The Hudson’s Bay Post stood at the southern end of the lake, as did most
Hudson’s Bay Posts in the North Country, and consisted of a group of log
buildings, well constructed, neat in appearance and well adapted to
their purposes of trade and defence. The store, with the Factor’s house
attached, was the most imposing of the group, and next in size was the
Mission House, which did for dwelling for the missionary, the church and
the school, all under one roof and within four walls. Straggling
outhouses were scattered about where boats and canoes and tackle of
different kinds were stored. A few Indian wigwams and well built huts
near the forest line completed the picture.
It was early morning and the air was bitter cold and thick with driving
snow. About the Post there was not a sign of life except at the door of
the Mission House, where a six-dog team hitched to a toboggan waited for
their master. In their harness they lay curled up, backs to the wind, a
nondescript lot, of varied and altogether doubtful ancestry but mostly
husky.
Suddenly the leader raised his head, pricked up his ears, sniffed the
wind and uttered a short sharp bark. Instantly the remaining five were
on their feet, vigorously barking, indignant that they had missed
something and protesting that they knew quite as much as old Skookum,
who after his first warning bark had remained standing stiff-legged and
bristled as to his back, sniffing the wind. The door of the Mission
House opened and a little man, fur-clad as for a journey, looked out.
“What’s up, Skookum? Lie down, you old idiot,” he said. The other five
looked foolish, but old Skookum maintained his posture, with ears alert
and hair stiff and bristling. He knew that down the wind a definite and
authentic scent had struck his nostrils. His was no second-hand
knowledge, and he was not to be browbeaten into denial of a veritable
experience.
“Well, old son, you are not usually an ass,” said the missionary. “We
will investigate.”
He ran down to the shore and looked up the lake through the drifting
snow. “Nothing there,” he muttered, “but Skookum knows a thing or two.”
Long and steadily he gazed, waiting for a break in the drift of snow.
“By Jove! I believe there is something moving out there,” he said. Long
he stood peering through the breaking drift that blinded his eyes and
for the most part shut out the landscape. But nothing was to be seen. He
returned to the house.
“You smelt something, old boy,” he said, patting the leader’s head, “but
it’s gone away. A fox or something, eh?” But Skookum’s nose was still in
the air and he refused to accept anything but the testimony of that
reliable organ. As the missionary turned to re-enter the house Skookum
again lifted his voice in a sharp, decisive bark and again his chorus
supported him with vociferous yelping.
“Shut up, you idiots,” said the man to the five chorus dogs. “You didn’t
smell anything.” For a moment the missionary stood undecided, looking at
Skookum. “All right, old boy. It’s a beastly day to be out in, too
beastly to take a chance. We’ll take your word for it.”
He entered the house, shouting, “Mother, Skookum says there’s some one
up the lake, so before I go to Pine Point I shall run up a bit.”
“All right, John. It is a dreadful storm, but you were going out anyway,
and it may be a runner from the Indian camp, you know.”
“You’re right, Mother, as you always are. I didn’t think of that. My
mitts? Ah, here they are. And my bottle in case——? Ah, yes, thanks. I
shall come in before I start, for the Point if I don’t find anything.
Good-bye.”
His wife followed him to the door. “What a day! No! No! Come back,
children, from the storm.” She drew back into the cosy room two
brown-faced little boys who were keen to follow their father to the lake
shore.
Within twenty minutes they heard the barking of the dogs, and in another
moment her husband burst into the room, steadying a tall slight youth
who swayed, staggered, clutched at the door and so hung, his chin fallen
on his breast, his breath coming in gasps and deep drawn sobs.
“Quick, Mother, tea!” said the missionary, holding the stranger from
falling.
“Here, old chap, sit down. You’re all right now,” said the missionary,
pushing a chair toward him. But the youth clung fast to the door.
“No!” he gasped. “No! Mustn’t sit. Mother—two kids—up lake—mustn’t
sit—never get up again.” But even as he spoke his hold loosened on the
door. The warm air of the room relaxed his nerve tension and he slumped
down in a huddled heap on the floor. Swiftly the missionary’s fingers
were at work, loosening hood and coat.
“Yes, that’s right, Mother,” he said, taking from her hand a cup in
which she had poured some spirits and hot water. “Now, get this into
you. Good! A little more! Ah, now you are coming round. Now finish up
the cup. Down with it, do you hear! No nonsense! Fine! Now, let’s see
how you are. Hands all right, or nearly so. Off with his moccasins,
Mother! Feet? Toes frozen a bit. Some snow, Mother, and rub ’em hard.
All right, boy! You’re sound outside.”
So working swiftly he kept up in a loud, cheery voice, now soothing,
again commanding, a monologue with which he strove to divert his patient
from his own condition and restore him to normal self-control.
“Now the tea, Mother. A little spirits in it—ah, not too much—he doesn’t
need it. Nothing like tea. Puts heart into a man—no unpleasant
reactions. Great stuff, tea, for this country, eh? Something to chew on
now, Mother. Toast? Nothing better! A little more now. Lots of time
though, no rush. Sit down, old chap.” By this time the young man was on
a chair. “Sit down. _Sit down._ What?”
“No!” said the young man, getting to his feet. “I will not sit! Must get
back—mother—two children—in camp—snow bound—starving—dying! Must go.” He
was on his feet now, his hands stretched out imploringly.
“What?” shouted the missionary. “A woman and children? For God’s dear
sake, where? How far?”
“Left there—an hour after midnight. Come! She is dying!”
“Where, boy? For God’s sake, where?” Without waiting his answer the
missionary flung open the door, whistled a succession of shrill blasts
with his fingers, waved violently to a man who appeared at the door of
one of the huts near by and turned back to the boy.
“What’s your name, boy?” he shouted.
“My name? Paul.”
“And the woman—your mother?”
“No—yes—my stepmother.”
“And dying? Where? Show me!” The missionary dragged him to a map hanging
on the wall. The boy shook his head.
“Give me paper,” he said.
The missionary thrust paper and pencil into his hands. With shaking
fingers he drew a rough outline of the lake, and traced a trail along
the east shore.
“There!” he said, indicating a jutting point. “Twenty miles—one hour
after midnight—I left.”
“Twenty miles! God help us now!” muttered the missionary, making swift
preparations. “Quick, Mother! Tea, hot bricks, blankets, grub, whiskey.
Ah! Thomas, good man—” he turned to an Indian who had come in—“party
lost up the lake, twenty miles. Get ready to go with me. Another
team—the Factor’s. Quick! quick!” Without a word the Indian vanished.
The missionary turned to the boy. “Now, lad, you go to bed. Mother will
look after you.” He turned to his wife, busy with the preparation of
food. “Feed him, Mother, and let him sleep. I know that point. We will
bring them in safe enough.”
“I am going. I am all right now,” said Paul, pulling on his moccasins.
“I am going. I know the way.”
“Nonsense!” shouted the missionary. “You stay here. You don’t go a foot.
You will only keep us back.”
Paul looked at him stupidly, then smiled. “I am going. You can’t keep me
here. I am going.” His voice remained quite quiet. “I’ll not hold you
back. Let me go! Oh, let me go!” Again his hands went out in an
imploring gesture.
The missionary paused in his preparations, keenly searching the boy’s
face.
“All right, you young mule!” he snapped. “We haven’t time to argue.
Anyway we have two toboggans,” he added to himself. “All right, all
right. Feed this youth, Mother. He can stand some meat now. Fill the
beggar up while we get ready. Here, off with those socks of yours,” he
continued. “Dry socks, Mother. Two pairs. My mackinaws—find a pair of
mitts. All right, now! Steady all!”
His wife, without a word and with swift hands that never hesitated or
fumbled, followed out his instructions.
“Here, boy!” said the missionary. “If you are going with me, listen and
obey orders.” There was no mistaking that tone.
“Yes, sir, I will!” said Paul. “Tell me what to do.”
“First sit here close to the fire,” said the missionary, drawing close
to the glowing stove a big rocking chair. “Eat and drink all you can.
Don’t guzzle; take your time. Get dry, warm things on your feet and
hands. We shall not move for twenty minutes or so. Eat—drink—rest. Do
you hear?”
“Yes, sir. I will. I am all right, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Good boy! Good stuff, eh? Now don’t talk.”
Eagerly, ravenously, yet with no indecent haste, he ate the food given
him, helping it down with cups of strong tea, pulling on the while dry
clothing. Having eaten and got into dry things, he settled himself down
into the big rocker. In a dozen breaths he was asleep, insensible,
immovable, dead to his world.
The missionary smiled. “We will give him half an hour, Mother. He is
dead beat.”
“Poor lad! How thin he is! And how terribly worn he looks! I am quite
anxious about him, John. He can never go with you. Why not slip away
now? You would be back before he wakes.”
“He has had a hard go, but he looks fit enough.”
“Why not let him sleep? He cannot go twenty miles.”
“We will give him half an hour. If he woke and found us gone you would
have to tie him. He would follow us till he dropped.”
In consultation with Thomas the missionary studied the boy’s rough
sketch.
“That is just beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas, eh?”
Thomas pondered. “How long he marshe?”
“From midnight. But he could not make good time in his condition and
against that storm, eh?”
Thomas stood calculating. “La Petite Traverse ten miles,” he said,
holding up two hands. “La Grande Traverse, he—” he showed fifteen
fingers “and some more. S’pose he run queeck, eh? No dreeft. De
win’—she’s blow heem—poof!”
“The Big Traverse!” exclaimed the missionary. “That’s good eighteen
miles! Still, as you say, there would be little drifting on the lake
with this wind. He might do it. By Jove! Thomas, we have a big job
before us. And that boy wants to come with us.”
“Non, non, he cannot! Impossible!” Thomas was very emphatic, the
missionary’s wife equally so.
“Look at him, John! Did you ever see a boy so terribly worn?”
The missionary sat regarding the youth. “He is thin and worn. I am sorry
I gave him my word, by Jove! Everything ready, Thomas? What have you,
Mother? There is a sick woman, you know.”
“Starving and worn out, like enough,” replied his wife. “There’s a
bottle of soup and tea and hard tack and meat.”
“Fine. We will give him a full half hour.”
“Perhaps when he wakes he can be persuaded to wait here,” said his wife.
“Not he! He is a mule, a perfect mule. Look at that mouth, that long
jaw. He will try it anyway. We may have to put him on the toboggan, but
he will go.”
Thomas shook his head. “No bon! No bon! Him sleep so five hour, dead
like one bear. We go toute suite!”
But to this the missionary would not agree. “At any rate, we must give
him the chance to say.”
“It’s a shame! a crime!” said his wife.
At the end of three-quarters of an hour the missionary stood up, put his
hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy and gave him a slight shake.
With one movement the boy was on his feet, awake and alert.
“What is it, Peter? Time, eh?” he asked, gazing upon the faces about
him. “I was—I’m afraid I was asleep,” he said shamefacedly. “All ready?
Let us go.” He drew on his light fur coat, seized his mitts, caps and
snowshoes.
“No use, Mother,” said the missionary. “All right, we’re off. You’ll see
us when we get back. Good-bye.” He kissed his wife.
“Oh, he cannot make that trip, John. He will perish on the way,” said
his wife, quick tears coming to her eyes.
“Nonsense, Mother! He has two days’ march in him.”
The boy stood, his big grey eyes turning from one to the other. They
were concerned for him. The tears in the woman’s eyes were for him.
Slowly a deep red flush overspread his thin haggard face. Silently he
took her hand in both of his, held it for a moment, then with a kind of
shy grace he kissed it.
“You are awfully good,” he muttered, turned away and made for the door.
“_En avant!_” shouted the missionary cheerily. “All aboard! See you
later, Mother!”
There was little breaking trail for the dogs that day; for, in Thomas’
dramatic words, “de win’ she’s blow heem—poof!” So after the first half
hour the party struck and held to the steady dog trot that devours the
white miles in the north land and keeps the blood jumping in the teeth
of forty below. The boy took his turn with the other two in leading.
After two hours’ run the missionary would have swung off to a bold
out-jutting headland, heavily wooded, dimly seen through the storm.
“There is the point beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas,” he said.
“Oui!”
“No, that is not the camp,” said Paul. “Farther up, farther up.”
“Beyond the Grande Traverse, Thomas, eh?” said the missionary. “Another
eight miles at least. Are you fit? Can you go on?”
The boy looked at him a moment with eyes that burned in their deep
sockets like points of fire, then without answer he set off on a dog
trot on the northward trail.
A twenty minute run brought them round the headland. They were on the
edge of the Big Traverse, a bleak white plain, bare of mark or guiding
sign, swept by bitter wind and driving snow. The missionary was for
striking straight across the open, but Thomas after the Indian habit was
for the more cautious plan of skirting the shore. “De win’, she no so
bad, and de trail he’s no get los’.” Paul was for the shore line too.
They had not run for more than half an hour longer when old Skookum, who
was leading, began to show signs of anxiety, sniffing, whimpering and
uttering short yelps. The missionary pulled up his team short.
“Something coming, sure thing, man or beast,” he shouted to the others
following. They all stood listening intently, but only the howling and
hissing of the storm came to their ears. The dogs had all caught
Skookum’s restlessness, sniffing and whimpering.
“Huh! Something! Indian think,” grunted Thomas, sniffing like the dogs.
“Indian, eh?” said the missionary sharply. “By Jove, it couldn’t be——”
he paused, looking at Paul.
Quickly the boy’s hands went to his lips, he threw back his head and
flung out into the storm a long weird call. Thomas glanced quickly at
him. “Chippewayan,” he grunted.
Faintly and as if from a long way to the lake side came a similar call.
“Peter!” exclaimed Paul, setting off in the direction of the call. The
missionary caught and held him fast.
“Hold on! Let’s be sure! Call again.”
Once more, Paul with his hands to mouth uttered his call and again from
the lake came the faint response.
“From there, eh?” said the missionary, pointing north-west.
“_Oui!_” said Thomas, pointing a little farther north. “Indian there!”
But already the boy was off into the blinding drift.
“Hold up, you young fool! We must keep together,” cried the missionary,
dashing after him. “Follow up, Thomas, with the dogs,” he shouted.
Not a sign of the boy could he get, but keeping the line of direction
carefully he ran with all his speed, listening intently as he ran. Again
there came on the storm wind the long weird call.
“More to the left,” he muttered, swinging off in that direction, but
keeping up his pace. A few minutes of hard running, and through a break
in the drifting storm he caught a glimpse of a huddled group of
snow-sheeted spectral figures, and in the midst of them Paul holding in
his arms a woman, tall and swaying in the storm like a wind-blown
sapling. Clinging to the young man was a child, a little girl, and near
by a boy stood, sturdily independent. Instantly the missionary took
command.
“Here, Thomas!” he shouted, starting back on his tracks. Soon he met the
Indian with the two dog teams, coming along at a gallop. “We have them
here, Thomas. Let us make camp at the big headland. Quick! Quick!” Round
the little group the Indian swung the teams.
“Get her on to the toboggan, Paul,” ordered the missionary. “We camp at
the headland. Good shelter and good wood. Only hurry, for God’s sake,
and follow me.”
The woman sank without a word onto one of the toboggans, the little girl
upon the other, the boy scorning to ride. And rescued and rescuers made
for camp.
Dazed, stupid, devoid of sensation or emotion, Paul trolled after the
last toboggan, but through his head the words kept time to his feet: “He
maketh the clouds His chariot; He rideth upon the wings of the wind.”
And he knew that they were true.