ON THE TOTE-ROAD
Very early in the morning on the day of the storm which had been
welcomed by the lumber-jacks of the Blood River camp, old Wabishke
started over his trap-line.
The air was heavy with the promise of snow, and one by one the Indian
took up his traps and hung them in saplings that they might not be
buried.
After the storm, with the Northland lying silent under its mantle of
white, and the comings and goings of the fur-bearers recorded in
patterns of curious tracery, Wabishke would again fare forth upon the
trap-line.
With wise eyes and the cunning of long practice, he would read the sign
in the snow, and by means of craftily concealed iron jaws and innocent
appearing deadfalls, renew with increased confidence in his "winter
set," the world-old battle of skill against instinct.
On the crest of a low ridge at the edge of the old chopping where
Moncrossen's new Blood River tote-road made a narrow lane in the
forest, the Indian paused.
In the stump-dotted clearing, indistinct in the sullen dimness of the
overcast dawn, rotted the buildings of the abandoned log-camp. From one
of these smoke rose. Wabishke decided to investigate, for in the
Northland no smallest detail may pass unaccounted for. Swiftly he
descended the ridge and, gliding silently into the aftergrowth of
spindling saplings that reared their sickly heads among the stumps,
gained the rear of the shack. Noiselessly he advanced, and, peering
between the unchinked logs, surveyed the interior.
A man sat upon the floor near the stove and laboriously applied
bandages to his blistered feet. Near by was a new pack-sack against
which leaned a pair of new high-laced boots toward which the man shot
wrathful glances as he worked.
"_Chechako_," muttered the Indian, and passed around to the door.
A popular-fiction Indian would have glided stealthily into the shack
and, with becoming dignity, have remarked "How."
But Wabishke was just a common Indian--one of the everyday kind, that
may be seen any time hanging about the trading-posts of the
North-country--unimaginative, undignified--dirty. So he knocked loudly
upon the door and waited.
"Come in!" called Carmody, and gazed in surprise at the newcomer, who
stared back at him without speaking. Wabishke advanced to the stove,
and, fumbling in the pocket of his disreputable mackinaw, produced a
very old and black cob-pipe, which he gravely extended toward the
other.
"No, thanks!" said Bill hastily. "Got one of my own."
He eyed with disfavor the short, thick stem, about the end of which was
wound a bit of filthy rag, which served as a mouthpiece for the grip of
the yellow fangs which angled crookedly at the place where a portion of
the lip had been torn away in some long-forgotten combat of the wilds.
"T'bacco," grunted the visitor, with a greasy distortion of the
features which passed for a smile.
"Oh, that's it? Well, here you are."
Carmody produced a bright-colored tin box, which he handed to the
Indian, who squatted upon his heels and regarded its exterior in
thoughtful silence for many minutes, turning it over and over in his
hand and subjecting every mark and detail of its lettered surface to a
minute scrutiny.
Finally with a grunt he raised the lid and contemplated the tobacco,
which was packed evenly in thin slices.
He stared long and curiously at his own distorted image, which was
reflected from the unpainted tin of the inside of the cover, felt
cautiously of the paraffined paper, and, raising the box to his nose,
sniffed noisily at the contents.
Apparently satisfied, he removed a dozen or more of the slices and
ground them slowly between the palms of his hands. This done, he rammed
possibly one-tenth of the mass into the bowl of his ancient pipe and
carefully conveyed the remainder to his pocket.
"Match?" he asked. And Bill passed over his monogrammed silver
match-box, which received its share of careful examination, evidently,
however, not meeting the approval accorded the gaudy tobacco-box.
The Indian abstracted about one-half of the matches, which he
transferred to the pocket containing the tobacco. Then, calmly
selecting a dry twig from the pile of firewood, thrust the end through
a hole in the broken stove, and after much noisy puffing at length
succeeded in igniting the tightly tamped tobacco in his pipe-bowl.
"Thank you," said Bill, contemplating his few remaining matches.
"You're a bashful soul, aren't you? Did you ever serve a term in the
Legislature?"
The Indian's command of English did not include a word Bill had
uttered; nevertheless, his mangled lip writhed about the pipe-stem in
grotesque grin.
"Boots!" he grunted, eying the bandaged feet. "No good!" and he
complacently wriggled the toes in his own soft moccasins. Bill noted
the movement, and a sudden desire obsessed him to possess at any cost
those same soft moccasins.
Wabishke, like most Indians, was a born trader, and he was quick to
note the covetous glance that the white _chechako_ cast toward his
footgear.
"Will you sell those?" asked Bill, pointing toward the moccasins. The
Indian regarded them thoughtfully, and again the toes wriggled
comfortably beneath the pliable moose-skin covering. Bill tried again.
"How much?" he asked, touching the moccasins with his finger.
The Indian pondered the question through many puffs of his short pipe.
He pointed to the new boots, and when Bill handed them to him he
carefully studied every stitch and nail of each. Finally he laid them
aside and pointed to the tobacco-box, which he again scrutinized and
laid with the boots.
"Match," he said.
"Get a light from the fire like you did before, you old fraud! I only
have a few left."
"Match," repeated the Indian, and Bill passed over his match-box, which
was placed with the other items. Wabishke pointed toward the pack-sack.
"Look here, you red Yankee!" exclaimed Bill. "Do you want my whole
outfit for those things?"
The other merely shrugged and pointed first at the bandaged feet, and
then at the boots. One by one, a can of salmon, a sheath-knife, and a
blue flannel shirt were added to the pile, and still Wabishke seemed
unsatisfied.
While the Indian pawed over the various articles of his pack, Bill
found time to put the finished touches on his bandages, and, reaching
under the table, drew forth the whisky bottle and poured part of its
contents upon the strips of cloth.
At the sight of the bottle the Indian's eyes brightened, and he reached
for it quickly. Bill shook his head and set the bottle well out of his
reach.
"Me drink," the other insisted, and again Bill shook his head. The
Indian seemed puzzled.
"No like?" he asked.
"No like," repeated Bill, and smiled grimly.
Wabishke regarded him in wondering silence. In his life he had seen
many strange things, but never a thing like this--a white man who of
his own choice drank spring-water from a fish-can and poured good
whisky upon his feet!
The Indian's eyes wandered from the pile of goods to the bottle, in
which about one-fourth of the contents remained, and realized that he
was at a disadvantage, for he knew by experience that a white man and
his whisky are hard to part.
Selecting the can of salmon from the pile, he shoved it toward the man,
who again shook his head. Then followed the match-box, the
sheath-knife, and the shirt, until only the tobacco-box and the boots
remained, and still the man shook his head.
Slowly the tobacco-box was handed back, and the Indian was eying the
boots. Bill laughed.
"No. You'll need those. Just hand over the moccasins, and you are
welcome to the boots and the booze."
The Indian hastily untied the thongs, and the white man thrust his
bandaged feet into the soft comfort of the mooseskin moccasins. A few
minutes later he took the trail, following the windings of Moncrossen's
new tote-road into the North.
The air was filled with a light, feathery snow, and, in spite of the
ache of his stiffened muscles, he laughed.
"The first bottle of whisky _I_ ever entered on the right side of the
ledger," he said aloud--and again he laughed.
He was in the big timber now. The tall, straight pines of the Appleton
holdings stretched away for a hundred miles, and formed a high wall on
either side of the tote-road, which bent to the contour of ridge and
swamp and crossed small creeks on rough log bridges or corduroy
causeways.
Gradually the stiffness left him, and his aching muscles limbered to
their work. His moccasins sank noiselessly into the soft snow as mile
after mile he traversed the broad ribbon of white.
At noon he camped, and over a tiny fire thawed out his bread and warmed
his salmon, which he washed down with copious drafts of snow-water.
Then he filled his pipe and blew great lungfuls of fragrant smoke into
the air as he rested with his back against a giant pine and watched the
fall of the snow.
During the last hour the character of the storm had changed. Cold, dry
pellets, hissing earthward had replaced the aimless dance of the
feathery flakes, and he could make out but dimly the opposite wall of
the rod-wide tote-road.
He returned the remains of his luncheon to his pack, eying with disgust
the heel of the loaf of hard bread and the soggy, red mass of sock-eye
that remained in the can.
"The first man that mentions canned salmon to me," he growled, "is
going to get _hurt_!"
The snow was ankle-deep when he again took the trail and lowered his
head to the sting of the wind-driven particles. On and on he plodded,
lifting his feet higher as the snow deepened. As yet, in his ignorance
of woodcraft, no thought of danger entered his mind. "It is harder
work, that is all," he thought; but, had he known it, his was a
situation that no woodsman wise in the ways of the winter trails would
have cared to face.
During the morning he had covered but fifteen of the forty miles which
lay between the old shack and Moncrossen's camp. Each minute added to
the difficulties of the journey, which, in the words of Daddy Dunnigan
was "a fine two walks for a good man," and, with the added hardship of
a heavy snowfall, would have been a man's-sized job for the best of
them equipped, as they would have been, with good grub and snowshoes.
Bill was forced to rest frequently. Not only were his softened muscles
feeling the strain--it was getting his wind, this steady bucking the
snow--but each time he again faced the storm and plowed doggedly
northward.
Darkness found him struggling knee-deep in the cold whiteness, and, as
he paused to rest in the shelter of a pile of tops left by the axe-men,
the foremost of the gray shadows that for the last two hours had dogged
his footsteps, phantom-like, resolved itself into a very tangible pair
of wicked eyes which smoldered in greenish points of hate above a very
sharp, fang-studded muzzle, from which a long, red tongue licked
suggestively at back-curled lips.