weather, 'twouldn't be much of a trip you could make
in a fortnut, and that'd be th' most time Bob could spare, whatever,
with his gettin' ready t' go t' th' trails," Richard finally
explained. "His mother an' me be wantin' he home, too, till he goes,
for 'twill be a long winter for his mother t' have he away without
seein' he.

"Now you says you has no hurry t' go away. Dick Blake an' Bill
Campbell goes t' th' handiest tilt o' th' Big Hill trail t' help Bob
an' Ed Matheson in with their outfit, an' they starts th' first o'
August. Then they comes back t' take their outfits up an' they has t'
get in before freeze up.

"You bein' in no hurry, sir, could go with un on th' first trip, an'
come back with un, an' that gives you a fine trip an' a fine view o'
th' country. It takes un a month t' go in, but runnin' back light wi'
th' rapids they makes un in a week, so you gets back th' first week in
September month."

"'Twould be grand t' have you along, sir!" exclaimed Bob. "An' I were
never thinkin' o' that. Father's wonderful at plannin'."

"Done!" said Shad. "I'll do it, but I hope you won't find me a
nuisance around here during the three weeks we have to wait."

"Oh, no, sir! 'Tis a rare treat t' have you visit us, sir!" protested
Richard.

And thus it was finally decided.

Bob was very busy during the days that followed. Not only his
provision and clothing supply for a ten months' absence from home was
to be made ready, but also the full equipment for the new trails to be
established.

The necessary traps had already been purchased, but sheet-iron had to
be fashioned into stoves and stove-pipe to heat the tents and log
tilts, and one new tent was to be made. It was imperative, too, that
each minor necessity that the wilderness itself could not readily
supply, he provided in advance, and that nothing be forgotten or
overlooked.

The establishment of these trails was an event of high importance in
the Gray household. Bob's little fortune of a few thousand dollars,
derived from the salvage of a trading schooner the previous year, had
been deposited in a St. Johns bank, and his thrifty old friend,
Douglas Campbell, had suggested that it might be invested to advantage
in a small trading venture.

"Bob can lay his trails this winter," said Douglas, "an' next year
take some tradin' goods in. Knowin' th' Nascaupee an' Mountaineer
Injuns, an' a bit o' their lingo, he'll be able t' do a snug bit o'
tradin' with un, along with his trappin'. An' if you opens a little
store here at th' Bight next summer, th' rest of you can 'tend un when
Bob's inside trappin'.

"I were thinkin', too," said Douglas, "'twould be fine t' send Emily
t' St. Johns t' school th' winter, an' she'd learn t' keep th' books.
She's a smart lass, an' she'd learn, now, in a winter or two winters,
whatever, an' 'twould pay--an' do th' lass a wonderful lot o' good.
I'm wantin' a trip t' St. Johns, an' I'd take she on th' mail boat."

There were many long discussions before it was finally decided that
Bob should launch upon the venture. Bob's mother opposed it. The
terrible winter of suspense when Bob, lost in the snow, was given up
for dead, was still a vivid remembrance to her. She recalled those
tedious months of grief as one recalls a horrid nightmare, and she
declared that another such winter, particularly if she were to be
deprived of Emily's society, would be unendurable.

But her objections were finally overcome. Emily was to go to school
and it was decided Bob should establish two new trails. One of these
he was to hunt himself, the other one Ed Matheson had agreed to hunt
on a profit-sharing basis. Dick Blake and Bill Campbell--a son of
Douglas Campbell--were to occupy adjoining trails, and the four to
work more or less in conjunction with one another.

Shad and Emily became fast friends at once. On pleasant afternoons she
would lead him away to explore the surrounding woods in search of wild
flowers, and after supper he would tell her fairy tales from Grimm,
but best of all she liked his stories from Greek and Roman mythology.

She, and the whole family, indeed, listened with rapt attention when
Shad related how Chronos attacked Uranos with a sickle, wounding and
driving Uranos from his throne; how from some of the drops that fell
from Uranos's wounds sprang giants, the forefathers of the wild
Indians; how from still other drops came the swift-footed Furies--the
three Erinnyes--who punished those who did wrong, and were the dread
of the wicked.

Thus the days passed quickly and pleasantly--even the occasional foggy
or rainy days, when Bob and his father worked indoors, and Bob, at
Emily's request, recounted very modestly his own adventures. Emily
particularly liked to have Bob tell of Ma-ni-ka-wan, an Indian maiden
who nursed him back to health after Sish-e-ta-ku-shin and
Moo-koo-mahn, Manikawan's father and brother, had found him
unconscious in the snow and carried him to their skin wigwam.

"Th' Nascaupees was rare kind t' me," Bob explained to Shad. "They
made me one o' th' tribe, Sishetakushin calls me his son, an' they
gives me an Indian name meanin' in our talk 'White Brother o' th'
Snow.' They were thinkin' I'd stop with un, an' they were wonderful
sorry when I leaves un t' come home with th' huskies. Manikawan were a
pretty maid--as pretty as ever I see."

"Were she as pretty as Bessie, now?" asked Emily slyly.

"Now, Emily, dear, don't go teasin' Bob," warned Mrs. Gray.

"I were just askin' he," said Emily; "he's so wonderful fond o'
Bessie."

"O' course he's fond o' Bessie, and so be all of us. Emily's speakin'
o' Bessie Black, sir," Mrs. Gray explained, to Shad. "She's Tom
Black's lass. Tom is th' factor's man over t' th' post, an' th' Blacks
be great friends of ours. Bessie's but a young maid--a year younger'n
Bob. You'll see th' Blacks when you goes over t' th' post with Bob."

"I'm immensely interested in your Indian friends," said Shad.
"Manikawan was a little brick, and the Nascaupees bully good fellows.
Will there be a chance of my meeting them?"

"No, they camps on lakes down t' th' n'uth'ard in summer," Bob
explained. "If you was stayin' th' winter, now, you'd see un."

"I'm almost persuaded to remain on the trails with you all winter, and
see something of the life of real, uncivilised Indians," asserted
Shad. "I would stay if it were not for college."

"'Twould be fine t' have you, now!" exclaimed Bob enthusiastically.
"But," he added doubtfully, "I'm fearin' you'd find th' winter
wonderful cold, an' th' tilts lonesome places t' stop in, not bein'
used to un."

"An' your mother would be worryin' about you; now, wouldn't she?"
suggested Mrs. Gray.

"My mother died when I was a little boy, and Father died two years
ago," said Shad. "I have one sister, but she learned long ago that I
could take care of myself."

"Is she a little sister?" asked Emily.

"Oh, no," said Shad, "she's a big, married sister, and has a little
girl of her own nearly as old as you are."

"'Twould be grand t' have you stay," Bob again suggested.

"Thank you, and it would be grand to stay, I'm sure, but," said Shad
regretfully, "I can't do it. I must go back to college."

At length Bob announced one day that his outfit was completed and that
all was in readiness, save a few incidentals to be purchased at the
Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, fifteen miles across the bay.
Shad, too, found it necessary to make some purchases preparatory to
his journey to the interior, and the following morning the two sailed
away in Bob's dory.

Tom Black, the post servant, welcomed them as they stepped ashore on
the sandy beach below the post, and with him was Bob's old friend,
Douglas Campbell, who stated that he had arrived at the post an hour
earlier.

"I'm glad you come over, Bob," said he, as the four walked up toward
Black's cabin. "When I comes t' th' post this mornin', I were thinkin'
t' go back t' Kenemish by way of Wolf Bight t' have a talk with you,
but your comin' saves me th' cruise. Set down here, now, a bit, till
dinner's ready. I wants t' hear your plans for th' trails."

And while Shad was carried off by Tom to meet Mr. McDonald, the
factor, Douglas and Bob seated themselves upon a bench before the
cabin and discussed the proposed new trails.

"Now, Bob, 'tis this I were wantin' t' say to you, an' I weren't
wantin' t' say it when your mother'd hear, an' set her worryn'," said
Douglas finally. "Don't forget you're goin' where no white trapper was
ever goin' before. You'll have to be a wonderful sight more careful
than on th' Big Hill trail. Last year when I goes on th' Big Hill
trail some Mingen Injuns come t' th' last tilt an' made some trouble,
an' told me they'd never let a white trapper hunt th' country beyond
th' Big Hill trail, an' you plans t' go, Bob. Now, if you works
west'ard of a line from th' last tilt o' th' Big Hill trail an' th'
river, be wonderful careful o' th' Mingens. They's a bad lot of
Injuns."

"I'll be careful, sir," promised Bob, adding, however, "I'm not
fearin' th' Injuns, though."

"You never knows what an Injun's goin' t' do," cautioned Douglas. "You
was findin' th' Nascaupees friendly, but th' Mingens is different."

Presently Tom joined them and invited them to dinner in the crudely
furnished but spotlessly clean living-room of the cabin. Mrs. Black, a
stout, motherly woman, had countless questions to ask of Douglas and
Bob as to how "th' folks t' home" fared, while she and her daughter
Bessie served the meal.

Shad dined with Mr. McDonald, but directly after dinner joined Bob
while they made their purchases in the shop, and prepared for
immediate departure to Wolf Bight. When all was ready, Bob left Shad
waiting at the boat while he returned to the cabin to say goodbye to
Mrs. Black and Bessie.

Bessie followed him to the door, and when they were outside where none
could see she drew from beneath her apron a buckskin cartridge pouch,
upon which she had neatly worked in silk the word "BOB" in the centre
of a floral design, doubtless the result of many days' labour.

"Here, Bob," said she, "I were makin' it for you, an' when you carries
it on th' trail remember we're all thinkin' of you down here, an'
wishin' you luck in th' furrin', an' hopin' you're safe."

"Oh!--Bessie--'tis--'tis wonderful kind of you--I'll always be
rememberin'," Bob stammered in acceptance, for a moment quite overcome
with surprise and embarrassment.

"Now take care of yourself, Bob. We'll be missin' you th'
winter--good-bye, Bob."

"Good-bye, Bessie."

Bob and Shad quickly hoisted sail, and as they drew away from shore
Bob looked back to see Bessie still standing in the cabin door, waving
her handkerchief to him, and he regretted that he had not shown more
plainly his appreciation of her gift and her thoughtfulness.

The following Monday was the day set for the departure of the
adventurers, and in accordance with a previous arrangement, late on
Sunday afternoon Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell, Ungava
Bob's trapping companions, joined him and Shad at Wolf Bight, where
they were to spend the night. Bill Campbell was a tall, awkward,
bashful young man of twenty-one, whose chief physical characteristic
was a great shock of curly red hair.

Monday morning came all too soon. Breakfast was eaten by candle light,
and with the first grey hints of coming dawn the boat and Shad's canoe
were loaded for the start.

Shad's tent and camping equipment, less heavy and cumbersome than
Bob's, together with a limited supply of provisions for daily use upon
the journey to the plateau, were carried in the canoe. The bulk of the
provisions and the heavier outfit for the trails, made up into easily
portaged packs, were stowed in the boat. This arrangement of the
outfit was made to avoid the necessity of unpacking and repacking at
night camp, and with packs thus always ready for the carry, much time
could be saved.

The family gathered at the shore to bid the travellers farewell.
First, the boat with Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell at the
oars pulled off into the curtain of heavy morning mist that lay upon
the waters. Then Bob kissed his mother and Emily, pressed his father's
hand, took his place in the canoe with Shad, and a moment later they,
too, were swallowed up by the fog.

The long journey, to be followed by a winter of hardship and
adventure, was begun, and with heavy hearts the little family upon the
shore turned back to their lowly cabin and weary months of misgiving
and uncertainty.



V

IN THE FAR WILDERNESS

Beyond the sheltered bight a good breeze was blowing and presently, as
the sun arose and the mist lifted from the water, Shad and Bob,
keeping close to shore, discovered the boat a half-mile away with
sails hoisted, bowling along at good speed.

"We'll be makin' rare time, now," said Bob. "We'll be passin' Rabbit
Island in an hour, an' makin' the Traverspine t' boil th' kettle for
dinner."

"No rapids to-day?" asked Shad.

"No, th' portage at Muskrat Falls is th' first," answered Bob, adding
uncertainly: "I'm 'feared you'll find th' work on th' river wearisome,
not bein' used t' un--th' portagin' an' trackin'. I finds un hard."

"That's a part of the game," said Shad. "I expect to do my share of
the work, old man, and I don't think you'll find me a quitter."

"I were knowin', now, you were that kind, ever since I picks you out
o' th' Bay," exclaimed Bob. "You weren't losin' your head, an' by th'
time I h'ists sail you was wringin' th' water outen your shirt, just
as if 'tweren't nothin'. An', Mr. Trowbridge, I likes you ever since."

"Thank you, Bob, but if you want me to be your friend drop the handle
from my name and call me 'Shad.' We're on an equal footing from this
on."

"'Twill be wonderful hard, Mr. Trow--"

"Shad!"

"'Twill be wonderful hard t' call you 'Shad '--it sounds kind of
unrespectful, now."

"Not in the least," laughed Shad. "All the fellows call me Shad."

"I'll try t' think now t' do it, Mr.--I means Shad. But 'tis a rare
queer name."

"Shadrach is the full name. It is pretty awful, isn't it? But doting
parents cast it upon me, and I'll have to hold my head up under it."

"'Tis a Bible name, now. I remembers readin' about Shadrach somewheres
in th' Book o' Daniel."

The canoe and boat had been gradually drawing together and now, within
speaking distance, Bob called out:

"I'm thinkin' me an' Shad'll go on t' th' Traverspine or handy t' un,
an' have th' kettle boiled when you comes up. We ought t' make clost
t' th' Traverspine by noon."

"You an' who?" bawled Dick.

"Me an' Shad--Mr. Trowbridge."

"Oh, aye," answered Dick, "'twill save time."

"Bob's gettin' wonderful unrespectful, callin' Mr. Toobridge 'Shad!'"
remarked Ed.

"'Tain't 'Toobridge,' Ed!" exclaimed Dick, in disgust. "Can't you
remember, now? 'Tis Towbreg--T-o-w-b-r-e-g. You'll be callin' he wrong
t' his face again."

"I'm thinkin' you be right this time, Dick," Ed reluctantly admitted.

The lighter and swifter canoe had already shot ahead and was out of
hearing. Bob's mind filled with plans for the future, Shad enjoying
the wide vista of water and wilderness, they paddled in silence.

The brilliant sunshine, the low, rocky shores, the spruce-clad hills
rising above, with now and again a breath of the perfumed forest
wafted to them upon the breeze, inspired and exhilarated the young
voyageurs. Shad was conscious of a new sense of freedom and power
taking possession of him. The romance of the situation appealed to his
imagination. Was he not one of an adventurous band of pioneers going
into a vast wilderness, an untamed and unexplored land, to battle with
nature and the elements?

For several hours they paddled, finally entering the wide river mouth.
Here the first indication of a current was encountered, and the
northern bank was followed closely that they might take advantage of
counter eddies, and thus overcome the retarding effect of the
midstream current.

"'Twill be noon when th' boat comes, an' we'll stop now t' boil th'
kettle," Bob finally suggested. "Th' Traverspine River is handy by.
She comes into this river just above here a bit."

"Good!" exclaimed Shad. "I'm nearly famished, and I've been hoping for
the last hour to hear you say that."

"Paddlin' do make for hunger," admitted Bob, as he stepped ashore on a
sandy beach near the mouth of a rushing brook. "I'm a bit hungry
myself. I'll be puttin' a fire on now, an' you brings up th' things
from th' canoe."

In an incredibly short time the fire was lighted, and when Shad
brought up a kettle of water from the river Bob had already cut a
stiff pole about five feet in length. The butt end of this he
sharpened, and, jamming it into the ground, inclined it in such manner
that the kettle, which he took from Shad and hung by its bail upon the
other end of the pole, was suspended directly over the blaze.

Bob, who installed himself as cook, now sliced some fat pork to fry,
while Shad gathered a quantity of large dry sticks which lay
plentifully about and began piling them upon the fire.

"Oh, don't make such a big fire, now!" exclaimed Bob, when he
discovered what Shad was about. "'Twill be too hot t' cook by. A small
bit o' fire's enough;" and he proceeded to pull out of the blaze the
large wood which Shad had placed upon it.

[Illustration: Two boys cooking over a campfire.]

"If there's nothing else for me to do, I'll see if there are any trout
in that brook," said Shad.

Shad made his first cast in a promising pool a little way from the
fire, and the moment the fly touched the water, "zip!" went the reel.
The result was a fine big trout. Within twenty minutes he had landed
eighteen, and when presently the boat drew up a delicious odour of
frying fish welcomed the three hungry men as they sprang ashore and
made the painter fast.

"Shad got un," explained Bob, in response to an exclamation of
pleasure from Ed.

"You means Mr. Towbridge, Bob," corrected Dick, with dignity.

"No," broke in Shad, "Bob's right. Shad is my front name and I want
you fellows to call me Shad; leave the handle off."

"An' you wants, sir," agreed Dick. "'Tis a bit more friendly
soundin'."

"Them trout makes me think," said Ed, as he cut some tobacco from a
plug and filled his pipe after dinner, "of onct I were out huntin'
pa'tridges. I gets plenty o' pa'tridges, but I finds myself wonderful
hungry for trout, when I comes to a pool in a brook where I stops t'
cook my dinner an' sees a big un jump.

"'Now,' says I, t' myself, 'Ed,' says I, 'you got t' get un somehow,'
an' I goes through my pocket lookin' for tackle. All I finds is a
piece o' salmon twine an' one fishhook. 'I'll try un, whatever,' says
I, an' I cuts a pole an' ties th' salmon twine t' un, an' th' hook t'
th' salmon twine, an,' baitin' th' hook with a bit o' pa'tridge skin,
throws in.

"Quicker'n a steel trap a trout takes un, but he's a little un, an'
I'm so disgusted-like I don't pull he right in. Then before I knows it
a big trout takes an' swallows th' little un."

Ed paused to lend effect to the climax, while he lighted his pipe and
began puffing vigorously.

"Well?" asked Shad. "Did you land him?"

"Not very prompt," continued Ed. "I was so flustrated I just looks at
un for a bit, skiddin' around in th' water. Then, while I lets un
play, quicker'n I can say 'boo' an old whopper up an' grabs th' big un
an' swallows he. Then I yanks, an' I lands th' three of un.

"Th' outside un were two foot and a half long an' a fraction over. I
measures he. Th' next one were nineteen an' three-quarters inches
long, an' th' little un were ten inches long. Th' little un an' th'
next weren't hurt much, an' not wantin' they I throws un back, an' th'
big un does me for dinner an' supper an' breakfast th' next mornin',
an' then I throws a big hunk that were left over away, because I don't
want t' pack un any longer."

"Ed," said Dick solemnly, "you'll be struck dead some day for lyin'
so."

"Who? Me lyin'?" asked Ed, with assumed indignation.

"Yes, you. You'm always yarnin', Ed. You never seen a trout moren't
two foot long, no more'n I have," declared Dick.

"Oh, well," sighed Ed, while the others laughed, "they's no use
tellin' you of happenin's, Dick, you always were a doubtin' o' me."

The following day at noon the Muskrat Falls were reached, and here the
real work and hardship of the journey began. Day after day the men
were driven to toil with tracking lines up swift currents, more often
than not immersed to their waists in the icy waters of the river, or
for weary miles they staggered over portages with heavy loads upon
their backs. To add to their difficulties a season of rain set in, and
hardly a day passed without its hours of drizzle or downpour. But they
could not permit rain or weather to retard their progress.

Always between sunrise and sunset they were tormented, too, by myriads
of black flies and mosquitoes, the pests of the North. There was no
protection against the attacks of the insects. The black flies were
particularly vicious; not only was their bite poisonous, but a drop of
blood appeared wherever one of them made a wound, and in consequence
the faces, hands, and wrists of the toiling voyageurs were not alone
constantly swollen, but were coated with a mixture of blood and sweat.

Shad, less toughened than his companions, suffered more than they. He
was actually made ill for a day or two by the poison thus inoculated
into his system, though with his characteristic determination, he
still insisted, against the protests of the others, upon doing his
full share of the work. Dick advised him, finally, to carry a fat pork
rind in his pocket and to occasionally apply the greasy side of the
rind to his face and hands. This he discovered offered some relief,
though, as he remarked, grease, added to blood and sweat, gave him the
appearance of a painted savage.

With the evening camp-fire, however, came a respite to the weary
travellers, and recompense for all the hardship and toil of the day.
Here they would relax after supper, and with vast enjoyment smoke and
chat or tell stories of wild adventure.

Shad contributed tales of college pranks, which never failed to bring
forth uproarious laughter, while his vivid descriptions of battles on
the gridiron or on the diamond, illustrated with diagrams drawn with a
stick upon the ground, and minutely explained, held his hearers in
suspense until the final goal was kicked or the last inning played.

Dick and Ed described many stirring personal adventures, the latter
embellishing his stories with so many fantastic flights of imagination
that Shad would scarcely have known where fact ended and fiction began
had Dick not made it a point to interject his warnings of the eternal
vengeance that awaited Ed if he did not "have a care of his yamin'."

One morning during the third week after leaving Wolf Bight, a
beautiful sheet of placid water opened before them in a far-reaching
vista to the northwest. On either side of the narrow lake rose
towering cliffs of granite, their dark faces lighted at intervals by
brooklets tumbling in cascades from the heights above. A loon laughed
weirdly in the distance, and from the hills above a wolf sounded a
dismal howl. It was a scene of rugged, primeval grandeur, and Shad,
taken completely by surprise, caught his breath.

"'Tis Lake Wanakapow," explained Ed. "There'll be no more trackin' or
portagin'. 'Twill be straight sailin' an' paddlin' from this on. Th'
first tilt o' th' Big Hill trail's handy, an' if th' wind holds fair
we'll reach un by th' end o' th' week, whatever."

For the first time since their departure the voyageurs were enabled to
don dry clothing, with the assurance that they could remain dry and
comfortable throughout the day. The evenings were becoming frosty and
exhilarating. The black flies and mosquitoes had ceased to annoy. Wild
geese and ducks upon the waters, and flocks of ptarmigans along the
shores, gave promise of an abundance and variety of food.

With the changed conditions, in marked contrast to the toil and
hardships of the preceding weeks, Shad's desire to remain throughout
the winter grew. The lure of the wilderness had its power upon him.

The first tilt of the Big Hill trail was reached on Saturday, as Ed
had predicted. Here camp was pitched, the boat finally unloaded, and
preparation made for Dick and Bill to begin their return voyage on
Monday morning.

When supper was eaten and they were gathered about the evening
camp-fire in blissful relaxation, silently watching the aurora
borealis work its wild wonders in the sky, Shad suddenly asked:

"Are you certain, Bob, I'd not be a burden to you if I remained here
all winter, You know, I'm a tenderfoot in the woods."

"Oh, no!" Bob assured enthusiastically. "You'd be no burden! An' when
your feet gets tender you can bide in th' tilt an' rest un."

"I don't mean that my feet are tender in that way," laughed Shad, "but
I'm a novice in woodcraft and I've never done any trapping. You'd have
to teach me a great deal about these things, and I don't want to stay
if I'll hinder your work in the least."

"Oh, you'd never be hinderin' th' work! An' you'd be a wonderful lot
o' company, whatever! I hopes you'll stay, Shad!"

"Thank you, Bob. I'll stay. It will put me back a whole year in
college, but I'll stay anyhow. My experience with you will be worth
the sacrifice of a year in college, I'm sure."

"Now that be grand!" exclaimed Bob, his face beaming pleasure.

"An' Shad stays, Ed, he'll give Bob a hand with th' tilts," suggested
Dick. "Can't you go back, now, with me an' Bill, t' help us up with
our outfits? 'Twill be a wonderful hard an' slow pull for just th' two
of us."

"Be you thinkin', now, you can manage th' tilts?" asked Ed, turning to
Bob.

"O' course me an' Shad can manage un," assured Bob.

"I'll go back, then, Dick," consented Ed. "'Twould be hard t' manage
with just two on th' boat."

Arrangements were made for the three trappers to bring Shad some
adequate winter clothing upon their return, letters were written home,
and at daylight on Monday morning adieus were said. Bob and Shad stood
upon the shore watching the boat bearing their friends away, until it
turned a bend in the river below and was lost to view.

"We'll not see un again for five weeks," said Bob regretfully, as they
retraced their steps to the embers of the camp-fire over which
breakfast had been cooked.

"And in the meantime," began Shad gaily, with a sweep of his arm, "we
are monarch, of all--" Suddenly he stopped. His eyes, following the
sweep of his arm, had fallen upon two Indians watching them from the
shadow of the spruce trees beyond their camp.



VI

OLD FRIENDS

"Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn!" exclaimed Bob.

The moment they were recognised the two Indians strode forward,
laughing, and grasped Bob's hand in a manner that left no doubt of
their pleasure at meeting him, while both voiced their feeling in a
torrent of tumultuous words.

They were tall, lithe, sinewy fellows, clad in buckskin shirt,
tight-fitting buckskin leggings, and moccasins. They wore no hats, but
a band of buckskin, decorated in colours, passing around the forehead,
held in subjection the long black hair, which fell nearly to their
shoulders. In the hollow of his left arm each carried a long,
muzzle-loading trade gun, and Mookoomahn, the younger of the two, also
carried at his back a bow and a quiver of arrows.

"These be th' Injuns I were tellin' you of," Bob finally introduced,
when an opportunity offered. "Shake hands with un, Shad. This un is
Sishetakushin, an' this un is his son, Mookoomahn. I've been tellin'
they you're my friend."

In their attitude toward Shad they were dignified and reserved.
Neither could speak English, and Bob, who had a fair mastery of the
Indian tongue, interpreted.

"We are glad to meet the friend of White Brother of the Snow," said
Sishetakushin, acting as spokesman. "We welcome him to our country.
White Brother of the Snow tells us he will remain for many moons. He
will visit our lodge with White Brother of the Snow and eat our meat.
He will be welcome."

"I thank you," responded Shad. "'White Brother of the Snow has told me
how kind you were to him when he was in trouble, and it is a great
pleasure to meet you. I will certainly visit your lodge with him and
eat your meat."

The ceremony of introduction completed, Bob renewed the fire and
brewed a kettle of tea for his visitors. They drank it greedily, and
at a temperature that would have scalded a white man's throat.

"They's wonderful fond o' tea, and tobacco, too," explained Bob, "an'
they only gets un when they goes t' Ungava onct or twict a year."

Upon Bob's suggestion that, should they meet Indians, it would prove
an acceptable gift, Shad had purchased at the post and brought with
him a bountiful supply of black plug tobacco, such as the natives
used, and with this hint from Bob he gave each of the Indians a
half-dozen plugs. The swarthy faces and black eyes of the visitors
lighted with pleasure, and from that moment much of the reserve that
they had hitherto maintained toward him vanished.

"The friend of White Brother of the Snow is generous," said
Sishetakushin, in accepting the tobacco. "For four moons we have had
nothing to smoke but dried leaves and the bark of the red willow."

Each Indian carried at his belt a pipe, the bowl fashioned from soft,
red pipe stone, the stem a hollow spruce stick. Squatting upon their
haunches before the fire, they at once filled their pipes with
tobacco, lighted them with coals from the fire, and blissfully puffed
in silence for several minutes.

"How are Manikawan and her mother?" Bob presently inquired.

"The mother is well, but the maiden has grieved long because White
Brother of the Snow never returns," answered Sishetakushin. "She
watches for him when the Spirit of the Wind speaks in the tree-tops.
She watches when the moon is bright and the shadow spirits are abroad.
She watches when the evil spirits of the storm are raging in fury
through the forest. She watches always, and is sad. Young men have
sought her hand to wife, but she has denied them. White Brother of the
Snow will return. He will come again to our lodge, and the maiden will
be joyful."

Shad was unable to understand a word of this, but Bob's face told him
plainly that something not altogether pleasant to the lad had been
said.

"I cannot go now," said Bob, speaking in the Indian tongue. "We must
build our lodges and lay our trails. Winter will soon be upon us and
we must have the lodges built before the Frost Spirit freezes the
earth."

"Sishetakushin's lodge is always open to White Brother of the Snow. It
is pitched upon the shores of the Great Lake, two-days' journey to
the northward. The trail is plain. It lies through two lakes and along
water running to the Great Lake. The maiden is waiting for White
Brother of the Snow. He was made one of our people. He is welcome."

[Footnote: Lake Michikamau, the Great Lake of the Indians, situated on
the Labrador plateau.]

The Indians had risen to go, and Bob presented them with a package of
tea, as a parting gift, which they accepted.

"White Brother of the Snow will come to our lodge soon and bring with
him his friend," said Sishetakushin, in accepting the tea, and he and
Mookoomahn, like shadows, disappeared into the forest.

"Injuns be queer folk, but they were good friends t' me when I were
needin' friends," said Bob, when the Indians were gone.



VII

WHERE THE EVIL SPIRITS DWELL

From the river tilt, as they called it, where their camp was pitched,
the Big Hill trail led to the northwest for fifteen miles, then
fifteen miles to the westward, where it took a sharp turn to the
northward, in which direction it continued for nearly thirty miles,
then again swung to the westward for fifteen miles, where it
terminated on the shores of a small lake. This was the trail
previously hunted by Bob.

Douglas Campbell had visited the Big Hill trail the preceding winter,
but had not remained to hunt, and it had therefore been unoccupied
during the winter. For the season at hand it had been transferred to
Dick Blake, while Dick's own trail, farther down the river, was to
remain untenanted, and the animals given an opportunity to increase.
Directly below the Big Hill trail and adjoining it was Bill Campbell's
trail.

Bob had been informed by Mountaineer Indians who camped during a
portion of each summer near the Eskimo Bay post, that by following a
stream flowing into the river a short distance above the river tilt of
the Big Hill trail, and taking a west-northwesterly direction, he
would find a series of lakes running almost parallel with the river,
and lying between the river and the Big Hill trail.

Tradition said that this stream and series of lakes had at one time
been an Indian portage route around the Great Falls of the Grand
River, but for many years it had been generally avoided by Indians
because of its proximity to the falls, which were supposed to be the
abode of evil spirits, a superstition doubtless arising from the fact
that Indian canoes may have been caught in the current above the falls
and carried to destruction below; and because of the impression and
awful aspect of the falls themselves, whose thunderous roar may be
heard for many miles, echoing through the solitudes.

From the fact that this region had but rarely been traversed, and had
certainly not been hunted by Indians for many generations, and that
the animals within the considerable territory which it embraced had
therefore been permitted to increase undisturbed by man, Bob argued
that it must of necessity prove a rich trapping ground for the first
who ventured to invade it. It was here, then, that he purposed
establishing his first trapping trail.

The first step to be taken was to make a survey of the region, and
with a quantity of steel traps, a limited supply of provisions, and
Shad's light tent, the two young adventurers set forward in the canoe
upon their scouting journey within the hour after Sishetakushin and
Mookoomahn had left them.

A long portage and the ascent of a stream for several miles carried
them that evening to the first of the series of lakes, where Bob's
trained eye soon discovered unquestionable signs of an abundance of
fur-bearing animals, sustaining his hope that the ground would be
found virgin and profitable territory.

Their camp was pitched by the lake shore. At their back lay the dark
forest, before them spread the shimmering lake, and to the westward a
high hill lifted its barren peak of weather-beaten, storm-scoured
rocks.

The atmosphere became cool as evening approached, and when supper was
disposed of the fire was renewed, and, weary with their day's work,
they reclined before its genial blaze to watch the sun go down in an
effulgence of glory and colour.

Neither spoke until the colours were well-nigh faded, and the first
stars twinkled faintly above.

"The most glorious sunset I ever beheld," remarked Shad finally,
breaking the silence.

"'Twere fine!" admitted Bob. "We sees un often in here, this time o'
year. They makes me think o' what the Bible says th' holy place in th'
temple was t' be like--'A veil o' blue an' purple an' scarlet.' I'm
wonderin', now, if th' Lard weren't makin' these sunsets just t' show
what th' holy place be like, an' t' keep us from forgettin' un. I'm
wonderin' if 'tisn't a bit o' th' holy place in th' temple o' Heaven,
th' Lard's showin' us in them sunsets."

"I don't know," said Shad; "I don't remember it. I must confess I
never read my Bible very much."

"I'll read un to you from my Bible when day comes," promised Bob.

Presently the aurora borealis flashed up upon the sky with the effect
of a thousand powerful searchlights, the long fingers of light rising
from the northern horizon to the zenith and flashing from east to west
in a maze of every-changing colour--now white--now red--now yellow. It
was a scene not only beautiful, but weird and awe-inspiring.

"I'm thinkin', now, o' th' northern lights," remarked Bob, when they
had watched them for some time, "that they's flashes o' light from
heaven. I'm thinkin' th' Lard sends un t' give us promise o' th'
glories we'll have when we dies."

"That is a cheerful thought, at least," admitted Shad.

"Yes, 'tis cheerin'. Leastways, they always cheers me when I see un,"
declared Bob.

"Whenever I see them after this," said Shad, "I shall remember your
suggestion--that they are the reflected glory of heaven, sent to
inspire the dwellers upon earth."

As they arose to retire to their tent the dead silence of the
wilderness was startled by the uncanny cry of a loon. Bob stood for a
moment and listened. Then, turning to the tent, he remarked:

"'Tis a bad sign, when a loon laughs at night like that!"

"In what way?" asked Shad.

"'Tis said t' be a warnin' o' danger an' trouble."

In a series of portages from lake to lake they passed the next day
through six lakes of varying size, caching traps now and again at
convenient points for future use.

All the afternoon a low, rumbling sound was to be heard. Time and
again they halted to listen. It was a changeless, sullen, muffled
roar. Finally, when they reached the sixth  lake, later in the
afternoon, their curiosity got the better of them and they climbed a
barren eminence to investigate. As they neared the summit the roar
increased in volume, and when they reached the top and looked to the
southward they beheld a cloud of vapour.

"'Tis th' Great Falls o' th' Injuns!" exclaimed Bob.

"Where the evil spirits dwell?" asked Shad.

"Aye, where th' evil spirits dwell." Around them lay a rugged scene of
sub-Arctic grandeur. To the eastward the country was dotted with a
network of small lakes similar to those through which they had been
travelling, while to the northward a much larger lake appeared. The
shores of these lakes supported a forest of black spruce, but every
rise of ground was destitute of other growth than the gray caribou
lichen which everywhere carpets the Labrador forest.

"There's a grand chance t' lay th' trails," said Bob. "We'll be makin'
our trails along th' s'uth'ard lakes an' up t' that big lake, an' Ed's
among th' lakes t' th' n'uth'ard."

"I'd like to see those falls," suggested Shad. "Can't we take the
morning off to visit them?"

"An' you wants," agreed Bob. "We'll be buildin' a tilt down where th'
canoe is, an'  another on th' first lake, an' I'm thinkin' another on
th' big lake above."

Accordingly the following morning, leaving their camp pitched and
their canoe on the lake shore, they turned southward upon an exploring
expedition. Their tramp carried them across a series of ridges and
bogs and finally into a forest. With every step the roar increased,
and at length they could plainly feel the earth tremble beneath their
feet.

Suddenly they emerged from the forest to behold a scene of wild and
sublime grandeur. They stood at the very brink of a mighty chasm. From
far above them the river rushed down, a stupendous torrent of
foam-crested billows and swirling whirlpools, impatient to make its
leap into the depths at their feet where it was presently to be
swallowed up in a bank of mist, which shimmered beneath the two
adventurers like a giant opal lighted by all the colours of the
rainbow. Below the rainbow-coloured mist the river again appeared,
rushing in fearful power past beetling, frowning cliffs, which
directly hid it from view. The very rocks upon which they stood
trembled, and a reverberating roar rose from the canyon at their feet,
so loud that conversation was well-nigh impossible.

[Footnote: These are the Grand Falls of Labrador. The river falls
three hundred and sixteen feet with a single leap.]

For half an hour they stood enthralled by the scene, then they turned
up the river, walking along its bank.

"'Tis an awful place down there," remarked Bob. "I'm not wonderin',
now, th' Injuns thinks 'tis possessed by evil spirits."

"It is the most sublime scene I ever beheld," declared Shad. "One
glimpse of it is worth all the trouble we've had in getting here."

The river gradually widened, but always with a strong current, even
above the heavy white rapids, until some five miles above the falls it
expanded into a large island-dotted lake. At the extreme lower end of
this lake the old Indian portage trail was discovered, and following
it the explorers late in the day reached their camp.

The following weeks were devoted to the erection of tilts--small log
cabins to be used in winter as shelter. One was established well up
the shores of the large lake expansion above the falls, another upon
the shores of the lake from which they had made their excursion to the
falls, and still another upon the first lake above the river tilt of
the Big Hill trail, while to the northward near other lakes four other
tilts were erected, at convenient distances apart, for Ed's use.

These tilts were all constructed upon the same general plan. They were
on an average about eight by ten feet in size, with a slightly sloping
roof so low in the rear Bob could scarcely stand erect.

The chinks between the logs were filled with caribou moss. The roof
logs were covered with boughs, over which was spread first a blanket
of moss and then a coating of six inches of earth. Each was provided
with a doorway about four feet in height and two and a half feet wide,
which was fitted with a door constructed of lashed saplings covered
with bark.

Within, a platform of flat stones was arranged to accommodate the
sheet-iron stove, with a stove-pipe hole through the roof directly
over it.

Long, springy saplings were utilised in erecting bunks at the rear and
along the side of the tilt opposite the stove. These were later to be
covered with spruce boughs, and would serve both as beds and seats,
and were elevated some eighteen inches above the earth floor.

"They'll be warm an' snug," said Bob. "When frosty weather an' winter
comes th' snow soon banks un up an' covers un up, roof and all, and
makes un good an' tight."

"But how do you get air enough to breathe?" asked Shad.

"Th' stove-pipe hole is made plenty big," explained Bob, "an' that
lets th' bad air out, an' we mostly has a snow tunnel leadin' t' th'
door so th' wind won't strike in, an' leavin' th' door off, th' good
air comes in."

Nearly four weeks had been consumed in this work, and without waiting
for the reappearance of their friends they began at once the
distribution of supplies among the tilts, for September was nearly
spent and winter would be upon them by mid-October, when ice in the
lakes would render the canoe useless.

Therefore, with all haste they proceeded with their first canoe-load
of provisions to the farthest tilt, built upon the shores of the lake
expansion above the falls.

It was mid-forenoon of a beautiful, transparent September day when
they reached the tilt. The supplies were quickly stowed beneath the
bunks, the tent stove erected, and, halting only long enough to make
tea, they launched their canoe for the return.

"We'll be makin' th' river tilt before we sleeps," said Bob. "They's a
moon, an' we'll finish by moonlight, an' to-morrow we'll be gettin'
out with th' next load. If we travels fast we can make th' river tilt
before midnight, whatever!"

The portage trail left the river at a point some ten miles below the
tilt, and as previously stated, at the lower end of the lake, where
the current began to gather strength for its final tumultuous rush
toward the falls.

They had paddled the distance in two hours, and were congratulating
themselves upon their good progress as they turned the canoe toward
the portage landing, when suddenly they were startled by a burst of
wild, bloodcurdling whoops, and a half-dozen strange Indians, guns
levelled, rose upon the shore.

"Mingens!" exclaimed Bob.

A warning in the Indian tongue was shouted at them that they must not
attempt to land. A shot was fired over their heads to emphasise the
fact that the savages were in earnest, and with no alternative, and
taken wholly by surprise, Shad at the steersman's paddle astern, swung
the canoe out into the stream, still continuing down the river.

"Upstream! Upstream! Turn about!" shouted Bob.

In the excitement and confusion that followed the first few moments
after the attack, much valuable time had been lost in ineffectual
manoeuvres, and when the canoe was finally turned about they were far
out into the stream, and it was found that the insidious current had
caught them. Bob was the first to recognise the danger, and in a
sharp, tense voice he commanded:

"Quick! Work for your life! If th' rapid gets us, 'twill carry us over
th' falls!"

Then they paddled--paddled as none had ever paddled before. But
already the powerful current had them in its grip. Slowly--slowly--but
with increasing speed they were drifting toward the awful cataract.

They would have braved the Indians now, and attempted a landing, but
from a point directly below the portage trail, and extending to the
white water of the heavy rapids the river bank rose in a perpendicular
rampart of smooth-scoured rock, a full ten feet in height, offering no
possible foothold.

For a little while they hoped, as they worked like madmen. Then the
full import of their position dawned upon them--that they were
hopelessly drifting toward the brink of the awful cataract.

Beads of cold perspiration broke out upon their foreheads. A sickening
numbness came into their hearts, and as in a dream they heard the
derisive, exultant yells of the savages upon the shore.



VIII

AFTER THE INDIAN ATTACK

Below them rose the appalling roar of the hungry rapids and the dull,
thunderous, monotonous undertone of the falls themselves.

Before their vision a vivid picture passed of the scene they had so
recently beheld--the onrushing, white piled billows above the
cataract, gathering strength for their mighty leap--the final plunge
of the resistless torrent--the bank of rainbow-coloured mist hovering
in space over a dark abyss--and far below and beyond the mist-bank the
murky chasm, where a white seething flood was beating its wild anger
out against jagged rocks in its mad endeavour to fight its way to
freedom between narrow canyon walls rising in frowning cliffs on
either side.

Impotent to resist the power that was drawing them down, Shad
Trowbridge and Ungava Bob were certain beyond a doubt that presently
they were to be hurled into this awful chasm, and that in all human
probability but a few minutes more of life remained to them.

Then suddenly there flashed upon Bob's memory the recollection of an
island which he had observed when walking along the river bank from
the falls to the portage trail.

He remembered that this island was of curious formation, with high
polished cliffs rising on its upper end and on either side, like
bulwarks to guard it from the rushing tide.

At its lower end a long, low, gravelly point reached downward, like a
pencil point, among the swirling eddies. The gravel which formed this
point, he had remarked at the time, had been deposited by the eddies
created by the meeting of the waters where they rushed together from
either side below the island.

With the recollection of the island came also a realisation that here
possibly lay a means of escape. A quick estimate of the distance they
had already drifted below the portage trail satisfied him that they
were still perhaps half a mile above the island, and probably not too
far amidstream to enable them to swing in upon it before it was
passed, in which case a landing might be made with comparative ease
upon the gravelly point.

The canoe, as previously stated, was heading upstream, with Bob in the
bow, Shad in the stern. It was necessary that they turn around and
secure a view of the river in order to avoid possible reefs near the
island shore, and to properly pick an available landing place.

But to attempt to turn the canoe itself in the swift current would in
all probability result in fatal delay. Therefore, acting upon the
moment's instinct, Bob ceased paddling, arose, and himself quickly
turned, seating himself face to the stern, shouting to Shad as he did
so:

"Turn! I'll steer!"

Shad had no doubt Bob had become demented, but without question obeyed
the command. In this position what had previously been the stern of
the canoe now became the bow, Shad Trowbridge the bowman and Ungava
Bob the steersman.

The moment paddling ceased the canoe shot forward in the current,
heading toward the white waters of the rapids. The manoeuvre had not
been made a moment too soon, for directly before them, a little to the
left, lay the island.

With a quick, dexterous turn of the paddle Bob swung the canoe toward
the island shore farthest from the mainland and, close under the
cliffs, caught the retarding shore current. A few seconds later the
bow of the little craft ground upon the gravelly point, Shad sprang
ashore, Bob at his heels, and the canoe was drawn after them to
safety.

For a moment Bob and Shad looked at each other in silence, then Shad
exclaimed simply: "Thank God!"

"Aye," said Bob reverently, "thank th' Lard. He were watchin' an'
guardin' us when we were thinkin' we was lost. 'Tis th' Lard's way,
Shad."

"My God, Bob! Look at that!" exclaimed Shad, pointing toward the mad
white waters below them. "If you hadn't thought of this island, Bob,
we'd be in there now--in there--dead! My God, what an escape! And such
a death!"

Shad sank upon a bowlder, white and trembling. He was no coward, but
he was highly imaginative at times. During the trying period in the
canoe he was cool and brave. He had done his part at the paddle
equally as well as Bob. He would have gone to his death without a
visible tremor. But now the reaction had come, and his imagination ran
riot with his reason.

"Why, Shad, what's th' matter now?" asked Bob solicitously. "Were th'
strain at th' paddle too much? You looks sick."

"No--I'm all right--just foolish. I'm afraid you'll think I'm not
game, Bob."

"Oh, but I knows you is, Shad. I seen you turned over in th' Bay,
Shad--an' I knows you'm wonderful brave."

"Thank you, Bob. I hope I deserve your opinion."

"I were terrible scairt first, when I finds th' canoe's slippin' back
toward th' rapid an' I'm seein' no way t' land," said Bob. "Then I
stops bein' scairt an' has a feelin' that I don't care--"

"Just as I felt," broke in Shad. "A sort of hopeless speculation on
what was going to happen, but not much caring."

"Aye," continued Bob. "Then I thinks 'twill be sore hard on Mother--my
never goin' home--an' I prays th' Lard t' help us, an' soon's I says
'Amen' I thinks o' this island. 'Twere th' Lard puts un in my head,
Shad."

"I think," said Shad, "it was your quick wit and resourcefulness,
Bob."

"No," Bob insisted positively, "'twere th' Lard. An', Shad, we must be
thankin' th' Lard now."

Then Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge knelt by the side of the boulder,
the former reverently, the latter courteously, while Bob prayed aloud:

"Dear Lard, Shad and me is wonderful thankful that you p'inted out t'
us th' landin' place on this island, an', Lard, we wants t' thank you.
We knows, Lard, if you hadn't been p'intin' she out t' us, we'd be
dead in th' rapids now, or handy t' un. We'll never be forgettin'.
An', Lard, keep clost t' Shad an' me always. Amen."

"That," said Shad, when they rose to their feet, "was the most honest,
simple, straightforward prayer I ever heard offered. Thank you, Bob,
for including me. If the Lord hears prayers, Bob, He heard yours, for
it was honest and from the heart and to the point."

"He hears un, Shad, an' He answers un." There was a note of conviction
in Bob's tone that left no room for doubt.

"We're here, because we're here, because we're here--" Shad began to
sing. "Bob, I'm feeling all right now, and I guess I've got my nerve
back again. Foolish, wasn't it, to get frightened after it was all
over? Let's see, now, what the prospects are of getting away."

From an eminence in the centre of the island they surveyed their
surroundings. The mainland lay not more than a short stone's
throwaway, but between it and the island the water ran as swift as a
mill race. Some two hundred yards below the point on which they had
landed the heavy white rapids began, and with but one exception the
perpendicular wall of rock that formed the mainland shore extended to
and beyond the white water.

This exception occurred about half-way between the island and the
heavy rapids, where for a distance of some six or eight yards frost
action had caused disintegration of the rock, and the wall sloped down
toward the river at an angle of forty-five degrees.

At the foot of this slope, and on a level with the water, a narrow
platform had been formed by the dislodged portion of the rock. Under
the most favourable conditions exceedingly expert canoemen might
succeed in making a landing here, but it was plain that the foothold
offered was so narrow and so unstable that any attempt to make a
landing upon it would prove perilous and more than likely fatal.

The island itself was oblong in shape and contained an area of three
or four acres. Its rocky surface sustained a scant growth of gnarled
black spruce and stunted white birch, with here and there patches of
brush.

From their vantage point no sign of the Indians who had caused their
trouble could be seen, and it was evident they had not descended the
river bank below the portage trail.

"Well, what do you think of it, Bob?" Shad asked.

"I'm thinkin' now, th' Injuns are headin' for th' tilt up th' river,
an' that they'll be cleanin' un out an' burnin' un. Th' Injuns t' th'
post tells me they never comes below th' portage. They's afraid o' th'
evil spirits o' th' falls. But they goes back in th' country sometimes
an' circles around by th' Big Hill trail."

"But what do you think of trying to cross, and make a landing down
there where the rock slopes?" inquired Shad.

"We'd never make un, Shad," decided Bob. "I knows th' handlin' o'
boats. I'm too uncertain in a canoe, an' so be you, Shad."

"What are we to do, then? We can't stay here," insisted Shad.

"I'm not knowin' yet. They'll be some way showin'," promised Bob, "but
we'll have t' think un out first."

"What was the matter with those Indians, anyway? I thought all the
Indians were friendly to white men," Shad asked, as they turned down
again to the canoe.

"They's Mingen Injuns," explained Bob. "I were forgettin' t' tell you,
Shad. When we was t' th' post, Douglas Campbell tells me that last
fall some Mingens comes t' th' last tilt o' th' Big Hill trail an'
tells he they'd not let any white trapper hunt above th' Big Hill
trail. They's likely seen our tilt up th' river, an' laid for us. I'm
sorry, now, I were bringin' you here an' not tellin' you, Shad."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Bob. I'd have come just the same,"
assured Shad. "In fact, I'd have been all the more ready to come, with
the prospect of a scrap with Indians in view. If I'd known, though,
I'd have had my eyes open and my rifle ready, and dropped a bullet or
two among them before we got caught in the current."

"Injuns were never givin' me trouble before, an' I weren't takin'
their threatenin' t' Douglas in earnest, so I forgets all about un
till I sees th' Injuns at th' portage trail," Bob explained.

"'Twouldn't have done t' kill any of un, Shad. If you had, th' rest
would have laid in th' bushes an' killed us, for they's no knowin' how
many they is of un. Then they'd gone back an' laid for Ed an' Dick an'
Bill an' killed they before they'd be knowin' they was any trouble.

"Now 'tis more 'n likely th' Injuns is thinkin' we be th' only white
men about, an' when we thinks up a way o' gettin' out o' here we'll
give warnin' t' Ed an' th' others, an' being on th' lookout one of us
can hold off a hull passel o' Injuns, for we has Winchesters, an' all
they has is muzzle-loadin' trade guns."

"But suppose we don't get off this island before the others come to
look for us? What then?" asked Shad.

"If they misses us an' goes lookin' for us, they'll be knowin' we're
missin' for some cause. Bill Campbell's been hearin' from his father
what th' Mingens were sayin' last year, an' they'll suspicion 'tis th'
Mingens an' be watchin' for un."

"But I don't understand yet what objection the Mingens have to our
trapping here. I supposed this was the country of your Nascaupee
friends."

"'Tis this way," Bob explained. "Th' Nascaupees hunts t' th'
n'uth'ard, th' Bay Mountaineers t' th' east'ard, an' th' Mingens t'
th' s'uth'ard, an' all of un comes in hereabouts t' get deer's meat,
mostly th' Mingens, when deer's scarce t' th' s'uth'ard, an' they
thinks if white trappers is about th' deer'll be drove out."

"Well, Bob, let's boil the kettle and try to figure out a plan of
escape," suggested Shad. "With the reaction from the morning's
excitement, I'm developing a vast hunger."

"They's not a mouthful o' grub in th' bag, Shad," Bob announced
sorrowfully, "only a bit o' tea with th' kettle an' our cups. I leaves
un all in th' tilt, thinkin' we'd get back t' th' next tilt an' use
th' grub that's there, an' I just leaves th' bit o' tea in th' bag."

"No grub!" exclaimed Shad. "Then we've got to try to make a landing
down on that wall. We can't stay here and starve!"

"An' we can't make th' landin'. 'Twould be sure drownin' t' try."

"Then it is just a choice between drowning and starving? For my part,
I'd rather drown and have it over with, than starve to death!"

"Th' Lard weren't showin' us here just t' have us die right off," said
Bob quietly. "He were savin' us because He's wantin us t' live, an'
He'll be thinkin' if we tries t' make th' landin' knowin' we can't
make un, that we're not wantin' t' live. If we takes time now t' plan
un out, th' Lard'll show us how."

"I wish I had your faith, Bob, but I haven't, and I'm still in favour
of making a try for the shore," insisted Shad. "However, let us make
some tea and argue the matter out later."

"Aye, we'll boil th' kettle an' talk un over, whatever," agreed Bob,
rising from the rock upon which they had seated themselves, and
turning into the scant growth to collect dry sticks for a fire.

But instead of collecting the sticks he returned to the canoe, secured
Shad's doublebarrelled shotgun, and a moment later Shad, who was
dipping a kettle of water for their tea and had not noticed the
movement, was startled by the report of the gun. Looking up, he saw
Bob stoop, reach into a clump of bushes, and bring forth a rabbit.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" exclaimed Shad, as Bob held his game aloft
for inspection. "I didn't suppose there was hide or hair or feather on
this wind-blasted, forsaken island of desolation!"

"I sees th' signs," said Bob, "an' then I looks about an' sees th'
rabbit. Where they's one they's like t' be quite a passel of un. They
likely crosses over last winter on th' ice an' th' break-up catches un
here an' they can't get off."

"That's some relief to the situation. But we've only about a dozen
shells in the canoe," announced Shad, "and when they are gone we'll be
as badly off as ever."

"We'll not be wastin' shells, now, on rabbits," said Bob. "They's
other ways t' catch un. I uses that shell t' get our dinner. I'll get
th' rabbit ready now whilst you puts a fire on."

"Very well," agreed Shad, collecting wood for a fire, "and when we've
eaten I hope we can think of some way of escape."



IX

THE INDIAN MAIDEN AT THE RIVER TILT

"Well," said Ed Matheson, as the boat rounded a bend in the river,
"there's the river tilt, an' she looks good."

"That she do," agreed Dick Blake. "I hopes, now, Bob's there an' has a
fire on. I'm wet t' th' last rag."

"So be I. This snow an' rain comin' mixed always 'pears t' make a
wetter wet 'n just rain alone," observed Ed.

"Bob's there now," broke in Bill Campbell. "I sees smoke comin' from
th' tilt pipe."

The voyageurs were returning from Eskimo Bay with their second cargo
of winter supplies for the trails. Five weeks had elapsed since the
morning Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge had watched them disappear
around the river bend, and returning to camp had found Sishetakushin
and Mookoomahn awaiting them at the edge of the forest.

Since early morning there had been a steady drizzle of snow and rain,
accompanied by a raw, searching, easterly wind, a condition of weather
that renders wilderness travel most disheartening and disagreeable.

This was, however, the first break in a long series of delightfully
cool, transparent days, characteristic of Labrador during the month of
September, when Nature pauses to take breath and assemble her forces
preparatory to casting upon the land the smothering snows and
withering blasts of a sub-Arctic winter.

Despite the pleasant weather, the whole journey from Eskimo Bay had
been one of tremendous effort. With but three, instead of five, as on
the previous journey, to transport the boat and carry the loads over
portages, the labour had been proportionately increased.

It was, then, with a feeling of intense satisfaction and relief that
the voyageurs hailed the end of their journey, with its promised rest,
when they finally ran their boat to the landing below the river tilt
of the Big Hill trail.

"I'll be tellin' Bob an' Shad we're here now, an' have un help us up
with th' outfit," said Ed Matheson cheerily, stepping ashore and
striding up the trail leading to the clearing a few yards above, in
the centre of which stood the trail.

But at the edge of the clearing he stopped in open-mouthed amazement.
Before the open door of the tilt stood a tall, comely Indian maiden,
perhaps seventeen years of age. She was clad in fringed buckskin
garments, decorated in coloured designs. Her hair hung in two long
black braids, while around her forehead she wore a band of dark-red
cloth ornamented with intricate beadwork. From her shoulder hung a
quiver of arrows, and resting against the tilt at her side was a long
bow.

She stood motionless as a statue, striking, picturesque and graceful,
and for a full minute the usually collected and loquacious Ed gazed at
her in speechless surprise.

"Good evenin'," said he finally, regaining his composure and his power
of speech at the same time. "I weren't expectin' t' find any one here
but Ungava Bob an' Shad Toobridge. Be they in th' tilt?"

With Ed's words she took a step forward, and in evident excitement
launched upon him a torrent of Indian sentences spoken so rapidly and
with such vehemence that, though he boasted a smattering of the
language, he was unable to comprehend in the least what she was
saying. It was evident, however, she was addressing him upon some
subject of import.

"There now," he interrupted finally, forgetting even his smattering of
Indian and addressing her in English, "just 'bide there a bit, lass,
whilst I gets Dick Blake. He knows your lingo better'n me. I'll send
he up."

And, hurrying down the trail, he called:

"Dick, come up here. They's a Injun lass at th' tilt, firin' a lot o'
lingo at me I can't fathom."

"A Injun lass!" exclaimed Dick. "What's she doin' there, now? An'
where's Bob an' Shad?"

"Yes, a Injun lass," said Ed impatiently, "an' what she's doin' you'll
have t' find out. It seems like she's achin' t' tell somethin'. I'm
not seein' Bob an' Shad."

"They must be somethin' wrong, Ed. Come down an' help Bill get th'
cargo ashore, an' I'll find out what 'tis;" and Dick hurried up the
trail past Ed, to meet Manikawan, for she it was.

She was still standing where Ed had left her, and Dick asked kindly in
Indian:

"What message does the maiden bring to her white brothers?"

"Listen!" she commanded, in a clear, musical voice. "I am Manikawan,
the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge is pitched on the shores of
the Great Lake, to the north. Yesterday some men of the South visited
the lodge of my father."

"Mingens!" exclaimed Dick.

"They told him," she continued, not heeding the interruption, "that
five suns back they had found a lodge built where the big river
broadens. The lodge was newly made. It was a white man's lodge, for it
was built of trees. The men of the South waited in hiding at the end
of the portage that was once used by my people. It is above the place
where evil spirits dwell."

"How many of the men of the South were there?" asked Dick, again
interrupting.

"Six," she answered promptly. "While they waited two white men passed
with a painted canoe and much provisions. Then, while they still
waited, the white men returned with the canoe empty.

"They fired their guns at the white men. Then the evil spirits that
dwell where the river falls reached up for the canoe and dragged it
down to the place of thunder.

"I have come to tell you this, and to ask if White Brother of the Snow
and his friend are here. All night and all day have I travelled, for I
am afraid for White Brother of the Snow. He has lived in the lodge of
Sishetakushin, my father. He is one of my people, and I am afraid for
him."

Her rapid speech, her dramatic pose and gestures, and her intensely
earnest manner left no doubt in Dick Blake's mind that she spoke the
truth. Neither had he any doubt that she referred to Ungava Bob and
Shad Trowbridge as the two white men, for no other white men were in
the region, or, he was sure, within several hundred miles of the
place, at the time to which she referred.

"No," said he, after a moment's pause, "White Brother of the Snow and
his friend are not with us."

"They are not here!" she wailed, lifting her arms in a gesture of
despair. "Where is he? Tell me! It was not White Brother of the Snow
sent to the torment of evil spirits?"

"I'm afraid, Manikawan, it was. There were no other white men here
than White Brother of the Snow and his friend."

Manikawan's hands dropped at her side, and for an instant she stood, a
picture of mingled horror and grief. But it was for only an instant.
Then her face grew hard and vengeful, and in low, even tones she said:

"These men of the South killed White Brother of the Snow. They are no
longer of my people. They must die."

"They must die," echoed Dick.

"Come!" she said laconically, reaching for her bow and slinging it on
her back.

"No, we will rest to-night, and to-morrow at dawn we will go. Rest
to-night and be strong for the chase to-morrow," Dick counselled,
kindly, as she turned toward the portage trail leading around the
rapids.

"I cannot rest," she answered. "I go now;" and like a shadow, and as
silently, she melted into the darkening forest.

Big Dick Blake's heart was full of vengeance, as he strode down the
trail to rejoin his companions.

"What speech were th' Injun maid tryin' t' get rid of, now?" asked Ed
Matheson, pausing in his work of unloading the canoe as Dick appeared.

"Bob an' Shad's dead!" announced Dick bluntly.

"Dead! Dead!" echoed Ed and Bill together.

"Aye, dead. Drove over th' falls by Mingen Injuns," continued Dick.
"Five or six days ago, she's sayin'. They's six o' them Injuns down
north o' here, huntin' deer, an' their camp's up th' river somewheres.
I'm not knowin' rightly where, but we'll find un, an' we'll shoot them
Injuns just like a passel o' wolves. If we don't, they'll sure be
layin' for us an' shoot us."

"Be you sure, now, th' lads is dead?" insisted Ed.

"They's no doubtin' it. She tells th' story straight an' clean as a
rifle shot;" and Dick went on to repeat in detail the story he had
heard from Manikawan.

"It looks bad, now, whatever," commented Ed. "But they's a chanct they
gets a ashore. I were caught onct in th' rapids above Muskrat Falls,
an' thinks it all up with me--right in th' middle o' th' rapids,
too--an'--"

"Ed," broke in Dick, with vast impatience, "this be no time for
yamin'. You knows you never could be gettin' out o' them rapids an'
not goin' over th' falls. An' these rapids is a wonderful sight
worse."

"Maybe they be," admitted Ed. "Th' poor lad, now, bein' killed in that
way. Dick," he continued, raising his tall, awkward figure to its full
height and placing his hand on Dick's shoulder, "me an' you's stood by
one 'nother for a good many years, an' in all sorts o' hard places,
an' if it's fight Injuns with you now, Dick, it's fight un, an' Bill's
with us."

"Aye," said Bill, "that I am."

The boat was unloaded, and with heavy hearts the men prepared and ate
their evening meal. Then while they smoked their pipes, light packs
were put up and all was made snug for an early start the following
morning.

With the first blink of dawn the three determined men, armed with
their rifles, swung out into the forest, and rapidly but cautiously
filed up the old portage trail in the direction Manikawan had taken.



X

THE VOICES OF THE SPIRITS

Heedless of drizzling rain and snow, of driving wind and gathering
darkness, Manikawan ran forward on the trail. Hatred was in her heart.
Vengeance was crying to her. Every subtle, cunning instinct of her
savage race was aroused in her bosom.

She was determined that those who had sent her beloved White Brother
of the Snow to destruction in the deadly place of evil spirits must
die. How she should compass their death she did not yet know; this was
a detail for circumstance to decide, but it must be done. White
Brother of the Snow was of her tribe; the law of her savage nature
told her his death must be avenged.

At the end of a mile or so she left the trail and turned sharply to
the northward, winding her way deftly through moisture-laden
underbrush which scarcely seemed to lessen her pace. Presently she
broke out upon the shores of a lake and behind some willow bushes
uncovered a small birch-bark canoe, which she had carefully concealed
there on her journey to the river tilt.

Turning the canoe over her head, with the middle thwart resting upon
her shoulders, she took a southwesterly direction until the old
portage trail was again encountered, and resuming the trail she at
length came upon the first lake of the chain through which the portage
route passed.

The storm had ceased, and the stars were breaking through the clouds
as Manikawan launched her canoe. It was a long, narrow lake, and
paddling its length she had no difficulty in locating the place where
the stream entered; and not far away a blazed tree, now plainly
visible in the light of the rising moon, told her where the trail led
out.

Here, as she stepped ashore, she discovered the first of the series of
tilts which Bob and Shad had built, and, immediately pushing aside the
flimsy bark door, entered the tilt and struck a match. Its flare
disclosed a half-burned candle on a shelf near the door, and lighting
it she held it aloft for a survey of the interior of the tilt.

On the bunk at the side were two or three bags evidently containing
clothing and other supplies, while on the bunk in the rear were some
odds and ends of clothing, a folded tent, a coil of rope, doubtless
used by the young adventurers as a tracking line, to assist them in
hauling their canoe up the swift stream which connected the lake with
the river below, and a rifle in a sealskin case.

On beholding this last object, Manikawan gave a low exclamation of
pleasure. Taking a chip from the floor she bent the candle over it,
permitting some of the hot grease to flow upon it, and setting the
candle firmly in the grease placed the improvised candlestick upon the
tent stove.

Then, reaching for the rifle, she drew it from the case and examined
it critically. The magazine proved to be fully charged. Returning the
rifle to its case, she now examined the other contents of the tilt,
and presently came upon a quantity of cartridges in one of the bags.

Several of these she appropriated, and dropping them into a leathern
pouch at her belt, restored the remaining contents of the tilt to the
position in which she had found them. Then taking the rifle in its
case, she blew out the candle, and passed out of the tilt, carefully
closing the door behind her.

The moon was now sufficiently risen to light the trail, and the blazes
which Ungava Bob had made were so clear that Manikawan's progress was
rapid.

Spectral shadows lay all about her, flitting here and there across her
trail as she sped onward and onward through the dark forests that
intervened between the lakes. In the distance she heard the voices of
the evil spirits so dreaded by her people, speaking in dull,
monotonous undertones, like ceaseless, rolling thunder far away,
threatening destruction and death to all who fell within their reach.
Even to her, whose home was the wilderness, the situation was weird
and uncanny.

At length she passed another tilt near the end of a lake, but she did
not pause to enter it. A little beyond the tilt the trail crossed a
rise of ground, and upon reaching the summit she beheld in the
distance a long, wide, silvery streak glistening in the moonlight. It
was the river, and with a sense of relief she lowered the canoe from
her shoulders and concealed it carefully amongst the underbrush.

She glanced at the stars and calculated the time until dawn. The
region into which she had come was wholly unfamiliar to her, and she
must have daylight to reconnoitre and locate the camp of her enemies.

There was still ample time for rest, for this was the season of
lengthening nights and shortening days, and Manikawan was in much need
of rest and food. For nearly thirty-six hours she had been exerting
herself to the utmost of her strength. At the river tilt she had made
a fire in the stove and brewed herself some tea, but she had eaten
nothing. Now, with the moment's relaxation, a feeling of great fatigue
came upon her, and for the first time she realised the length of her
fast and the extent of her weariness.

Slowly she retraced her steps to the tilt which she had passed on the
lake shore a little way back. Entering it she struck a match and
lighted a candle, as she had done at the other tilt, and with its
assistance found the flour, pork, and tea, together with a frying pan
and kettle which Ungava Bob had left there the day that he and Shad
Trowbridge were attacked by the Indians.

She went to the lake for a kettle of water, and returning gathered a
handful of birch bark. Using the bark for tinder and appropriating
wood which she found split and neatly piled near the stove for ready
use, she lighted a fire in the stove, and set the kettle on to heat
for tea. This done she cut several thick slices of fat pork, which she
fried in the pan, and mixing a quantity of flour and water into dough,
browned the dough in the pork grease.

It was with a keen appetite that she sat down to her long-deferred
banquet; and with vast relief she drank the tea and ate the pork and
dough cake. Then, wearied to the last degree, she fell back upon one
of the bunks, the rifle by her side; and with the distant rumble of
the falls in her ears, fell immediately asleep.

It was broad day when Manikawan opened her eyes. She seized the
kettle, and hastening to the lake laved her face and head in the
cooling water. Then, from a buckskin pouch at her belt, she drew a
neat birch-bark case, decorated with porcupine quills, and from the
case a rudely fashioned comb, from which dangled by a buckskin thong a
tuft of porcupine tail. The lake was her mirror, as she smoothed and
rebraided her hair. This done, she ran the comb several times through
the tuft of porcupine tail before returning it to its case.

Her simple toilet completed, Manikawan mounted a high pinnacle of rock
and for several minutes stood silently contemplating the rising sun.
The eastern sky was ablaze with red and purple and orange, and she
beheld the glory of the scene with deep reverence.

Upon her pinnacle of rock she felt herself in the presence of the
Mysterious Power which governed her destiny and the world in which she
lived, and after the manner of her fathers she besought that
Mysterious Presence in unspoken words, to make her pure and noble and
generous; to make her worthy to stand in its Presence--worthy to live
in the beautiful world which surrounded her.

But Manikawan was not a Christian. She knew nothing of the white man's
God or of Christ's lessons of forgiveness, and she descended from the
rock morally strengthened, perhaps, in her savage way, but no less
determined to wreak vengeance upon those whom she deemed her enemies.

While she slept she had heard constantly the voice of the evil spirits
of the falls, and the spirits themselves had come to her in a dream,
and whispering in her ear had urged her on to vengeance, and promised
her immunity from their wrath. Manikawan, like all her people, was
superstitious in the extreme. She believed absolutely in the
supernatural, and her faith in dreams was unwavering.

The sun was hour high when she set forth again upon her mission.
Mounting the semi-barren ridge where she had hidden her canoe, she
crouched low behind the bushes, and catlike and noiselessly descended
to the forest on the other side. Here under cover of the trees she
proceeded more rapidly to the end of the portage trail.

Peering out from her cover, she first studied every foot of the river
and surrounding country that lay within the range of her vision; then
moving silently forward she removed the rifle, which she still
carried, from its sealskin case and laid the case on the ground behind
a boulder and the weapon upon it, where it would be completely hidden
from view, but still available for instant use.

This arranged to her satisfaction, she crossed the trail, and gliding
as noiselessly as a shadow through the trees, ascended the river bank
to reconnoitre for the Mingen camp. The Indians that visited her
father's lodge had said that they were encamped near the river, and
not far above the portage trail.



XI

MANIKAWAN'S VENGEANCE

Therefore, Manikawan in her quest advanced cautiously, at the same
time making, as she advanced, a thorough study of the ground.

She had travelled perhaps two miles, when she discovered a thin curl
of smoke rising over the trees a short distance in advance, and
dropping upon her hands and knees she crawled stealthily forward until
from behind a clump of willow bushes she was afforded a clear view of
the fire and its surroundings.

A deerskin wigwam stood in a clearing, and near the smouldered embers
of a fire two Indians were engaged in making snowshoe frames; but, so
far as she could see, they were the only inhabitants of the camp. It
was evident that the remainder of the party were absent, probably
hunting caribou in the North.

As noiselessly as she had approached, Manikawan now retreated to a
safe distance. With a full understanding of the conditions, she had
quickly and cunningly formulated her plans, and when well out of view
she arose to her feet and boldly approached the camp.

The Indians, with no sign of alarm or surprise, and not deigning
either recognition or greeting, continued at their task, quite
ignoring her presence as she approached. For a moment Manikawan stood
before them in silence; then she spoke:

"I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge the men of
the South have visited. Manikawan has come to do honour to the men of
the South. While they talked with Sishetakushin, her father, she heard
how bravely they have guarded the hunting grounds of her people and
theirs. They are brave men and she has come to do them honour.

"She heard how they drove the two white invaders of our country into
the arms of the evil spirits, whose thunderous voices she hears even
now. It was well. White men have come into our land and have made the
spirits angry. When the spirits are made angry they drive away the
caribou. Then the people of the South and Sishetakushin's people are
hungry. The white men have built lodges of trees near the potagan
(portage) of our fathers. They stored these lodges with much tea and
tobacco, flour and pork. Without these things the white man cannot
live, for he is not like our people.

"Other white men are coming to our country. If these stores are left
in the lodges near the potagan of our fathers, the white men will
stay. If they do not have these things, they will go away, for without
them they will be hungry.

"The men of Sishetakushin's people and the men of the South cannot
remove them, for the evil spirits dwell there, and would do them harm.

"But Manikawan is a maiden. The evil spirits will not harm her. She is
too humble for their notice. Manikawan has gone to the lodges of the
white men and has removed the things from the lodges, so that the
white men will not find them when they come.

"The men of the South are brave. They have sent two of the white men
into the arms of the evil spirits. They must be rewarded.

"Manikawan has carried much tobacco and tea and other stores to the
place where the potagan reaches up from the river. These things are
for the men of the South. Let them bring their canoe. Manikawan will
show them the things and they will take them."

The Indians did not deign to reply at once, but presently one of them
said:

"Let Manikawan bring the things to the lodge of the men of the South.
She is a maiden, and it is a maiden's work. It is not the work of a
hunter."

"Manikawan is not of the lodge of the men of the South, and she will
not do this. She will wait at the place where the potagan rises from
the river until the sun is there;" and Manikawan pointed to the
zenith. "If the men of the South do not come, she will go, for she
will believe the men of the South do not need tea and tobacco."

"Let the maiden return to the place where the potagan rises from the
river. Let her wait there. The men of the South will come," said the
spokesman.

Manikawan turned away, down the river bank, by the route she had
ascended. Her progress was dignified and unhurried so long as she
might still be seen by the Indians, but was quickly changed to a run
the moment she was beyond their view.

Glibly she had lied to them and her conscience was not troubled. She
was not a Christian. The savage teaching upheld subterfuge in dealing
with the enemy, and she deemed these Indians her enemies, for had they
not destroyed White Brother of the Snow? And was he not of her people
by adoption.

Immediately Manikawan arrived at the portage trail she looked sharply
about to make certain she was not observed. Then she examined the
rifle behind the bowlder, and, quite satisfied with her inspection,
returned it to its resting place and waited.

She knew that the two Indians, with due attention to their dignity,
would make no haste in their coming, and would doubtless keep her
waiting until the noonday hour which she had designated, but
nevertheless her lookout up the river was never for a moment
relinquished. She watched as a cat watches a hole--from which it
expects the mouse to emerge--ready to pounce upon the unwary prey.

At last she was rewarded. A birch-bark canoe containing the two
Indians came leisurely gliding down the river some hundred yards from
shore. Manikawan, like a beautiful statue, stood tall and straight at
the end of the portage trail. Two paces from her the rifle lay behind
the bowlder.

The Indians, unsuspecting, turned the prow of the canoe toward the
shore where she stood. Still she did not move. The cat waits for its
victim until the victim beyond peradventure is within reach of its
spring. Nearer and nearer drew the canoe. Still Manikawan stood, a
graven image. She was looking out and beyond her intended victims. The
roar of the distant rapids, and the monotonous, thunderous undertone
of the falls were in her ears, and they came to her as beautiful
music. The canoe was now but a hundred feet from shore.

Suddenly, Manikawan sprang, and the astonished Indians beheld the
statue with a menacing rifle at its shoulder. Then came a flash and a
report. The Indians ducked, and the blade of the steersman's paddle,
poised in mid-air, was shattered by a bullet.

Manikawan spoke, her voice ringing out in clear, even tones:

"The men of the South sent White Brother of the Snow and his friend
into the arms of the evil spirits. White Brother of the Snow was of
Manikawan's people. The men of the South are the enemies of
Manikawan's people. They are cowards and they must die."

The Indian at the bow paddled desperately away from shore and the
menacing rifle. The Indian at the stern made equally desperate but
ineffectual attempts with his broken paddle.

Another shot rang out, and the bowman ducked, and ceased paddling as a
bullet sang past his head. Immediately the canoe began drifting, and a
moment later the strengthening current caught it.

Then the Indians, alive to this new danger, disregarding bullets, rose
to their feet and paddled desperately, the one in the stern seeming
not to know that the broken stick he held was useless. They knew that
the evil spirits had reached up for their canoe and were drawing them
down--down--to something worse than death. Their faces became drawn
and terror-stricken.

Faintly, and as a voice far away and unreal, they heard Manikawan's
taunts as she ran down the high banks of the river, keeping pace with
the doomed canoe and its occupants going headlong to destruction:

"The men of the South are cowards. They are afraid to die. The evil
spirits are hungry, and soon they will be fed. Their voices are loud.
They are crying with hunger. The men of the South will feed them."



XII

THE TRAGEDY OF THE RAPIDS

The two adventurers marooned on the island ate their first meal of
rabbit, grilled over the coals, with keen relish, though they had
neither salt to season it nor bread to accompany it.

"It might be worse," remarked Shad, when the meal was finished.
"Rabbit is good, and," he continued, lolling back lazily and
contentedly before the fire, "there's always some bright spot to light
the darkest cloud--we've no dishes to wash. A rinse of the tea pail, a
rinse of our cups, and, presto! the thing's done. I detest
dish-washing."

"Aye," admitted Bob, "dish-washin' is a putterin' job."

"Yes, that's it; a puttering job," resumed Shad. "But now let's come
to the important question of the day. Continued banqueting upon
rabbit, I've been told, becomes monotonous, and under any conditions
imprisonment is sure to become monotonous sooner or later. I have a
hunch it will be sooner in our case. I'm beginning to chafe under
bonds already. What are we going to do about it?"

"I'm not knowin' so soon," confessed Bob, "but I'm thinkin' before
this day week Dick an' Ed an' Bill will be huntin' around for us, an'
they's like t' find us, an' when they does they'll be findin' a way t'
help us. They might build up th' place down there with stones, so's t'
make a footin' t' land on, an' then 'twill be easy goin' ashore."

"But suppose they don't come around this way and don't find us?"

"Then I'm thinkin' we'll be bidin' here till ice forms."

"Till ice forms! And when will that be?"

"An' she comes on frosty, ice'll begin formin' th' middle of October
on th' banks. But th' current's wonderful strong, an' I'll not be
expectin' ice t' cross on till New Year, whatever."

"January first! October! November! December! Three months on this
god-forsaken bit of rock! Great Jehoshaphat, man! That'll be an
eternity! We can't endure it!"

"I'm not thinkin' we'll have to. I'm thinkin' they'll find us in a
fortni't, whatever," reassured Bob, rising and picking up the axe.
"We'll be needin' a shelter, an' I'm thinkin' I'll build un now."

"And we have no blankets with us!" exclaimed Shad. "Oh, we're going to
have a swell time!"

"We'll be fair snug with a shelter, now. I'll be cuttin' th' sticks,
an' you breaks boughs."

"All right, Bob, I'll get the boughs," agreed Shad, languidly rising,
and as he went to his task singing:

  "'Old Noah, he did build an ark,
  He made it out of hick'ry bark.

  "'If you belong to Gideon's band,
  Why here's my heart, and here's my hand,
  Looking for a home.

  "'He drove the animiles in two by two,
  The elephant and the kangaroo.

  "'And then he nailed the hatches down,
  And told outsiders they might drown.

  "'And when he found he had no sail,
  He just ran up his own coat tail.

  "'If you belong to Gideon's band,
  Why here's my heart, and here's my hand,
  Looking for a home.'"

A full stomach sometimes wholly changes one's outlook upon the world.
Shad was beginning now to view his adventure from a whimsical
standpoint, a result induced partially by his dinner, largely by Bob's
philosophical attitude.

It was not anticipated the shelter would be required for long, and a
comfortable lean-to under the lee of the hill, with back and ends
enclosed, and closely thatched with boughs and moss, was considered
sufficient. A thick, springy bed of spruce boughs was then arranged,
and the temporary home was completed.

Then Bob proceeded to set deadfalls, utilising flat stones and raising
them on a figure 4, which he baited with tender birch boughs. Several
rabbits were started in the course of the afternoon, giving assurance
that the deadfalls would yield sufficient food for their needs, though
no results could be expected from them until the following morning.

"Now for supper, Shad, we'll have t' be usin' some shells," he
announced. "Supposin' you tries un. I were goin' t' make a bow an'
arrows t' save th' shells, but they's nothin' t' feather th' arrows
with, an' no string that'd be strong enough for th' bow."

"All right," agreed Shad. "I'll get them;" and within half an hour he
returned with a bag of two fat young rabbits.

Their fire was built before the lean-to, and a very small blaze was
found sufficient to heat it to a cosy warmth. Here they sat and ate
their grilled rabbit and drank their tea, quite as comfortably as they
would have done in their tent or tilt, though during the night one or
the other found it necessary to rise several times to renew the fire.

Bivouacking in this manner was more or less of an ordinary
circumstance in Ungava Bob's life. He looked upon it as the sort of
thing to be expected, and as a matter of course. He felt indeed that
they were very fortunately situated, and for the present he had small
doubt that their imprisonment would prove but a temporary
inconvenience.

The deadfalls yielded them the first night three rabbits; another was
shot. They had quite enough to eat the next day, and Shad took a
brighter view of the matter.

"By Jove!" he laughed, after breakfast, "I wonder what the fellows at
home would say if they should see me now, playing the part of Robinson
Crusoe?" and then he began to sing:

  "'Fare thee well, for I must leave thee.
  Do not let the parting grieve thee,
  And remember that the best of friends must part,
    must part.
  Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu,
  I can no longer stay with you, stay with you,
  I'll hang my harp on a weeping-willow tree,
  And may the world go well with thee.'"

But when another morning came, with no sugar remaining for the tea,
and no other food than the now monotonous unsalted rabbit, Shad
rebelled.

"See here, Bob!" he exclaimed irritably, "I can't eat any more rabbit!
It nauseates me to even think of it! We've got to do something."

"We can't help un, now, Shad," answered Bob soothingly. "Rabbit ain't
so bad."

"Not once or twice, or even three times in succession--but eternally
and forever, I can't go it."

"It does get a bit wearisome, but 'tis a wonderful lot better'n no
rabbit, when rabbit's all there is."

"Wearisome! Wearisome! Confound it, Bob, it's disgusting! Now we've
got to do something to get ourselves out of here, and that quick."

"I'm not knowin', now, what t' do till th' others comes, an' I'm
knowin' they will."

"Come, Bob, let's make a try for that wall down there. Even if the
canoe does get away from us, we can make the wall--I know we can."

"No," and Bob shook his head ominously, "I'm ready t' take any fair
chanct, Shad, but they wouldn't be even a fair chanet t' make un."

"Oh, bosh!" exclaimed Shad angrily. "I thought you had some nerve."

"'Tisn't a matter o' nerve, Shad; 'tis a matter o' what can be done
an' what can't."

"Oh, yes, it can! Anyone with two legs and two hands and two eyes and
just a grain of grit can do it."

Bob, quiet and unruffled, grilled his rabbit, refusing to take offence
or to be moved at Shad's remarks, evidently intended to goad him into
what his experience told him would certainly prove a hopeless and
foolhardy venture.

It is a psychological phenomenon that men, denied action and confined
to limited and solitary surroundings, become highly irascible. They
find cause for offence in every word and every action of their
companions, and it is not unusual for men situated as Ungava Bob and
Shad Trowbridge were to lapse into such a state of antagonism toward
one another that they cease to converse.

This was the condition into which Shad Trowbridge quickly lapsed. He
soon came to ascribe to timidity and cowardice Bob's opposition to his
wish to attempt a crossing to the mainland. He was one who chafed
under restraint, and one who, when he had once decided upon a course
of action, could not brook opposition from another; and though at
heart he knew that Bob was fearless and brave, and that his arguments
were sound, yet he would not now admit this, even to himself.

Normally Shad was a good fellow, and he would endure hardships
cheerfully if the hardships were accompanied by physical activity; but
the condition of monotonous existence, accompanied by idleness and
inactivity, which they were now experiencing, was too great for him to
withstand, and he was prepared to take the most desperate chance to
escape from it. When at length the tea and his tobacco were gone, and
nothing but the daily ration of unseasoned rabbit remained, the
thought of thus continuing indefinitely became unendurable to him.

Ungava Bob, on the contrary, had been accustomed to wilderness
solitude all his life. This, and a naturally even disposition, coupled
with a philosophical temperament, rendered him capable of overlooking
Shad's slurs, and when finally Shad ceased to speak to him, or when
spoken to by Bob ceased to acknowledge that he heard, Bob permitted
the slight to pass unnoticed.

At length, one day, when Shad had nursed his supposed grievance to a
point where he could no longer endure it, he blurted out brutally:

"See here, I've stood this devilish cowardice of yours as long as I'm
going to. Do you see where the sun is! It's noon. Now I'll give you
until that sun drops half-way to the horizon to decide whether or not
you're going across with me. If you say 'No,' I'm going without you,
that's all, and you can stay here and eat rabbit, and rot, if you
choose."

"Now, Shad," Bob placated, "I knows how you feels, an' it's your
judgment ag'in mine. But I'm havin' experience with places like that,
an' I knows we can't make th' crossin' an' land. Now don't try un,
Shad."

"Don't 'Shad' me--My God, Bob! Look there!" he suddenly broke off.

Shooting past them, half standing in their birch canoe, paddling with
the desperation of men facing doom, one with his sound paddle, the
other with his broken one, were the Indians that Manikawan had sent
adrift.

They were very near the island--so near that every outline of their
drawn, terrorstricken faces was visible--but too far away to reach the
gravelly point upon which Bob and Shad had found refuge. Indeed, they
seemed not to see it, or to see anything but the horrible spectral
phantom of the evil spirit that they believed had them in its control.

On--on--on-they sped, ever faster--faster toward the pounding
rapids--impotently, though still desperately, wielding their paddles.
Bob and Shad stood spellbound and horror-stricken. The Indians were
nearing the first white foam! In a moment their canoe would strike it!
It was in the foam! It rose for an instant upon a white crest, the
Indians' paddles still working--then was swallowed up in the swirling
tumult of waves and whirlpools, never to reappear.

Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge stood for a moment in awe-stricken
horror. Then they sat down upon the rock on which Shad had sunk when
overcome with shock on the day of their escape upon the island.

"Bob," said Shad, at last, "that was the most terrible thing I ever
beheld!"

"'Twere awful!" assented Bob.

"It shows us, Bob, what you and I escaped. Bob, I've been very
disagreeable lately. Take my hand and forgive me, won't you?"

"'Twere th' rabbit meat, Shad," said Bob, taking Shad's hand. "Rabbit
meat be wonderful tryin' t' eat steady. I were knowin', now, you'd be
all right again, Shad."

"I think I've been demented, Bob--I'm sure I have--anyway, believe it,
and don't hold it against me."

"I'll not be holdin' un ag'in you, Shad. 'Twere natural, and--" Bob
ceased speaking and sat staring at the high bank of the mainland.
"Manikawan!" he exclaimed, springing up and crossing the island point
at a bound.

There she stood, joy, wonder, incredulity, written upon her face. She
had believed White Brother of the Snow dead, but here she saw him in
flesh and alive, and he had spoken her name.

"White Brother of the Snow! Oh, White Brother of the Snow! The evil
spirits did not devour you, but like hungry wolves they have devoured
your enemies."

Very quickly Bob explained their predicament, and she listened
silently. Then she went to the sloping rock, descended its dangerous
angle to the water's edge, and returned.

"White Brother of the Snow and his friend would find no lodgment
there," said she. "It is a place of deceit. But White Brother of the
Snow knows how to be patient. Let him and his friend wait. The evil
spirits cannot reach up for them where they are. When the sun returns
again to the high point in the heavens Manikawan will stand here.
Wait."

The next instant she was gone.

"What did she say?" asked Shad.

"She were sayin'," explained Bob, "that if we has patience an' waits
she'll be back by noon to-morrow, or thereabouts. An' she says if we
waits here we'll be safe, but we couldn't be makin' a footin' on th'
rock. She's thinkin' o' some way o' gettin' us off, but I'm not
knowin' what 'tis, now."



XIII

ON THE TRAIL OF THE INDIANS

None of the three trappers had ever penetrated the region lying
between the Big Hill trail and the river. They knew that here,
somewhere, Ungava Bob was to lay his new trails, but as to the route
the trails were to take they had no information, for this was a
circumstance that the local evidences of the existence of fur-bearing
animals was to have decided for Bob when he entered the country to
make his initial survey of conditions.

Among the Indians who traded at the Eskimo Bay post there was but one,
an old man, who had any personal knowledge of the region. When a small
boy this Indian had once traversed with his father the now long
disused portage trail; and one day when Ungava Bob and Dick Blake met
him at the post he had, at their earnest solicitation, described to
them the country as he had seen it with the distorted vision of
extreme youth, and as his memory, alloyed with the superstitious tales
of nearly threescore years, recalled it.

It was, he said, a region of many lakes, over which flitted the
phantom canoes of those who had perished in the nearby dwelling place
of evil spirits. In the canoes were the ghostly forms of the victims,
for ever paddling their phantom crafts around the lakes, vainly
striving to escape the torment of mocking, ghoulish spirits which
pursued them. Surrounding the lakes were wild marshes and deep black
forests, which were peopled by innumerable evil spirits for ever
searching for new victims to destroy. Their thunder voices were always
to be heard, low and deep, in a terrible frenzy of unceasing anger,
ever hungry for men to devour.

In analysing this description Dick Blake eliminated the phantom canoes
as the wild creation of imagination, and the thunder voices of evil
spirits he set down as nothing more nor less than the roar of the
great falls of whose existence the Indians had told.

With this elimination he accepted as fact the statement that the
region was sprinkled with many lakes, and that without the assistance
of a canoe these lakes and perhaps some wide marshes would have to be
circumvented by him and his companions before they came upon the river
above the falls, where it was expected the Mingen Indians would be
encountered.

While Dick Blake was the first to declare that the Indians must be
punished for causing the supposed death of Bob and Shad, he was no
more thoroughly in earnest than were his companions.

Normally these trappers were quiet, peace-loving men, who would have
shuddered at the thought of causing human bloodshed; but now, moved
doubtless to a large extent by a natural desire to avenge an outrage
committed upon their friends, they also felt it their plain duty to
mete out punishment to the guilty ones, in order to insure themselves
and other white trappers against further molestation. Unless this were
done there was no guarantee against continued raids upon their tilts,
and there would always be the danger, and even probability, that
sooner or later they would themselves be attacked and shot from ambush
by the emboldened savages.

The trail that Bob had made, leading up from the river tilt and along
the creek which flowed from the first lake, was plainly marked; and
they proceeded with the long, swinging stride characteristic of the
woodsman, rapidly and without a halt, to the point where the trail
entered the lake. Here a wide circuit around the lake shore was
necessary, and it was nearly noon when they fell again into the trail
at the farther end and came upon the first tilt.

"We may's well stop an' boil th' kettle," said Dick, throwing down the
light pack of provisions he carried and mopping the perspiration from
his forehead, for the mid-day sun was warm. "If we were only havin' a
canoe, now, we'd be a rare piece farther. 'Twere a long cruise around
the lake."

"Aye," agreed Ed, "a canoe'd ha' saved us a good two hours. We may's
well put th' fire on outside; 'twill be warm in th' tilt."

"Now I'm wonderin' what th' Injun lass is up to," said Dick, as they
sat down to their simple meal of fried pork and camp bread.

"She's got a canoe. There's her footin' by th' lake, where she makes
her landin'."

"They's no tellin' what an Injun's goin' t' do, but I'm not thinkin'
'twill be much harm, t' th' Mingens with just a bow an' arrer, an'
that's all she has in th' way o' weapons, so far's I makes out,"
declared Ed, adding: "She were a wonderful fine-lookin' lass; now,
weren't she?"

"That she were," agreed Dick, "wonderful handsome--an' wonderful
wild-lookin', too."

"Th' poor lad!" said Ed, after a pause. "He were buildin' th' tilt
yonder, thinkin' o' th' good furrin' he were t' have th' winter, an'
now he's gone. I'm not knowin', Dick, how t' tell his mother. You'll
have t' tell she, Dick; I couldn't stand t' tell she."

"No," objected Dick, "you were goin' an' tellin' she th' time we
thinks th' wolves gets Bob, an' you knows how. You'm a wonderful sight
better breakin' bad news than me, Ed. I'd just be bawlin' with she,
an' she cries; an' she sure will, for 'twill break her heart this
time, an' Bob sure gone."

"Maybe none of us'll be havin' th' chanct," broke in Bill. "They may
be a big passel o' Mingens, and whilst we catches some of un, th'
others won't be sittin' quiet."

"Ed an' me's keepin' a watch for signs," assured Dick, as they arose
to continue their journey. "They ain't been no signs so far, exceptin'
signs o' th' poor lads an' th' Injun lass, an' she were passin' in th'
night, by th' oldness o' her footin'."

"They ain't no danger o' findin' Injuns here, Bill," added Ed. "This
is what they calls th' ha'nted country, an' they'd be too scairt o'
ghosts an' th' devils they thinks is runnin' round loose here t' risk
theirselves."

The long detours made necessary without the assistance of a canoe so
far delayed their progress that, though they had not slackened the
rapid pace set in the morning, night found them upon the shores of one
of the intermediate lakes, with little more than half the distance to
the end of the portage trail behind them.

Here they erected a lean-to at the edge of the forest, as a reflector
for their camp-fire, and as a protection against a light but chilling
breeze that had sprung up with the setting sun; and, all made snug for
the night, they cooked and ate their supper.

Then they lighted their pipes and lounged back upon the bed of spruce
boughs under the lean-to, speculating upon the morrow, and the
probability of an encounter with the Indians.

"What's that, now?" exclaimed Ed suddenly, and cautiously rising and
taking a position beyond the glow of the fire, he stood for several
minutes gazing intently out upon the waters of the wide lake not yet
lighted by the belated moon.

"There 'tis again! Did you make un out, Dick?" he asked, as Dick and
Bill, following Ed's example of cautious exit from the range of the
fire's glow, joined him.

"No, I weren't makin' nothin' out," answered Dick.

"There were somethin' there on th' water," Ed stated positively, when
they presently returned to the lean-to.

"What were it, now? What were it like?" asked Dick.

"I seen un twict, an' 'twere lookin' t' me like a canoe, though I'm
not sayin' so for sure," explained Ed.

"I seen un," corroborated Bill, "but whether 'twere a canoe or no, I'm
noways sure--'twere so far out."

"If 'twere a canoe, 'twere Injuns," declared Ed, "an' if 'twere Injuns
they was seein' our fire, an' they'll be up t' some devilment, now,
before day."

"Be you sartin', now, you seen something?" asked Dick, a note of
scepticism in his voice.

"Sure an' sartin'," insisted Ed. "'Twere movin', an' I'm thinkin'
'twere a canoe, though I'm noways sure."

"'Twere just a loon or maybe a bunch o' geese," said Dick, still
unwilling to believe.

"'Twere movin', an' 'twere lookin' like a canoe t' me," said Bill.
"'Twere certain no loon nor geese either. 'Twere too big."

"An' we better be gettin' out o' here, too," advised Ed. "If 'twere
Injuns--an' I'm noways sure 'twere or 'tweren't--they seen th' fire,
an' th' dirty devils'll be droppin' us off an' we stays here."

"Aye," agreed Dick, "we'll be movin' on. You an' Bill both seein'
somethin', they must ha' been somethin' there, though I weren't seein'
un."

Weary as they were, the three men hastily shouldered their light
packs, and with rifles resting in the hollow of their arms, Ed in the
lead, they stole noiselessly away into the forest.

Two hours of rapid travelling, in the light of the now rising moon,
brought them to the end of the lake. Here they paused to fall upon
their knees and make a critical examination of the shore.

"Here's fresh footin'," Ed finally announced. "A canoe were launched
here since sundown. Th' gravel's wet where th' water splashed up.
They's one track o' a Injun moccasin, an' from th' smallness of un
'twere a woman."

"'Twere sure a woman," both Bill and Dick agreed.

"An' there's th' same footin' goin' t'other way, but 'tis an older
track," Ed continued.    "'Twere th' Injun lass we sees to-night goin'
back."

"Now I'm wonderin'," said Dick, as they arose, "what she's goin' back
for? Maybe now, she's lookin' t' meet us t' help her?"

"Maybe," Ed suggested, laughing, "she's finding a hull passel o'
Injuns more'n she wants t' tackle wi' just her bow an' arrer. I were
thinkin', now, a bow an' arrer weren't much t' run up ag'in a band o'
Injuns with, seein' they has guns."

"Whatever 'tis she's up to," suggested Bill, "'tisn't lookin' for us.
She couldn't ha' missed seein' our fire back here on th' shore, an'
she'd ha' known who 'twere an' come over if she's wantin' t' see us."

"You're right," agreed Dick. "She must have seen our fire, and if
she'd wanted t' see us she'd ha' come over. Now I'm wonderin' why she
didn't."

At mid-forenoon the following day the tilt on the last lake, where
Manikawan had snatched a few hours' sleep, was reached, and mounting
the ridge above, the river was discovered beyond.

At the end of the portage trail the three trappers held a hurried
consultation. At length, carefully concealing their packs among the
bushes, and with rifles held in position for instant use, they turned
noiselessly up along the river bank, following the water closely, and
taking almost exactly the course followed the previous morning by
Manikawan.

They were aware that they were now beyond the bounds of the region
avoided by the Indians, and they also had no doubt that the Indian
camp was situated farther up the river, probably at some convenient
landing-place for canoes.

Finally Ed Matheson, who had the lead, halted and held up his hand.

"Smoke," he whispered, sniffing the air. "Aye," whispered Dick, also
sniffing.

Ed now sank to his hands and knees, pausing frequently in his advance
to reconnoitre. Presently he ceased to move, his rifle extended before
him, until Dick and Bill drew along side.

"There's th' fire," he whispered, "an' there's where they was camped,
but it's lookin' t' me as if they's gone."

The smouldering embers of a camp-fire in the centre of the open spot
where the wigwam had stood the previous day, lay directly in front of
them. On a tree hung some unfinished snow-shoe frames, and there were
many signs of a hurried departure.

"What you think?" Dick whispered.

"Th' devils may be hidin' back here," answered Ed. "You an' Bill stay
now, an' watch, whilst I looks."

Very cautiously Ed stole away, and Dick Blake and Bill Campbell waited
patiently for an hour, when they discovered him walking boldly down
toward them.

"They's gone," he announced. "I seen their canoe makin' a landin' on
th' other side where th' river widens, away up above here."

An examination of the camping ground confirmed their conclusion that
the Indians had in some manner learned of their danger and had fled,
evidently in great haste, leaving behind them the snowshoe frames and
some other trifles.

"That's explainin', now, what that sneakin' Injun lass was up to,"
declared Ed.

"What were she up to, now?" asked Dick.

"She were up to this," said Ed: "she were watchin' at th' river tilt
for our comin', an' when we comes she up an' tells th' Injuns we're on
their trail, an' they gets out quick. That's why she weren't stoppin'
when she sees our fire last night, an' we'll never be seein' her
again. She's a Nascaupee, an' it's lookin' now as if th' Nascaupees
an' Mingens'll be workin' t'gether, an' if they be, they'll be layin'
for us, now, an' we got t' look out."

"Aye," agreed Dick, "that's what they'll be doin', now, an' we got t'
look out."

"Well," sighed Ed, as they turned to retrace their steps to the
portage trail, "we may's well get back an' lay our plans. Them Injun
females is worse'n wolverines; they's no trustin' any of un."



XIV

THE MATCHI MANITU IS CHEATED

"Well," said Shad, at length, "there's the sun about as high as it
will get to-day, and where's your pretty Indian girl?"

"I been thinkin', now," Bob explained, "she's sure havin' a canoe, an'
could make un t' th' river tilt an' back, by travellin' all night. But
Dick an' Ed an' Bill ain't havin' a canoe, an' if they comes they has
t' walk, an' walkin' they can't make un before some time t'morrer,
whatever. 'Tis like, now, she'll wait t' show un th' way t' where we
be, an' doin' that she won't be comin' till they does t 'morrer."

"Your logic is sound," Shad admitted,  "but it's mighty
disappointing."

"There she be!" exclaimed Bob, a moment later, as Manikawan, quite
alone, emerged from the forest hastening toward them, carrying on her
arm two coils of rope--one the coil Bob had left in the first tilt of
the new trail, and which she had observed at the time she found and
carried away Bob's rifle; the other a tracking line which the trappers
had used on their last trip up the river, and which she had discovered
in the river tilt.

"Is it well with White Brother of the Snow and his friend?" she asked,
stepping eagerly forward to the river bank.

"It is, and they are glad to see Manikawan," answered Bob.

"They will do now as Manikawan directs, and they will soon again be
free to hunt the atuk (caribou), the amishku (beaver), and the neejuk
(otter)," she promised.

With this she tied the ropes securely together, end to end, and then
producing a quantity of salmon twine, which she had appropriated for
the purpose from one of the tilts, tied an end of this to one end of
the connected ropes. She now proceeded to coil the twine carefully
upon a smooth flat rock at her feet, after which she drew from her
quiver a long, blunt-nosed arrow, and directly above the feathered end
of the arrow attached the loose end of the twine.

These preliminary arrangements completed, and her plan of rescue ready
for the test, Manikawan stood erect, bow and arrow in position, and a
moment later the arrow flew out across the water and fell upon the
gravelly point.

Ungava Bob sprang forward, seized the twine, still fast tied to the
arrow, and rapidly drew it and the end of the rope attached to the
twine to him, while Manikawan played out the coil.

"Now," said she, "let White Brother of the Snow make the line which he
has received fast and tight to the bow thwart of his canoe.

"White Brother of the Snow and his friend will then place their canoe
into the water with its bow facing the river as it comes down to meet
them. They will paddle hard against the river, for the Matchi Manitu
(bad spirit) beneath the waves will draw them backward toward the
place where the water is white and angry.

"They need not fear. Manikawan holds one end of the rope in her hand.
The other end will be fast to the canoe. Manikawan is strong and she
will not let the Matchi Manitu draw White Brother of the Snow and his
friend down.

"While White Brother of the Snow and his friend paddle, their canoe
will move toward the place where Manikawan stands. Near the shore the
spirits are weaker than where the water is deep.

"When their canoe is near the shore, Manikawan will let it go backward
very slowly to the place where the bank slopes."

Bob ran the end of rope under and around the bow thwart, as Manikawan
directed, knotting it securely, leaving sufficient length to extend
back to the centre thwart, around which he again wrapped it and
finally tied the end. This he did in order that the strain upon the
canoe might be more evenly distributed.

With Shad's rifle and shotgun and their few other possessions in the
canoe, they immediately placed it in the water. Bob held it while Shad
took a kneeling position in the stern, then himself stepped lightly to
his place in the bow, and in an instant they were afloat in the
rushing water, paddling fast and hard in order to relieve the stress
upon the long line, and to keep the canoe head on to the current.

A few moments later they found themselves close under the mainland
bank, with Manikawan letting them slip slowly down to the sloping
rock.

Though the treacherous footing on the steep, slippery incline rendered
it a hazardous undertaking, the landing was safely accomplished, and
the canoe brought ashore.

When Manikawan saw the young adventurers standing before her, her work
of rescue completed and the excitement and uncertainty of the
preceding days and nights at an end, she sank upon the ground, weak,
dazed, and overcome with fatigue.

During sixty hours her only sleep or refreshment had been that
snatched the preceding morning in the tilt, and throughout the entire
period she had been bending herself to almost superhuman effort.

After all, she was but a girl. Human emotions are pretty much the same
the world over, irrespective of race, and Manikawan, the Indian
maiden, was very human indeed in her emotions and the limit of her
physical endurance.

She looked faint and weary, indeed, as Shad and Bob bent over her
solicitously, but presently she indicated her desire to rise; and
slowly, for Manikawan's exhaustion was still apparent, Bob led the way
while the three took a direct course to the tilt on the first lake.

It was not far, and in the course of an hour, mounting a ridge, they
saw the lake shimmering below them and the little tilt nestling among
the trees on the shore.

"How good it looks! Almost homelike!" said Shad.

"Aye, almost homelike," echoed Bob.

At the tilt they made a fire under the trees, and Bob quickly brewed a
kettle of strong tea, and prepared food; and when Manikawan had taken
nourishment, she was sent into the tilt for the rest she so much
needed.

Bob and Shad were still lingering over their meal when they looked up
to find Dick Blake, Ed Matheson, and Bill Campbell staring at them
from the edge of the woods.

"Hello!" cried Shad, jumping up in pleasure to greet their friends.

"Evenin'," said Bob; "set in an' have a drop o' tea an' a bite."

"Well, now, I wern't sure I see straight!" exclaimed Ed, and the three
strode forward. "Here we was thinkin' never t' see you lads ag'in, an'
arguin' who were goin' t' break th' news o' your death t' your folks,
an' there you be, eatin'! Bob, I'm never goin' t' break th' news o'
your death ag'in till I sees you dead. I were doin' it once, an' now I
comes pretty nigh havin' to ag'in;" and Ed nearly shook Bob's arm off
in his delight.

"Aye," Dick explained, while he and Bill followed Ed in the greeting,
"th' Injun lass Manikawan comes an' tells us you lads was drove over
th' falls by Mingens."

"An' we goes out huntin' Mingens," went on Bill, "tryin' t' kill un,
an' would ha' killed un if we'd found un."

"Now, what devilment were she up to? That's what I wants t' know,
tellin' us that. They's no knowin' what a Injun'll do, leastways a
female," declared Ed.

"She was about right, now," said Bob, and he proceeded to relate the
experiences of the preceding days, while Shad now and again
interjected dramatic colour.

"Th' lass were doin' rare fine! Rare fine!" said Ed. "An' we was
thinkin' she's up t' some devilment. But why wern't you shootin' at
th' Injuns from th' canoe when they opens on you? Your repeatin' rifle
would ha' scattered un, Bob."

"I left un in th' tilt by th' first lake above th' river. Shad were
steerin', an' he weren't thinkin' t' use his'n," Bob explained.

"In th' first tilt above th' river?" Ed repeated. "We were in th'
tilt, now, Dick, when we comes through, an' there weren't any rifle
there. Rope an' tent an' other outfit, but no rifle."

"No, there weren't none there," corroborated Dick and Bill.

"Now, 'tis strange," said Bob. "I left un there, didn't I, Shad?"

"Yes, you certainly left it there, on the rear bunk," Shad affirmed
positively.

This puzzled them long, and they were never to learn the truth, for
Manikawan, on her return journey for the ropes, had replaced the rifle
exactly as she had found it, and none but herself ever knew the part
she had played in the river tragedy.

While Manikawan rested in the tilt, and Bill Campbell set out to hunt
ptarmigans for supper, Dick Blake and Ed Matheson in Manikawan's
canoe, and Bob and Shad in Shad's canoe, left upon a reconnoitering
expedition to the tilt from which the two latter were returning on the
day of the Indian attack.

They had no fear now of an Indian surprise, since Ed Matheson had
observed the retreat of the savages to the southern shore, and they
proceeded boldly to their destination.

As anticipated, the tilt had been rifled of its contents, chiefly
flour and pork. The tilt itself, however, had not been burned, and was
otherwise undisturbed.

"They was thinkin', now, t' have un an' t' use un theirselves when
they comes here t' hunt, th' winter," declared Ed. "They thinks Bob
an' Shad's done for. Unless they gets scairt out by th' ha'nts in th'
water--"

"The what?" asked Shad.

"Th' ghosts or spirits they thinks is there. They's wonderful easy
scairt, Injuns is. Oh, I knows th' Injuns; I been havin' trouble with
un before."

"When was you havin' trouble with Injuns, now?" asked Dick
sceptically.

"More'n once," said Ed. "There were th' time, now, I comes t' my tilt
an' finds a hull passel o' Mountaineers--they wan't friendly in them
days, th' Bay Mountaineers wan 't--so many they eats up a hull barrel
o' my flour t' one meal--"

"Now, Ed," broke in Dick, in evident disgust, "you been tellin' that
yarn so many times you believes un yourself. Now, don't tell un
ag'in."

"'Tis gospel truth--" Ed began.

"'Tis no kind o' truth."

"Well, an' you don't want t' hear un, I won't tell un," said Ed, with
an air of injured innocence.

"'What was it, Ed, that happened you?" asked Shad, laughing, for he
had learned to know the peculiarities of these two friends.

"Dick's not wantin' t' hear un, Shad. He gets all ruffled up when I
tells o' some happenin' I been havin' that's bigger'n any he ever has.
I won't tell un now; 'twould make he feel bad, an' I don't want t'
make he feel bad, nohow," said Ed, with mock magnanimity. "But there
were another time--I'll tell you o' this, Shad, an' Dick don't mind?"

"Oh, go ahead an' yarn, if you wants to! But th' Lard'll strike you
dead some day, Ed, for lyin';" and Dick turned toward the canoes in
disgust.

"Now Dick's mad," Ed laughed, "but don't mind he, Shad; he'll get over
un."

"As I was sayin', now, 'twas when I was layin' my trail t' th'
nu'th'ard o' Wanokapow. I gets my tilt built an' all in shape an'
stocked up, an' I goes out one mornin' lookin' t' kill a bit o' fresh
meat. 'Tis early, an' too soon t' set up th' traps, for th' fur ain't
prime.

"I gets a porcupine, which is all I wants, an' comin' down t' my
second tilt about th' middle o' th' forenoon, finds un all afire an' a
band o' twelve Injuns--I counts un, an' they's just a dozen--lookin'
on, an' dividin' up my things, which they takes out o' th' tilt before
they fires un.

"Now I were mad--too mad t' be scairt--an' I steps right down among
th' Injuns, an' when they sees me lookin' fierce an' ready t' kill un
all, they's too scairt t' do a thing or t' run, an' they just stands
lookin' at me.

"Well, I keeps on lookin' wonderful fierce, an' jumps about a bit an'
hollers. It makes me laugh now t' think how that passel o' Injuns
stared! One of un tells me a couple o' years after that they thinks I
gone crazy.

"'Tisn't long till I gets un all so scairt they thinks I'm goin' t'
shoot un all up, an' they's afeared t' run, thinkin' if they does I'll
start right in quick.

"Then I thinks it's time t' break th' news t' un, an' I tells un if
they builds th' tilt up new for me I'll let un off. An' they starts
right in t' build un, an' has un all done before th' sun sets. Th'
same tilt's standin' there yet--'

"Ed!" called Dick, from the canoe, "if you're through yarnin', come on
now an' get started back. It'll be dark now before we gets t' th'
tilt."

It was dark when they reached the tilt. Bill, sitting alone by the
camp-fire, had seen nothing of Manikawan while they were gone, and
none of them ventured to enter the tilt or to disturb her.

But, when they arose from their bed of boughs in the lee of the tent
the following I morning, they found that the fire at their feet had
been renewed while they slept. Manikawan was not in the tilt, but
presently they discovered her, standing upon the pinnacle of rock near
the lake shore, looking toward the glowing East, immovable as a
statue, picturesque and beautiful in her primitive Indian costume.

As the rim of the sun appeared above the horizon and the marvellous
colourings of the morning melted into the fuller light of day,
Manikawan extended her arms before her for a moment, then descended
from her rock, and, observing that her friends were astir, she
approached them, her face glowing with the health and freshness of
youth, and bearing no trace of the ordeal through which she had
passed.

"White Brother of the Snow, the matchi manitu has been cheated. You
have escaped from his power, and you will live long in the beautiful
world," said she, for the first time adopting a more personal and
affectionate form of address. "Manikawan's heart is as the rising sun,
bright and full of light. It is as the earth, when the sun shines in
summer, warm and happy. It soars like the gulls, no longer weighted
with trouble."

"Manikawan is my good sister, and I am glad she is happy," responded
Bob. "White Brother of the Snow and his friend will never forget that
she outwitted the Matchi Manitu. They will never forget what she did."

Ungava Bob and Bill Campbell, sharing the canoe with Manikawan, Dick
Blake and Ed Matheson the canoe with Shad Trowbridge, they reached the
river tilt that evening. Manikawan was radiantly happy, but Bob,
uncertain as to what course she might decide upon, and well aware that
any attempt to send her back to her people would prove quite fruitless
if she chose to remain with them, was much disturbed in mind. He sat
long by the campfire that night, before he joined his companions in
the tent, still undetermined what he should do to rid himself of her.

When morning came Manikawan gave no hint of going until breakfast was
eaten. Then with her customary promptness of action, standing before
Ungava Bob, she announced:

"Manikawan will now return to the lodge of Sishetakushin, her father,
and wait for White Brother of the Snow. He is safe from the Matchi
Manitu. She will wait and be contented. She will know that he is in
the country of her people. She will wait for him till the sun grows
timid and afraid, till the Spirit of the Frost grows bold and strong.
Then White Brother of the Snow will come to the lodge of
Sishetakushin, and there he will rest. Manikawan will prepare for him
his nabwe (stew) and make for him warm garments from the skin of the
atuk."

Without further preliminary or adieu, she lifted her canoe upon her
head and disappeared as unexpectedly as she had appeared.



XV

THE PASSING OF THE WILD THINGS

It was already too late in the season to attempt further distribution
of supplies with the canoe. Therefore, the boat and canoe were carried
to a safe distance above the river, and a shelter of logs erected over
them, that they might not be crushed under the weight of snow
presently to come.

Two days later the lakes were clogged with ice, and a week later the
first fall of snow that was to remain throughout the winter fell to a
depth of several inches.

Then came an interval of waiting, but not of idleness, for Ungava Bob
or Ed Matheson. Their new tilts were unsupplied with stretching boards
for furs and many other necessities, in the preparation of which they
occupied themselves at the river tilt, while the others lent a hand;
though nearly every day Dick Blake or Bill Campbell accompanied Shad
on hunting expeditions which resulted in keeping the larder well
supplied with geese, ducks--now in their southward flight--ptarmigans,
and an occasional porcupine.

The birds were all fat and in splendid condition. The ptarmigans, now
changing their mottled brown-and-white coat for the pure white plumage
of winter, were gathered into large flocks, and easily had. A
considerable number were killed with the first blast of frosty
weather, and, together with a few ducks and geese, stored where they
would freeze and keep sweet for future use.

With the last week of October active trapping began, when fur, though
not yet at its best, was in excellent condition.

With November winter fell upon the land in all its sub-Arctic rigour.
For a day and a night a blizzard raged, so blinding, so terrific, and
with the temperature so low that none dared venture out; and when the
weather cleared, the snow, grown so deep that snowshoes were essential
in travel, no longer melted under the mid-day sun.

Socks of heavy woollen duffel were now necessary to protect the feet,
and buckskin moccasins, with knee-high leggings, took the place of
sealskin boots.

In the final distribution of supplies among the tilts, long, narrow
Indian toboggans were brought into service, and the loads hauled upon
the toboggans.

Martens and foxes were the animals chiefly sought at this season.
There were two methods followed in setting the marten traps. Where a
tree of sufficient diameter was available, it was cut off as high as
the trapper could wield his axe above the snow, and a notch about four
inches deep and fourteen inches high cut some distance below the top
of the stump and several feet above the snow. The bottom of this notch
was given a level surface with the axe, the trap set upon it, and the
bait hung in the side of the notch a foot above the trap. At other
times an enclosure was made with spruce boughs, and in a narrow
opening the trap was set, with the bait within the enclosure.

Fox traps were set upon the marshes, and baited with rabbits which had
been hung in the tilt until they began to smell badly, or with other
scraps of flesh. The trap securely fastened by its chain to a block of
wood or the base of willow brush, was carefully concealed under a thin
crust of snow.

The usual routine followed by Ungava Bob, after his trail was once in
order and his traps set, was to leave the river tilt on Monday
morning, and by a wide circuit around lake shores and marshes,
embracing a distance of some fifteen miles, reach his tilt at the far
end of the first lake at night. On Tuesday another wide circle of
traps around contiguous lakes brought him back again at night to the
same tilt. On Wednesday his trail led him to the tilt on the last lake
of the old portage trail.

His original intention had been to continue from this tilt to the tilt
which the Indians had robbed, and thence to the last tilt on Ed
Matheson's trail, some fifteen miles to the northeast. But after the
appearance of the Indians it had been deemed unsafe and inadvisable to
do this, and the tilt on the river above the portage trail was,
therefore, temporarily abandoned.

With this modification, his Thursday circuit of traps was so arranged
that it brought him back at night to the tilt on the last lake, and on
Friday he proceeded to Ed Matheson's last tilt. This arrangement
carried him during the five days over seventy-five miles of trail
along which his traps were distributed.

Ed Matheson's trail was so arranged that he also arrived at his last
tilt on Friday evening, and he and Bob thus shared the tilt each
fortnight from Friday until Monday.

Saturdays were occupied in making repairs and in doing the thousand
and one odd jobs always at hand, Sunday in rest, and on Monday the
return journey began which brought them to the river tilt on the
following Friday, unless by chance they were delayed by storms.

This was the point of fortnightly rendezvous for the four
trappers--the junction point of all their trails. Dick Blake's and
Bill Campbell's trails took them in opposite directions, and during
their period of absence from the river tilt neither saw any of his
companions.

The fortnightly reunion at the river tilt was naturally an occasion
they all looked forward to. It gave an opportunity to compare notes
upon their success, to recount experiences, and to satisfy for a time
the human craving for companionship.

Shad made the first outward journey with Bob, and returned with Ed
Matheson. Then he made a round with Dick Blake, and finally a round
with Bill Campbell.

Every feature of the work was new and interesting to Shad Trowbridge,
and for a time he enjoyed it hugely. But presently it dropped into a
dreary, monotonous routine. The vast, unbroken solitude, the endless
tramping over endless snow, day after day, and the lack of adventure
to which he had looked forward, served presently to make him moody and
irritable.

Shad had hoped for sport with his rifle, but no big game had been
seen--not so much as the track of a caribou. Long before this the last
goose and duck had passed southward. Not a bird save the ever-present
jay had been encountered in upward of three weeks. Even the rabbits,
whose tracks had criss-crossed the early snow in every direction and
packed it down along the willow brush, had unaccountably disappeared.
The stock of fresh meat, save a pair of geese and three pairs of
ptarmigans reserved for a Christmas feast, was exhausted.

These were extraordinary conditions. The men declared that never
before in their experience had they observed so complete a
disappearance of game. Caribou were usually rather numerous in
November. In previous years ptarmigans and spruce grouse had been so
plentiful that they were easily killed when needed. One year in every
nine rabbits were said to vanish, but otherwise the total absence of
game was inexplicable.

It was a condition, too, that caused uneasiness. The flour and pork
brought into the country by the trappers was far from adequate to
supply their needs. Sufficient wild game to at least double their
provision supply was an absolute essential if they were to continue on
the trails. Thus far the early game had supplied their requirements,
but the prospects for the future were disquieting.

At the end of the first week in December, Bill Campbell and Shad
returned from their fortnight on the trail to find their friends
already at the river tilt and discussing the situation.

"What you havin', this cruise, Bill?" asked Dick, when the greetings
were over.

"Th' worst cruise I ever has," Bill replied, as he drew off his
adicky. "One white fox--nothin' else, an' no footin' now t' speak of.
Shad an' me never see a hair or feather barrin' th' fox I catches, an'
he were a poor un."

"I gets one marten an' a red, up an' back," said Dick. "Ed gets
nothin', an' Bob gets one marten. 'Tis a wonderful bad showin'."

"Aye, a wonderful bad showin', gettin' never a hair, an' that's what I
gets," declared Ed, in disgust. "If th' next cruise don't show a
wonderful lot better, I starts for th' Bay th' mornin' after
Christmas, an' I'll not be comin' back till th' middle o' February,
whatever."

The dough bread, fried pork, and tea, which Ed and Bob had been
preparing, were ready, and, the meal disposed of, pipes were lighted
and the discussion of the all-important question was resumed.

"'Tisn't th' havin' a poor cruise now an' again's what's botherin'
me," began Ed, "but they ain't no footin'; and where they ain't no
footin', they ain't nothin'; an' where they ain't nothin', they ain't
no use huntin' it."

"They ain't even a pa'tridge t' be killed for th' pot," complained
Bill.

"No, an' we'll be seein' th' end of our grub, with nothin' t' help
out, by th' end o' February, whatever," Ed dolefully prophesied.

"Isn't there danger of scurvy if we have nothing but salt pork to
eat?" asked Shad.

"That they is, sure as shootin'," agreed Ed.

"If you'd like to go along with me, Shad," suggested Bob, who up to
this time had said little, "we'll take a flat-sled with your tent an'
a tent stove, an' a couple weeks' grub, an' go down t' th' nu'th'ard
an' see if we can't run onto some deer. Th' deer's somewheres, an' if
they ain't here they must be t' th' nu'th'ard."

"Of course I'll go with you, Bob," said Shad, delighted with the
prospect of individual action and new experiences.

"An' you may be runnin' into some o' th' Mountaineers an' Nascaupees
down north, an' let un know about th' tradin' next year," suggested
Dick. "If you tells one Injun, th' hull passel o' both tribes'll know
about un. Things travels wonderful fast among th' Injuns."

The following day two toboggans were packed with the provisions and
equipment sufficient for a two weeks' absence, together with a
considerable quantity of tea in addition to their probable
requirements, and some plug tobacco, designed as gifts for the
Indians.

Long before daylight on Monday morning adieus were said and the two
young adventurers turned into the frozen, silent wastes to the
northward, Bob in the lead making a rapid pace, Shad following, and
each hauling his toboggan.



XVI

ALONE WITH THE INDIANS

At the edge of every frozen marsh and lake Ungava Bob paused to
reconnoitre for caribou, but always to be disappointed, and when he
and Shad halted at sundown to pitch their night camp, no living thing
had they seen.

Shad's small wedge tent was stretched between two trees, snow was
banked around it on the outside, and a thick bed of boughs spread upon
the snow within. Two short butts of logs were placed at proper
distance apart near the entrance and inside the tent, the tent stove
set upon them, and with an ample supply of wood cut and split, their
night shelter, with a roaring fire in the stove, was warm and cosy.

The days that followed were equally as disappointing. The smooth white
surface of the snow was unmarred by track of beast or bird. No living
creature stirred. No sound broke the silence. The frozen world was
dead, and the silence was the silence of the sepulchre.

"It's so quiet you can hear it," Shad remarked once when they halted
to make tea.

"Aye," said Bob, "'tis that, and they's no footin' of even rabbits. I
can't make un out."

On the afternoon of the third day after leaving the river tilt, they
came upon the southern shore of the Great Lake of the Indians, and
turning westward presently discovered Sishetakushin's wigwam.

The travellers received a warm welcome from the Indians. Sishetakushin
and Mookoomahn were indeed noisy and effusive in their greeting.
Manikawan radiated pleasure, but she and her mother, a large, fat
woman, as became their status as women, remained in the background.

The Indians had killed some caribou early in the season, and jerked
the meat. They had just killed a bear whose winter den they had
discovered, and over the fire was a kettle of stewing beaver meat,
upon which they feasted their visitors.

At the proper time Bob presented them with tea, Shad gave them each
some tobacco, and then Bob told them of his proposed trading project.

"My people will be glad," said Sishetakushin, "and you will have much
trade."

It developed in the course of conversation that the Indians were
preparing to move at once to the Lake of Willows (Petitsikapau), to
the northwest, in the hope of meeting caribou, for none had been seen
by them since those they had killed in early fall.

They were to cache some of their provisions near the Great Lake; and
when they had made a sufficient kill in the North to supply them with
food, were to return to their cache near the Great Lake to trap
martens, for in the more northerly country, where wide barrens take
the place of forests, martens are rarely to be found.

"Bob, here's a chance I've been hoping for," said Shad, when Bob
interpreted to him the Indians' plan. "Do you think they would be
willing to let me go with them until their return here, if I gave them
some tobacco?"

"They's no tellin', Shad, how long they'll be away," suggested Bob.

"But I want to go if they'll let me go. Please ask them," insisted
Shad.

"But they may not be findin' deer, an' if they don't find un they
won't be comin' back here till th' end o' winter. You don't want t' be
with un th' rest o' th' winter, Shad; 'twill be rougher cruisin' than
with us," Bob warned.

"Ask them. I'm going if they'll have me along;" and Shad displayed in
his tone a suggestion of resentment that Bob should question the
advisability of anything upon which he had determined.

The Indians discussed the matter at some length before finally giving
Bob an affirmative decision.

"They says you can go, Shad, but they'll not promise t' be back here
for two months, whatever, an' when they does they'll come t' th' river
tilt with you," said Bob.

"Good! It'll give me some change of experience, and the chance to
study their life and customs that I've wanted;" and Shad was elated
with the prospect.

Partly because of the earnest solicitation of his Indian friends, but
chiefly in the hope of  dissuading Shad from his determination, Bob
remained in the Indian camp the remainder of the week. While they
still maintained a degree of reserve toward Shad, Bob was treated in
every respect as one of them.

Manikawan made him the object of her particular attention. She waited
upon him as the Indian women wait upon their lords, anticipating his
needs.

In expectation of his coming she had, after her return from the river
tilt, made for him a beautiful coat of caribou skins. The hair, left
on the skins, made a warm lining, while the outside of the coat,
tanned as soft and white as chamois, was decorated with designs
painted in colours. Attached to it was a hood of wolfskin.

Accompanying the coat was a pair of long, close-fitting buckskin
leggings, and a pair of buckskin moccasins, both decorated, and the
whole comprising the typical winter suit of a Nascaupee hunter.

Manikawan's attentions were extremely irritating to Bob, but he could
not well avoid them, and to have declined to accept the gift which she
had made especially for him in anticipation of his coming, would have
caused her keen disappointment. So he accepted them and donned them,
to her evident delight.

"Shad," said Bob, on the Sunday evening after their arrival "I has t'
start back in th' mornin', an' you better be goin' with me."

"No," insisted Shad, "I'll stick to the Indians for a while."

The following morning Bob bade them adieu.

"Take care of yourself, old man," said Shad. "I'll see you in a month
or so."

"I hopes so, Shad, an' you take care o' yourself, now. I'm fearin' t'
leave you, Shad."

"Oh, I know how to look out for myself," declared Shad. "Don't worry
about me."

Turning to Manikawan, who stood mutely waiting for the word of
farewell that she hoped Bob would bestow upon her, he said, in the
Indian tongue:

"White Brother of the Snow must go to his hunting grounds. He is
leaving behind him his friend. Will Manikawan minister to his friend
as she would to him? Will she see that no harm comes to him?"

"Manikawan will do as White Brother of the Snow directs," she
answered. "She will minister to his friend's needs. She will make for
his friend the nabwe. His friend will not be hungry. Manikawan will
care for him until White Brother of the Snow is weary of hunting and
comes again to Sishetakushin's lodge. She will do this because he is
the friend of White Brother of the Snow."

Then Bob turned into the white, frigid waste to the southward, and
Shad was alone with the Indians.



XVII

CHRISTMAS AT THE RIVER TILT

Christmas fell on Thursday that year, and it had been arranged that
the trappers, by turning back on their trails the preceding Saturday
instead of waiting as was their custom until Monday, and by slighting
some of the less important sections of the trails on their return
trip, should gather at the river tilt on Wednesday evening, in order
to celebrate the holiday with a feast.

It was late on Christmas eve when Ungava Bob, returning from the
Indian camp, drew his toboggan into the clearing in the centre of
which stood the river tilt. Its roof was scarcely visible in the
moonlight above the high drifted snow. He had hoped that some of the
others might have arrived before him, but no smoke issued from the
pipe, and fresh drifted, untrodden snow around the door told him that
he was the first.

It was fearfully cold. Rime filled the air. The deerskin coat which
Manikawan had given him, and which he wore, was thick coated with
frost.

He paused before the door and stood for a moment to painfully pick
away the ice that had accumulated upon his eyelashes, partially
closing his eyelids, and discovered that his nose and cheeks were
frost-bitten. He drew his right hand from its mitten, and holding his
nose in the bare palm, covered the exposed hand with the mittened palm
of the other, quickly rubbing the frosted parts with the warm palm to
restore circulation.

Presently, satisfied that the frost had been removed from nose and
cheeks, he kicked off his snowshoes, shovelled the accumulated snow
from the doorway with one of them, set the snowshoes on end in the
snow at one side, and entering the tilt lighted a candle and kindled a
fire in the stove.

Taking the kettle from the stove and an axe from a corner, he passed
out of the tilt and down to the river, chopped open the water hole,
filled the kettle, and returning set it over to heat.

Unpacking his toboggan and stowing the things away, he leaned it end
up against the tilt, brought a bucket of water from the river for
culinary use, removed his deerskin coat, and settled down in the now
comfortable tilt to prepare supper and await his friends.

Presently he heard a movement outside, and a moment later Dick Blake
poked his head in at the door.

"Evenin', Bob," he greeted. "Glad t' see you. Th' tilt smells fine an'
warm! Where's Shad?" he asked, entering and rubbing his hands over the
stove.

"Stoppin' wi' th' Injuns. I were tryin' t' get he t' come back, but he
thinks he wants t' go huntin' deer with un, an' stays," explained Bob.
"Any fur?"

"Only one marten an' one otter, but they's good uns. No sign o' foxes.
But foxes won't stay when th' rabbits goes;" and Dick went out to
unpack.

Presently Bill Campbell arrived, and a little later Ed Matheson drew
his long form through the low doorway, his red beard laden with ice.

"Where's Shad?" he asked, after greetings were exchanged.

Bob explained Shad's absence.

"Well, now!" he exclaimed. "Shad must ha' been gettin' light-headed t'
do that. Well, he's welcome t' 'bide 'long with Injuns if he wants to,
but I'm thinkin' by about now he's wishin' he was where he ain't. An'
by t'morrer he'll have boiled goose an' fried pa'tridges on his mind,
an' wishin' harder 'n ever he were back here in th' river tilt."

"He were wantin' th' hunt, an' now he may not find un so bad," said
Bob.

"He won't be havin' no feather-bed time cruisin' about with Injuns,"
insisted Ed. "Shad's gettin' wonderful peevish an' sot in his way
lately. He's thinkin' o' th' fine grub an' good times he's been havin'
t' that college place he talks about, instead o' thinkin' o' how he
likes rabbit meat three times a day an' betwixt meals when you an' him
was 'bidin' a time on th' island over here because you wasn't havin'
wings t' fly off, an' they wa'n't no other way t' get off till th'
Injun lass takes you off."

"Shad weren't gettin' peeved," objected Bob, ready to defend his
absent friend. "He were just disappointed at findin' no huntin', an'
he 'bides with th' Injuns t' get some deer."

"Maybe so, but Shad'll be glad enough t' get back t' th' river tilt,
an' when he is gettin' back he'll be findin' it fine. He'll be
thinkin' o' th' tough cruisin' with th' Injuns instead o' th' grub at
his college place, an' that'll make he think 'tis fine in th' tilts.
That's the way it mostly is with folks. They always wants somethin'
they ain't got, an' when they gets un they wants somethin' else. An'
like's not then they wants what they was havin' first, because they
can't have un now."

Ed paused to pour a cup of tea and help himself to pork.

"Shad's a good mate, though," he continued magnanimously. "He ain't
gettin' used t' th' bush yet. That's all's th' matter with he. He'll
get used t' un after a bit, an' then he won't be gettin' peeved like
he is now."

"I'm wishin' he weren't stayin' back with th' Injuns now. I'm fearin'
he'll be havin' a hard time of un--an' I'm fearin' he may be gettin'
in trouble not knowin' how t' take un," Bob remarked solicitously.

"I'm wonderful sorry, now, he stays wi' th' Injuns. 'Twould be fine
t' have he here for Christmas," agreed Ed, as he drew a plug of black
tobacco from his pocket and began to shave some of it into the hollow
of his hand, preparatory to filling his pipe.

"Any fur this trip?" asked Bob.

"Two martens--both fine uns. Not so bad. How'd you make un, Dick?"

"I gets one marten an' shoots an otter," answered Dick.

"You gettin' any, Bill?" asked Ed, turning to Bill, who was reclining
in one of the bunks and smoking in luxurious contentment.

"Aye, one marten, an' I shoots a wolf last evenin'--a wonderful poor
wolf, an' his skin ain't much account. Three of un were after me on
th' trail all day, but I only gets one."

"Three wolves, now--an' poor uns," commented Dick. "Wolves ain't
follerin' a man all day unless they's hungry, an' they ain't like t'
be hungry where they's deer."

"No," agreed Ed, who had lighted his pipe, one moccasined heel drawn
up on the edge of the bunk upon which he lounged, the other long leg
stretched out. "Wolves follers th' deer, but when they ain't no deer
t' faller they don't faller un. Which means they ain't no deer in this
part o' th' country, an' so they just naturally fallers Bill as th'
next best meat."

"An' bein' poor means they's hungry, an' bein' hungry means they's
lickin' their chops for Bill," continued Dick.

"Were it night, now?" asked Ed.

"No, 'twere broad day," answered Bill, undisturbed.

"Now if 'twere night, I'd say they was follerin' you because your red
hair lights th' trail up for un."

"'Tain't no redder 'n your'n," retorted Bill.

"Never mind un, Bill," said Bob sympathetically. "Ed's jealous because
your hair's curly an' his 'n ain't."

"Now, how about gettin' grub?" suggested Ed, when the laugh had
subsided. "They ain't nothin' t' kill, an' we got t' haul grub in from
th' Bay. I'm thinkin' t' start down Friday, an' if one o' you wants t'
go along, we'll both haul up a load on our flatsleds. How'd you like
t' go, Bill? They's a moon, an' by travellin' some at night we'll make
th' Bay for th' New Year, goin' light, an' be back by th' first o'
February, whatever, with our loads."



"I'd like wonderful well t' go!" answered Bill, elated at the prospect
of a visit to the Bay, brief as it would be.

"What you think of un?" asked Ed, addressing Dick and Bob jointly.

"We got t' have grub if we stays on th' trails," agreed Dick, "an'
they's no sign o' killin' any meat."

"Aye, we'll all have t' leave th' trails by th' first o' March,
whatever, unless some of us goes for grub," said Bob.

"Bill an' me bein' away'll stretch th' grub we has, for Bill be a
wonderful eater--" Bill interjected a protest, but Ed, ignoring it,
continued: "An' what we hauls back on th' flatsleds'll carry us over
th' spring trappin'. We'll be startin' early on Friday. We'll go down
your trail an' spring your traps up on th' way out, Bill."

A late breakfast of fried ptarmigans, and a late afternoon dinner of
boiled goose, with an evening "snack" of ptarmigan before
retiring--the last of the game reserved from the fall
shooting--together with camp bread and tea, comprised the Christmas
menu.

Directly after breakfast Ed and Bill made ready for packing on their
toboggans the light outfit which they were to use on their outward
trip; and this done, the four held a service of song in which all
joined heartily, and spent the remainder of the day luxuriously
lounging in the tilt and telling stories.

Shad was sincerely missed. He had looked forward keenly to the
Christmas feast, and many hearty good wishes were expressed for
him--that even among the Indians he might pass a pleasant day--that he
would not find the hardships so great as his friends had feared--and
that he would soon return to them in safety and none the worse for his
experiences.

Then the thoughts turned to home, and speculations as to what the
far-off loved ones were doing at the moment.

"I'm thinkin' a wonderful lot of home now," said Bob. "Tell Mother an'
Father, Ed, I'm safe an' thinkin' of un every day, an' of Emily, away
off somewheres in St. Johns t' school. It's makin' me rare lonesome t'
think o' home without Emily there. An'--an'--tell Mother, Ed--I never
forgets my prayers."

"That I will, lad!" promised Ed heartily. "An' what you wantin' me t'
say t' Bessie

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