"Now that's serious business enough for one day," declared the King;
"Jack, you may tell us about the fur, and perhaps some of the others
also have interesting tales to relate."
Whisky-Jack hopped down from his perch, and strutted proudly about in
the circle.
"Mink," he began, snapping his beak to clear his throat, "you can chase
a silly, addle-headed Fish into the mud and eat him, but you don't know
the price of your own coat. Listen! The Black King's jacket is worth
more than your fur and all the others put together. I heard the Factor
at Wapiscaw tell his clerk about it last Winter when I dined with him."
"You mean when you dined with the Train Dogs," sneered Pisew.
"You'll dine with them some day, and their stomachs will be fuller than
yours," retorted the Bird. "Mink, your pelt is worth a dollar and a
half--'three skins,' as the Company Men say when they are trading with
the Indians, for a skin means fifty cents. You wood-dwellers didn't
know that, I suppose."
"What do they sell my coat for?" queried Beaver.
"Six dollars--twelve skins, for a prime, dark one. Kit-Beaver, that's
one of your Babies, old Trowel Tail, sells for fifty cents--or is given
away. You, Fisher, and you, Otter, are nip and tuck--eight or ten
dollars, according to whether your fur is black or of a dirty coffee
colour. But there's Pisew; he's got a hide as big as a blanket, and it
sells for only two dollars. Do you know what they do with your skin,
Slink? They line long cloaks for the White Wives with it; because it's
soft and warm,--also cheap and nasty. He, he! old Feather-bed Fur.
"Now, Wapistan, the Marten, they call a little gentleman. It's
wonderful how he has grown in their affections, though. Why, I
remember, five years ago the Company was paying only three skins for
prime Marten; and what do you suppose your hide sells for now, wee
Brother?"
"Please don't," pleaded Marten, "it's a painful subject; I wish they
couldn't sell it at all. I'm almost afraid to touch anything to
eat--there's sure to be a Trap underneath. The other day I saw a nice,
fat White Fish head, and thought Mink had left a bite for me; but when I
reached for it, bang! went a pair of steel jaws, scraping my very nose.
Fat Fish! it was a close shave--I'm trembling yet; the jagged teeth
looked so viciously cruel. If my leg had got in them I know what I
should have had to do."
"So do I," asserted Jack.
"What would he have done, Babbler--you who know all things?" asked Lynx.
"Died!" solemnly croaked Jay.
"I should have had to cut off my leg, as a cousin of mine did," declared
Wapistan. "He's still alive, but we all help him get a living now. I
wish my skin was as cheap as Muskrat's."
"Oh, bless us! he's only worth fifteen cents," remonstrated Jack. "His
wool is but used for lining--put on the inside of Men's big coats where
it won't show. But your fur, dear Pussy Marten, is worth eight dollars;
think of that! Of course that's for a prime pelt. That Brother of
yours, sitting over there with the faded yellow jacket, wouldn't fetch
more than three or four at the outside; but I'll give you seven for
yours now, and chance it--shouldn't wonder if you'd fetch twelve when
they skin you, for your coat is nice and black."
"I suppose there's no price on your hide," whined Lynx; "it's nice to be
of no value in the world--isn't it?"
"There's always a price on brains; but that doesn't interest you, Silly,
does it? You're not in the market. Your understanding runs to a fine
discrimination in perfumes--prominent odours, like Castoreum, or dead
Fish. If you were a Man you'd have been a hair-dresser.
"Muskwa, your pelt's a useful one; still it doesn't sell for a very
great figure. Last year at Wapiscaw I saw pictures on the Factor's
walls of men they call Soldiers, and they had the queerest, great, tall
head-covers, made from the skins of cousins of yours. And the Factor
also had a Bear pelt on the floor, which he said was a good one, worth
twenty dollars--that's your value dead, twenty dollars.
"Mooswa's shaggy shirt is good; but they scrape the hair off and make
moccasins of the leather. Think of that, Weed-eater; perhaps next year
the Trappers will be walking around in your hide, killing your Brother,
or your Daddy, or some other big-nosed, spindle-legged member of your
family. The homeliest man in the whole Chippewa tribe they have named
'The Moose,' and he's the ugliest creature I ever saw; you'd be ashamed
of him--he's even ashamed of himself."
"What's the hide worth?" asked Carcajou.
"Seven dollars the Factor pays in trade, which is another name for
robbery; but I think it's dear at that price, with no hair on, for it is
tanned, of course--the Squaws make the skin into leather. You wouldn't
believe, though, that they'd ever be able to skin Bushy-tail, would
you?"
"What! the Skunk?" cried Lynx. "Haven't the Men any noses?"
"Not like yours, Slink; but they take his pelt right enough; and the
white stripes down his back that he's so proud of are dyed, and these
Men, who are full of lies, sell it as some kind of Sable. And Marten,
too, they sell him as Sable--Canadian Sable."
"I'm sure we are all enjoying this," suggested Black King,
sarcastically.
"Yes, Brothers," assented Whisky-Jack, "Black Fox's silver hide is worth
more than all the rest put together. Sometimes it fetches _Five Hundred
Dollars_!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Otter, enviously; "is that true, Jack?"
"It is, Bandy-legs--I always speak the truth; but it is only a fad. A
tribe of Men called Russians buy Silver Fox; it is said they have a lot
of money, but, like Pisew, little brains. For my part, I'd rather have
feathers; they don't rub off, and are nicer in every way. Do you know
who likes your coat, Carcajou?"
"The Russians!" piped Mink, like a little school-boy.
"Stupid Fish-eater! Bigger fools than the Russians buy Wolverine--the
Eskimo, who live away down at the mouth of the big river that runs to
the icebergs."
"What are icebergs, Brother?" asked Mink.
"Pieces of ice," answered Jack. "Now you know everything, go and catch
a Goldeye for your supper."
"Goldeye don't come up the creeks, you ignorant Bird," retorted
Sakwasew. "I wish they did, though; one can see their big, yellow eyes
so far in the water--they're easily caught."
"Suckers are more useful," chimed in Fisher; "when they crowd the river
banks in Autumn, eating those black water-bugs, I get fat, and hardly
wet a foot; I hate the water, but I do like a plump, juicy Sucker."
"Not to be compared to a Goldeye or Dore," objected Mink; "they're too
soft and flabby."
"Fish, Fish, Fish! always about Fish, or something to eat, with you
Water-Rats," interrupted Carcajou, disgustedly. "Do let us get back to
the subject. Do you know what the Men say of our Black King, Comrades?"
"They call him The Devil!" declared Jay.
"No they don't," objected Carcajou; "they aver he's Wiesahkechack, the
great Indian God, who could change himself into Animals--that's what
they think. You all know Francois, the French Half-breed, who trapped
at Hay River last Winter."
"He killed my First Cousin," sighed Marten.
"I lost a Son by him--poisoned," moaned Black King's Mother, the Red
Widow, who had been sitting quietly during the meeting watching with
maternal pride the form of her son.
"Yes, he tried to catch me," boasted Carcajou, "but I outwitted him, and
threw a Number Four Steel Trap in the river. He had a fight with a
Chippewa Indian over it--blamed him for the theft. Oh, I enjoyed that.
I was hidden under a Spruce log, and watched Francois pummel the Indian
until he ran away. I don't understand much French, but the Half-breed
used awful language. I wish they'd always fight amongst themselves."
"Why didn't the Chippewa squeeze Francois till he was dead?--that's what
I should have done," growled Muskwa. "Do you remember Nichemous, the
Cree Half-breed, who always keeps his hat tied on with a handkerchief?"
"I saw him once," declared Black Fox.
"Well, he tried to shoot me--crept up close to a log I was lying behind,
and poked his Ironstick over it, thinking I was asleep. That was in the
Winter--I think it was the Second of February: but do you know,
sometimes I get my dates mixed. One year I forgot in my sleep, and came
out on the First to see what the weather was like. Ha, ha! fancy that;
coming out on the First and thought it was the Second."
"What has that got to do with Nichemous, old Garrulity?" squeaked
Whisky-Jack.
Muskwa licked his gray nose apologetically for having wandered from the
subject. "Well, as I have said, it was the Second of February; I had
been lying up all Winter in a tremendously snug nest in a little coulee
that runs off Pembina River. Hunger! but I was weak when I came out
that day."
"I should think you would have been," sympathized the Bird, mockingly.
"I had pains, too; the hard Red-willow Berries that I always eat before
I lay up were griping me horribly--they always do that--they're my
medicine, you know."
"Muskwa is getting old," interrupted Jay. "He's garrulous--it's his
pains and aches now."
Bear took no notice of the Bird. "I was tired and cross; the sun was
nice and warm, and I lay down behind a log to rest a little. Suddenly
there was a sound of the crisp hide of the snow cracking, and at first I
thought it was something to eat coming,--something for my hunger. I
looked cautiously over the tree, and there was Nichemous trailing me;
his snow-shoe had cut through the crust; but it was too late to run, for
that Ironstick of his would have reached; so I lay still, pretending to
be asleep. Nichemous crept up, oh, so cunningly. He didn't want to
wake poor old Muskwa, you see--not until he woke me with the bark of his
Ironstick. Talk about smells, Mister Lynx. Wifh! the breath of that
when it coughs is worse than the smell of Coyote--it's fairly blue in
the air, it's so bad."
[Illustration: "SO I LAY STILL, PRETENDING TO BE ASLEEP."]
"Where was Nichemous all this time?" cried Jack, mockingly.
"Have patience, little shaganappi (cheap) Bird. Nichemous saw my trail
leading up to the log, but could not see it going away on the other
side. I had just one eye cocked up where I could watch his face.
Wheeze! it was a study. He'd raise one foot, shove it forward gently,
put that big gut-woven shoe down slowly on the snow, and carry his body
forward; then the other foot the same way, so as not to disturb me.
Good, kind Nichemous! What a queer scent he gave to the air. Have any
of you ever stepped on hot coals, and burned your foot?"
"I have!" cried Blue Wolf; "I had a fight with three Train Dogs once, at
Wapiscaw, when their Masters were asleep. It was all over a miserable
frozen White Fish that even the Dogs wouldn't eat. They were husky
fighters. Wur-r-r! we rolled over and over, and finally I fetched up in
the camp-fire."
"Then you know what your paw smelled like when the coals scorched it;
and that is just the nasty scent that came down the air from
Nichemous--like burnt skin. I could have nosed him a mile away had he
been up wind, but he wasn't at first. When Nichemous got to the big
log, he reached his yellow face over, with the Ironstick in line with
his nose, and I saw murder in his eyes, so I just took one swipe at the
top of his head with my right paw and scalped him clean.
Whu-u-o-o-f-f-! but he yelled. The Ironstick barked as he went head
first into the snow, and its hot breath scorched my arm--underneath
where there's little hair; but the round iron thing it spits out didn't
touch me. I gave Nichemous a squeeze, threw him down, and went away. I
was mad enough to have slain him, but I'm glad I didn't. It's not good
to kill a Man. You see I was cross," he added, apologetically, "and my
head ached from living in that stuffy hole all Winter."
"Didn't it hurt your paw?" queried Jack. "I should have thought your
fingers would have been tender from sucking them so much while you were
sleeping in the nest."
"That's what saved Nichemous's life," answered Muskwa. "My fist was
swollen up like a moss-bag, else the blow would have crushed his skull.
But I knocked the fur all off the top; and his wife, who is a great
medicine woman, couldn't make it grow again; though she patched the skin
up some way or other. That is why you'll see Nichemous's hat tied on
with a red handkerchief always."
"I also know of this Man," wheezed Otter. "Nichemous stepped on my slide
once when he was poaching my preserve--I had it all nice and smooth, and
slippery, and the silly creature, without a claw to his foot, tried to
walk on it."
"What happened, Long-Back?" asked Jack, eagerly.
"Well, he went down the slide faster than ever I did, head first; but,
would you believe it, on his back."
"Into the water?" queried Muskrat. "That wouldn't hurt him."
"He was nearly drowned," laughed Nekik. "The current carried him under
some logs, but he got out, I'm sorry to say. That's the worst of it, we
never manage to kill these Men."
"I killed one once," proclaimed Mooswa--"stamped him with my front feet,
and his friends never found him; but I wouldn't do it again, the look in
his eyes was awful--no, I'll never do it again."
"They'll kill you some day, Marrow-Bones," declared Jay, blithely.
"That's what this Man tried to do."
"Tell us about it, Comrade," cried Carcajou, "for I like to hear of the
tables being turned once in a while. Why, Mistress Carcajou frightens
the babies to sleep by telling them that Francois, or Nichemous, or some
other Trapper will catch them if they don't close their eyes and stop
crying--it's just awful to live in continual dread of Man."
"He was an Indian named Grasshead," began Mooswa, lying down to tell the
little tale comfortably. "I had just crossed the Athabasca on the ice;
he'd been watching, no doubt, and as I went up the bank his Firestick
coughed, and the ball struck me in the neck. Of course I cleared off
into the woods at a great rate."
"Didn't stop to thank the Man, eh, old Pretty Legs?" questioned Jack,
ironically.
"There was a treacherous crust on the snow; sometimes it would bear me
up, and sometimes I would go through up to my chest, for it was deep.
Grasshead wore those big shoes that Muskwa speaks of, and glided along
the top; but my feet are small and hard, you know, and cut the crust."
"See!" piped Jay, "there's where pride comes in. All of you horned
creatures are so proud of your little feet, and unless the ground is
hard you soon get done up."
"Well," continued Mooswa, "sometimes I'd draw away many miles from the
Indian. Once I circled wide, went back close to my trail, laid down in
a thicket, and watched for him. He passed quite close, trailing along
easily on top of the snow, chewing a piece of dried moose-meat--think of
that, Brothers! stuck in his loose shirt was dried-meat, cut from the
bodies of some of my relatives; even the shirt itself was made from one
of their hides. His little eyes were vicious and cruel; and several
times I heard him give the call of our wives, which is,
'Wh-e-a-u-h-h-h!' That was that I might come back, thinking it was one
of my tribe calling. All day he trailed me that way, and twice I rested
as I speak of. Then Grasshead got cunning. He travelled wide of my
trail, off to one side, meaning to come upon me lying down or circling.
The second day of his pursuit I was very tired, and the Indian was
always coming closer and closer.
"Getting desperate, I laid a trap for him. It was the Firestick I
feared really; for without that he was no match for me. With our
natural strength, he with his arms and teeth, and I with my hoofs and
horns, I could kill him easily. Why, once I slew three Wolves, nearly as
large as Rof; they were murderous chaps who tackled me in the night. It
wouldn't do to fight Grasshead where the crust was bad on the deep snow,
so I made for a Jack-pine bluff."
"I know," interrupted Black Fox, nodding his head; "nice open ground
with no underbrush to bother--just the place for a rush when you've
marked down your Bird. Many a Partridge I've pinned in one of those
bluffs."
"Yes," went on Mooswa, "the pine needles kill out everything but the
silver-green moss. The snow wasn't very deep there; it was an ideal
place for a charge--nothing to catch one's horns, or trip a fellow. As
Grasshead came up he saw me leaning wearily against a tree, and thought
I was ready to drop. I was tired, but not quite that badly used up.
You all know, Comrades, how careful an Indian is not to waste the breath
of his Ironstick; he will creep, and creep, and sneak, just like--"
"Lynx," suggested Whisky-Jack.
"Well, Grasshead, seeing that I couldn't get away, as he thought, came
cautiously to within about five lengths, meaning to make sure of my
death, you know, Brothers; and just as he raised his Ironstick I
charged. He didn't expect that--it frightened him. The ball struck me
in the shoulder, and made me furious with rage. The Indian turned to
run; but I cut him down, and trampled him to death--I ground him into
the frozen earth with my antlers. He gave the queer Man-cry that is of
fear and pain--it's awful! I wish he hadn't followed me--I wish I hadn't
killed him."
[Illustration: "THE BALL STRUCK ME IN THE SHOULDER, AND MADE ME FURIOUS
WITH RAGE."]
"You were justified, Mooswa," said Black King; "there is no blame--that
is the Law of the Forest:--
"'First we run for our lives,
Then we fight for our lives:
And we turn at bay when the killer drives."
"Bravo, bravo!" applauded Whisky-Jack. "Don't fret about the Indian, old
Jelly-Nose. I'm glad you killed him. I've heard the White Trappers say
that the only good Indians are the dead ones."
"My own opinion is that Indians are a fat-meat sight better than the
Whites," declared Carcajou; "they don't tell as many lies, and they
won't steal. They never lock a door here, but they do in the Whiteman's
land. An Indian just puts his food down any place, or up on a cache,
and nobody touches it; only, of course, the White Men who were here in
the Boundaries last year looking for the yellow-sand--they stole from
the caches."
"Nobody?" screamed Jay. "Nobody? What do you call yourself, Carcajou?
How many bags of flour have you ripped open that didn't belong to you?
How many pounds of bacon have melted away because of your hot mouth? I
know. I've heard Ambrose, and Francois, and every other Trapper from
the Landing to Fort Simpson swear you're the biggest thief since the
time of Wiesahkechack. Why, you're as bad as a White Man by your own
showing."
"Gently, Brother, gently. Didst ever hear your Men Friends tell the
story of the pot and the kettle? Besides, is it unfair that I, or any
of us, take a little from those who come here to steal the coats off our
backs, and the lives from our hearts?"
"Indeed thou art the pot, Carcajou," retorted Jack; "but what do I
steal? True, I took the piece of soap thinking it was butter; but that
was a trifle, not the size of a Trap Bait; and if I take the Meat out of
their Traps I do so that my Comrades may not be caught?"
"It is written in the Law of the Forest that is not stealing," said
Black King, solemnly. "The Bait that is put in the Trap is for those of
the Forest, so come it they be not caught; and even though the Trappers
say otherwise, there is no wrong in taking it."
"I also take the Bait-meat," cried Wolverine, "for the good of my
Brothers; but I spring the Trap too, lest by accident they put their
foot in it."
"I also know Nichemous," broke in Umisk, the Beaver. "He cut a hole in
the roof of my house one day, first blocking up the front door thinking
we were inside, and meaning to catch us; he had his trouble for nothing,
for I got the whole family out just in the nick of time; but I'd like to
make him pay for repairs to the roof. I don't know any animal so bad as
a Man, unless it's a Hermit Beaver."
"What's a Hermit Beaver, you of the little fore-feet?" asked Jay.
Umisk sighed wearily. "For a Bird that has travelled as much as you
have, Jack, you are wondrous devoid of knowledge. Have you never seen
Red Jack, the Hermit?"
"I have," declared Pisew, "he has a piece out of the side of his tail."
"Perhaps you have, perhaps you have; but all hermits are marked that
way--that's the sign. You see, once in a while a Beaver is born
lazy--won't work--will do nothing but steal other people's Poplar and
eat it. First we reason with him, and try to encourage him to work; if
that fails we bite a piece out of his tail as a brand, and turn him out
of the community. I marked Red Jack that way myself; I boarded him for a
whole Winter, though, first."
"Served him right," concurred Whisky-Jack.
"Yes, Nichemous is a bad lot," said Carcajou, reflectively; "but he's no
worse than Francois."
Black Fox rose, stretched himself, yawned, and said: "The Meeting is
over for to-day; three spaces of darkness from this we meet here again;
there is some business of the Hunting Boundaries to do, and Wapoos has a
complaint to make."
"I'm off," whistled Whisky-Jack. "Good-bye, Your Majesty. You fellows
have got to hunt your dinner, I'm going to dine with some Men--I like my
food cooked."
Each of the Animals slipped away, leaving Black Fox and his Mother, the
Red Widow.
"I'm proud of you, my Son," said the Fox Mother. "Come home with me,
I've got something rare for dinner."
"What is it, Dame?"
"A nice, fat Wavey" (kind of goose).
"What! Wawao, who nests in the Athabasca Lake? You make my mouth
water, Mother. These Mossberry-fed Partridge are so dry they give me
indigestion; besides, I never saw them so scarce as they are this year."
"It was the great fire the river Boatmen started in the Summer which
burnt up all their eggs that makes them so scarce, Son. Do you not
remember how we had to fly to the river, and lie for days with our noses
just above water to escape the heat?"
"It's an ill wind, Mother, that blows nobody good, for it nearly cured
me of fleas. My fur is not like Beaver's. But the Wavies fly high, and
do not nest hereabout--how came you by the Fat Bird?"
"A Hunter hurt it with his Firestick, and it fell in the water with a
broken wing. I was watching. I think he is still looking down the
river for his Wavey."