CHILDREN OF THE NORTH
Each day the sun’s brief reign was growing less. There was perhaps six
hours of daylight, fiercely bright when the snow clouds permitted, but
otherwise grey and cold, and without beneficence. To the human mind day
was no longer a thing of joy, but only a respite in which to complete
those labours essential to existence in the northern wilderness before
the long twilight of night finally closed down upon the world.
At the farm on the Caribou preparations for the winter were already in
full swing. Already the reindeer herd had been passed up to the shelter
of the hills to roam well-nigh free through the dark aisles of the
woodland bluffs which lined the deeper valleys of the great divide, out
of the heart of which the waters of the Caribou sprang. The labour of
banking the outer walls of the homestead with soil for greater security
against the cold had been completed. For the ground was already
hardening under the sharp night frosts, and almost any day now might see
the first flurry of snow. Daily the hauling of fuel went on from the
distant forest bluff which sheltered the ruins of the missionary’s home
where the Kid had first seen the light of the northern day. And this
work was undertaken by the boys, and the half-breed Eskimos, whose work
amongst the deer herd had ceased with its departure to the hills in
search of winter keep.
Life just now was a sheer routine. A routine which demanded faithful
observance. The least neglect might well spell disaster for those who
knew the narrowness of the margin in human victory over the merciless
winter season. But these northern people knew the routine of it by
heart, and nothing would be neglected, nothing forgotten. The haulage of
fuel would go on far into the winter, and when the world froze up and
the white pall was spread over its dead body only the method of its
transport would be changed.
But for all the drear of outlook in the coming season life was
apparently no less the care-free thing which the youth of the farm so
surely made it appear. Childish laughter was proof against a falling
sun. It was proof against the anxious labour of it all, just as it was
proof against the contemplation of unending darkness. It was almost as
though the change had its appeal. Was not the twilight of winter
something to inspire imagination? Was not the fierce blizzard, when the
world was completely blinded for days on end, something to confront and
defy with all the hardy spirit of youth? Was not the brilliant aurora
something about which to weave romantic dreams as fantastic as was the
great crescent of dancing light itself? And the ghostly northern lights,
and the brilliant night-lit heavens, with their moon, and reflected
moons, were not these matters in which the budding human mind could find
a wealth of inspiration for the riot of imagination?
Yes, the long night of winter was not without its appeal to the young
life on the Caribou River. Only was it for those elders, who knew its
desperateness, who had long since learned the littleness of human life
in the monstrous battle of the elements, a season of grave anxiety that
left them indifferent to the irresponsible imaginings and dreamings of
those at the threshold of life.
For Mary Justicia down to the youthful Jane Constance, with her curling
brown hair and her velvet dark eyes, the coming of winter was a season
of exciting interest. And this year even more so than usual. This year
there was a curious hopeful change in their lives. The measure of it,
perhaps, they failed to fully understand. But the effect was there, and
they felt its influence. They one and all knew that Usak had returned
with a really good trade. Usak was the genius of their lives, and this
year he had waved his magic wand to some purpose. They had heard
whispers amongst their elders of a good time coming. They had heard the
Kid and their mother discussing colours and materials for suitings. They
had heard talks of dollars in thousands. And visions of canned
delicacies, of nice, fat, sticky syrup, and succulent preserves, had
crept into their yearning minds.
But that was not all. There was a wondrous change in the hero of their
youthful worship. The Kid’s smile was rarely shadowed as she ordered
their lives. A soft delight looked out of her pretty eyes which shone
with happy contentment whatever their childish aggravations. Then the
mother of them all. Infrequent and gentle as were her scoldings
generally, just now she seemed to have utterly forgotten her dispensing
of them. The wash tub claimed her, her needle claimed her, her cooking
claimed her, leaving her happily oblivious to their many and frequent
shortcomings.
Then there were the gold seekers on the river. The laughing, red-headed
Irishman, who had vanished up the river with the rivermen and those
poorer whites in whom they were less interested. But the two others
visited the homestead pretty regularly, and laughed, and talked, and did
their best to make life one long joy for them.
Especially was this the case with the man Bill Wilder. Bill Wilder had
caught the fancy of all, from their mother down to the merry Janey,
whose table manners were a source of never-ending anxiety to Hesther.
The children loved him as children will so often love a big man who is
never reluctant to encourage their games. Perse clung to him at every
opportunity. Was he not a gold man, and was not his coming to Caribou a
justification of his own boyish dreams of gold? Clarence found in him a
kindred spirit of the trail. And Alg sought his advice on his domestic
labours on any and every excuse. But Gladys Anne and Janey were his
favourites—next to the smiling Kid.
And the mother looked on, watchful and wisely alert. Her busy mind was
full of speculation and contentment. She was thinking how she and her
brood would fare should these men ultimately find the gold they sought.
She refused to build on the notion. It was not her way. And just now, as
a result of Usak’s return, she felt that ways and means were less
pressing, and so, in her easy philosophy, that aspect of the position
was permitted to drift into the background.
The Kid was her main thought just now. Her woman’s wisdom was sufficient
for her to grasp the real meaning of Wilder’s frequent attendance at the
farm. It was plainly written in his manner. It was still more plainly
written in the manner of the girl in his absence. She had long since
dragged the full story of their original meeting at the Hekor rapids
from the diffident and almost reluctant girl. She had laughingly chidden
her for her long reticence. She had even admonished her for the
invitation she had flung at him, a gold man stranger.
But under it all, away back in her simple woman’s mind she nursed the
romance of it all, and hoped and hoped, while yet she gravely feared for
the orphan she had mothered.
The brief days flew rapidly by. Almost every night the tall figure of
Wilder came up from the river bearing something for their supper, which
he was scrupulously determined to share. The meal was partaken of by the
yellow light of an oil lamp. Big Bill, as the children loved to call
him, was for a brief while a part of the family, and sat around in the
warm kitchen, smoking and laughing, and submitting to the ready banter
which his search for gold on the Caribou inspired. Then later he strode
off to his canoe lying drawn up on the river bank, and, not
infrequently, he was accompanied by some of the elder children, and on
occasions by the Kid, herself, alone.
Of all the folk at the homestead Usak took no delight in these visits.
He definitely resented them. But he said no word, and simply refrained
from taking any part in the welcome extended to the intruding whiteman.
There was never a protest forthcoming. His protest had been made on the
occasion he had stirred the Kid to wrath, and he had no desire to
experience another such encounter. So he remained at his labours in his
own quarters, watchful, alert, determined. And he made his preparations
for the winter trail which was to yield something approaching affluence
for those he served.
It was at the end of his first week on the river that Bill’s voice
hailed the homestead as he came up from the landing, bearing a string of
a dozen or more speckled mountain trout. The night was dark with heavy
cloud, but the younger children raced out of the house to meet him at
his summons.
A few moments later Perse dashed into his mother’s presence flourishing
the shining fish at her.
“It’s a dandy bunch, Mum,” he cried, sprawling them on the table.
“They’re for supper. Big Bill’s comin’ right along up with Janey an’
Gladys Anne.”
He turned to the Kid who was gazing down at the fish without any display
of interest. The boy’s grinning eyes were full of mischief. He came
round to her side and looked into her unsmiling eyes.
“Guess you didn’t get it, Kid,” he said. “Big Bill’s comin’ right along
up.”
Then he jumped and ran for the door under a swift cuff that came from
his mother’s work-worn hand.
“Be right off you imp o’ perdition,” she cried. “The Kid ain’t worried
whose comin’ to this house. Ef I get that talk agin ther’s a rawhide
waitin’ on you.”
Then she moved to the girl’s side. She reached up and laid a sympathetic
hand on her slim shoulder.
“Say, Kid,” she said, with a gentle smile. “Ther’s scarce a night he
don’t come along.” She glanced hastily round the room to be sure they
were alone. “Are you kind o’ glad?” she ventured anxiously. “Does it
make you feel sort o’—glad?”
The girl smiled down into the soft brown eyes. She nodded.
“Yes, Mum, I’m just glad all through.” She paused. “But I was kind of
thinking. It was fixed Clarence was to make the trail to Placer with
Usak. Well, Usak don’t reckon it’s safe to trust to him—a boy. He
figgers I best go.”
The mother nodded. Then she drew a deep breath.
“He’s queer,” she said. “I reckon he hates Big Bill Wilder.”
The Kid laughed, but it was without mirth.
“He surely does, Mum,” she said with bitter emphasis.
* * * * *
The man was standing just inside the doorway. The pleasant warmth was
welcome enough in contrast to the sharp night air outside. But he made
no attempt to remove the seal parka which had replaced the thick
pea-jacket he usually wore.
“No,” he said with a laugh, in response to the mother’s urging to “sit
around” while she prepared the supper. “Guess I’m not eating with you
dear folk to-night.” His gaze sought the shyly smiling eyes of the Kid.
“There aren’t enough of those trout to make a right feed for the bunch.
And, anyway, Chilcoot and I are making a party to ourselves.”
He turned to the mother who was at the stove, about to shake down the
ashes and fire-up for the preparation of the evening meal.
“We’d have fancied askin’ you all, the whole bunch, to come right along
up and eat with us. But I guess the kiddies need to make their blankets
early, and anyway our camp fixings aren’t unlimited. So we reckoned to
ask you, mam, and the Kid, here, and say one of the boys. That ’ud leave
Mary and the other standing guard over the bunch of mischief you leave
behind to see they don’t choke themselves. And there’s always the great
Usak to see no harm comes to them. Do you feel like making the trip?
Chilcoot’s waiting around at the landing, and ther’s two canoes to take
us up.”
“Say, if that ain’t real mean.”
It was Perse, who had flung himself into the chair usually at the
disposal of Big Bill on his evening visits. His small body was lost in
the ample rawhide seat.
“I call that dirt mean,” he went on, in an aggrieved treble. “What you
makin’ the party for, Bill? Ha’ you made the big ‘strike’?” Then his
intelligent grey eyes turned shrewdly on the Kid. “Guess I know though.
I’ll—”
For a second time he hastily vacated the room. The ready hand of the
mother, quick as it was, had no time to descend before he had jumped
clear.
“Yes,” she cried after him, “you beat it, and send Clarence along right
at once. He’s working around with Usak an’ Alg in the fur store. You ken
send Mary Justicia right along, too.”
Then she turned to the smiling man who found keen amusement in the
outrageous Perse.
“He’s an imp, that’s what he is,” she declared, while the Kid moved
quickly to the stove and shook it down. “But that’s real kind of you,
Bill. I’d like fine to come along and eat with you, but I guess these
‘God’s Blessings’ o’ mine ’ud run wild without me. Would you fancy
takin’ Mary Justicia along, and that bright little feller, Perse, an’
Clarence, an’ the Kid? I’ll pass Perse a word and set him behavin’
right. He’ll make one more bit for you to feed than you reckon, but I
don’t guess that’ll worry your outfit. He can take his own platter an’
pannikin. He’d be mighty grieved not to go. You see, he thinks Big Bill
the greatest proposition north o’ ‘sixty’—seeing he guesses ther’s gold
on Caribou.”
The woman’s eyes twinkled with humour as she concluded with the now
time-honoured jest at her visitor’s expense.
Bill nodded good-humouredly, and his eyes sought the face of the girl
standing in the background beside the stove.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be real glad for the boy to come along.” He
laughed. “Ther’ won’t be anything fancy for him t’ eat. It’s just duck,
an’ some trout, an’ some canned truck. But I’d sure be glad. Wot you
say, Kid?” he asked, his tone not without a shade of concern. “Will you
come along up with us? I’d been mighty thankful for your Mum to share
in, but I sort of knew beforehand the social whirl on Caribou hadn’t a
claim on her to compare with her ‘God’s Blessings.’ Will you come?
Chilcoot reckons he’s all sorts of a feller at entertaining women folk
to supper. An’ maybe he’ll start in to yarn of the gold trail, an’ we’ll
be hard set to stop him. Ther’s an elegant moon for the trip. And you’ll
all be right back before she sets.”
His manner was light but behind it was real earnestness, and a shade of
anxiety. Hesther, all the mother in her alert, was swift to detect it.
She smiled encouragingly round on the girl.
The Kid nodded. Her gaze was averted with just a shadow of shyness.
“I’d just love the trip,” she declared quickly. Then her shyness passed
and her sweet blue eyes laughed happily into the man’s face. “What is
it? Have you found Perse’s color? Ther’s sure something back of this,”
she went on in delighted enjoyment, as she watched the man’s expressive
face as he strove for unconcern. She shook her head. “No,” she declared.
“Guess it’s not Perse’s gold. I guess you reckon Mum’s cooking isn’t the
thing she believes, and you’re goin’ to show us the sort of swell thing
Chilcoot and you make of it. My! I’m dying to see how two great men live
on the trail. Sure I’ll come, an’ so will Mary, an’ Clarence, an’ Perse.
Do we need to fix ourselves for the party? Perse most always needs
fixing, anyway.”
There was a laugh in every word the girl spoke, and to the man it was a
delight to listen to her, and to watch the play of her expressive face.
To the mother eyes there was that in the girl’s manner which wholly
escaped the man. She knew the Kid was striving with everything in her
power to conceal the feelings Wilder had so deeply stirred in her. She
sighed quietly, and hoped and prayed that all might be for the best
happiness of the girl she had come to lean on so surely in the battle
they fought together for existence. She only had her instinct to guide
her. She had no real worldly wisdom. She liked the steady, honest gaze
of Bill’s eyes. So she yielded to that best philosophy in the world,
which, in sober moments, she was wont to hurl at her inquiring
offspring: “Act right, an’ eat good, an’ don’t worry to get after Fate
with a club.”
Bill laughed. He was in the mood to laugh.
“No,” he said. “Come right along, just as you’re fixed. Chilcoot don’t
reckon to receive you in swallowtails. Maybe he’s greased his roof with
seal oil to make it shine some. I can’t say. Ah, here’s Clarence, an’
Mary, and Master Perse. Now beat it all of you and get right into
parkas. Your Mum figgers to be rid of you awhile so you’re coming right
along to eat with me. Guess Chilcoot’ll be nigh frozen to death waiting
down at the river.”
* * * * *
The leanto was shadowed. The single oil lamp cast its feeble rays on the
general litter. And the scene was characteristic of the Indian whose
methods obtained so largely in the running of the farm.
Usak laboured silently, grimly amongst the shadows. His movements were
in that quiet fashion which the padding of moccasined feet on an earthen
floor never fails to intensify. He was quite alone now, for the last of
his helpers had departed at the urgent summons of the boy, Perse, who
had bidden them to the presence of their visitor.
The man’s dusky face was hard-set as he moved about amongst his
chattels. His black eyes were narrowed and pre-occupied. There were
moments when he paused from his labours and stood listening. It was as
though he expected some jarring sound which he was ready to resent and
hate with all the strength of his heart.
It was at such moments that his gaze seemed inevitably to be drawn to
the long, old rifle leaning against the wall just within the wide
doorway. It was his life-long friend. It was his oldest associate in his
lighter as well as his darker moods. And just now his mood left him
yearning for the feel of its ancient trigger under a mercilessly
compressing forefinger.
The man was sorting and classifying his summer trade, and preparing it
for transport. Pelts lay scattered about, and the smell of pepper, and
other preservatives, was in the air. The long sled was set on its
runners, repaired, and ready to face the coming winter trail to Placer.
And about it, littered in almost hopeless confusion, was an ill
assortment of camp outfit which needed cleansing and repair. The whole
scene was of the tentative preparations of the trail man. There might be
many weeks before the snow and freeze-up would make the journey
possible. But Usak was possessed of that restless spirit which refuses
to submit to idleness, and whose sense of responsibility drove him at
all times.
As the moments passed his pauses from the work of sorting and bestowing
became prolonged. Once he passed to the doorway and stood out in the
chill night air, and his sense of hearing was clearly directed to
windward where the night breeze came directly across the white-folk’s
portion of the rambling habitation. And on its breath sounds of laughter
and happy voices came to him. And amongst them he was clearly able to
distinguish the strong, deep tones of the big man whose presence he so
deeply resented on the river.
He stood thus for some moments. Then a sharp sound escaped his set lips
and he passed again within, as though in self-defence against the
passions which the sound of that hated voice had stirred.
His examination of the skins had lost its deliberateness. He picked them
up and flung them aside only half scrutinized. And, at last, he
abandoned his task altogether. He deliberately squatted on the
blackened, up-turned bottom of an iron camp kettle, and sat staring out
into the dark night in the direction in which he knew lay the landing at
the river bank.
There was no longer any attempt to hide the desperateness of his mood.
It was in every line of his dusky features; it was in the coming and
going of his turbulent breathing; it was in the smouldering fire that
shone in his black eyes. The native savage was definitely uppermost. And
insane passion was driving.
He remained, statue-like, on his improvised seat, and every sound that
reached him from the house was noted and interpreted. Sometimes the
sounds were so low as to be almost inaudible. Sometimes they were the
sounds of laughter. Sometimes they smote his ears with clear definite
words, for the night was very still, and the darkness rendered his
animal-like hearing profoundly acute.
Suddenly there came the opening and shutting of a door, and with it a
sound of voices and laughter. He started. He rose from his seat and
moved almost furtively to the doorway, and his hand instinctively fell
upon the muzzle of his leaning rifle.
He listened intently. The voices were still plain, but becoming rapidly
fainter. Yes. He could clearly distinguish the individual tones he knew
so well. He heard the voice of the Kid. And replies came in the voice of
the man. There were other voices, but somehow, they seemed quite apart
from these two.
He could stand it no longer. He turned about and extinguished the lamp.
Then he moved over to his leaning rifle and possessed himself of his old
friend. Just for one moment he remained listening. Then, with a curious
movement suggesting a shrugging of his great shoulders, he passed out
into the night.