"Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her
decision.
"None of un were _Bob's_. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes,
an'--I--_knows_: I _knows_," she insisted.
"But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said
Ed.
"Th' _clothes_ were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my
lad is livin'--somewheres--I _feels_ my lad is livin'," she asserted.
Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other
on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question.
"Why," she asked, "had he two axes?"
It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip
and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the
previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not
likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that
he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for
him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he
left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe
in any of the tilts.
"Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's
axe."
The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found
were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive
that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that
Bob still lived. She asserted that he was alive as one states a fact
that one knows is beyond question. The circumstantial evidence against
her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason,
and her conclusions she will hold against the world.
"I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t'
do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on
th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days
at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door.
Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before
returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie
were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair.
That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs.
Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly
speak:
"Mother."
She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek.
"Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?"
"Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His
mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, lass, an' th'
Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he."
"But," she insisted, "he's an angel now _if_ th' wolves killed un?"
"Yes, dear."
"An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves,
don't He, mother?"
"Be quiet now, lass."
"But He does?" persisted the child.
"Aye, He does."
"Then if Bob were killed, mother, he'll sure be comin' t' see us. His
angel'd never be restin' easy in heaven wi'out comin' t' see us, for
he knows how sore we longs t' see un."
The mother drew the child to her heart and sobbed.
XV
IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN
Day after day the Indians travelled to the northward, drawing their
goods after them on toboggans, over frozen rivers and lakes, or
through an ever scantier growth of trees. With every mile they
traversed Bob's heart grew heavier in his bosom, for he was constantly
going farther from home, and the prospect of return was fading away
with each sunset. He knew that they were moving northward, for always
the North Star lay before them when they halted for the night, and
always a wilder, more unnatural country surrounded them. Finally a
westerly turn was taken, and he wondered what their goal might be.
Cold and bitter was the weather. The great limitless wilderness was
frozen into a deathlike silence, and solemn and awful was the vast
expanse of white that lay everywhere around them. They, they alone, it
seemed, lived in all the dreary world. The icy hand of January had
crushed all other creatures into oblivion. No deer, no animals of any
kind crossed their trail. Their food was going rapidly, and they were
now reduced to a scanty ration of jerked venison.
At last they halted one day by the side of a brook and pitched their
wigwam. Then leaving the women to cut wood and put the camp in order,
the two Indians shouldered their guns and axes, and made signs to Bob
to follow them, which he gladly did.
They ascended the frozen stream for several miles, when suddenly they
came upon a beaver dam and the dome-shaped house of the animals
themselves, nearly hidden under the deep covering of snow. The house
had apparently been located earlier in the season, for now the Indians
went directly to it as a place they were familiar with.
Here they began at once to clear away the snow from the ice at one
side of the house, using their snow-shoes as shovels. When this was
done, a pole was cut, and to the end of the pole a long iron spike was
fastened. With this improvised implement Sishetakushin began to pick
away the ice where the snow had been cleared from it, while Mookoomahn
cut more poles.
[Illustration: "It was dangerous work"]
Though the ice was fully four feet thick Sishetakushin soon reached
the water. Then the other poles that Mookoomahn had cut were driven in
close to the house.
Bob understood that this was done to prevent the escape of the
animals, and that they were closing the door, which was situated so
far down that it would always be below the point where ice would form,
so that the beavers could go in and out at will.
After these preparations were completed the Indians cleared the snow
from the top of the beaver house, and then broke an opening into the
house itself. Into this aperture Sishetakushin peered for a moment,
then his hand shot down, and like a flash reappeared holding a beaver
by the hind legs, and before the animal had recovered sufficiently
from its surprise to bring its sharp teeth into action in
self-defense, the Indian struck it a stinging blow over the head and
killed it. Then in like manner another animal was captured and killed.
It was dangerous work and called for agility and self-possession, for
had the Indian made a miscalculation or been one second too slow the
beaver's teeth, which crush as well as cut, would have severed his
wrist or arm.
There were two more beavers--a male and a female--in the house, but
these were left undisturbed to raise a new family, and the stakes that
had closed the door were removed.
This method of catching beavers was quite new to Bob, who had always
seen his father and the other hunters of the Bay capture them in steel
traps. It was his first lesson in the Indian method of hunting.
That evening the flesh of the beavers went into the kettle, and their
oily tails--the greatest tidbit of all--were fried in a pan. The
Indians made a feast time of it, and never ceased eating the livelong
night. This day of plenty came in cheerful contrast to the cheerless
nights with scanty suppers following the weary days of plodding that
had preceded. The glowing fire in the centre, the appetizing smell of
the kettle and sizzling fat in the pan, and the relaxation and mellow
warmth as they reclined upon the boughs brought a sense of real
comfort and content.
The next day they remained in camp and rested, but the following
morning resumed the dreary march to the westward.
After many more days of travelling--Bob had lost all measure of
time--they reached the shores of a great lake that stretched away
until in the far distance its smooth white surface and the sky were
joined. The Indians pointed at the expanse of snow-covered ice, and
repeated many times, "Petitsikapau--Petitsikapau," and Bob decided
that this must be what they called the lake; but the name was wholly
unfamiliar to him. In like manner they had indicated that a river they
had travelled upon for some distance farther back, after crossing a
smaller lake, was called "Ashuanipi," but he had never heard of it
before.
The wigwam was pitched upon the shores of Petitsikapau Lake, where
there was a thick growth of willows upon the tender tops of which
hundreds of ptarmigans--the snow-white grouse of the arctic--were
feeding; and rabbits had the snow tramped flat amongst the underbrush,
offering an abundance of fresh food to the hunters, a welcome change
from the unvaried fare of dried venison.
Bob drew from the elaborate preparations that were made that they were
to stop here for a considerable time. Snow was banked high against the
skin covering of the wigwam to keep out the wind more effectually, an
unusually thick bed of spruce boughs was spread within, and a good
supply of wood was cut and neatly piled outside.
The women did all the heavy work and drudgery about camp, and it
troubled Bob not a little to see them working while the men were idle.
Several times he attempted to help them, but his efforts were met with
such a storm of protestations and disapproval, not only from the men,
but the women also, that he finally refrained.
"'Tis strange now th' women isn't wantin' t' be helped," Bob remarked
to himself. "Mother's always likin' t' have me help she."
It was quite evident that the men considered this camp work beneath
their dignity as hunters, and neither did they wish Bob, to whom they
had apparently taken a great fancy, to do the work of a squaw. They
had, to all appearances, accepted him as one of the family and treated
him in all respects as such, and, he noted this with growing
apprehension, as though he were always to remain with them.
They began now to initiate him into the mysteries of their
trapping methods, which were quite different from those with
which he was accustomed. Instead of the steel trap they used the
deadfall--wa-neé-gan--and the snare--nug-wah-gun--and Bob won the
quick commendation and plainly shown admiration of the Indians by the
facility with which he learned to make and use them, and his prompt
success in capturing his fair share of martens, which were fairly
numerous in the woods back of the lake.
But when he took his gun and shot some ptarmigans one day, they gave
him to understand that this was a wasteful use of ammunition, and
showed him how they killed the birds with bow and arrow. To shoot the
arrows straight, however, was an art that he could not acquire
readily, and his efforts afforded Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn much
amusement.
"The's no shootin' straight wi' them things," Bob declared to himself,
after several unsuccessful attempts to hit a ptarmigan. "Leastways I'm
not knowin' how. But th' Injuns is shootin' un fine, an' I'm wonderin'
now how they does un."
With no one that could understand him Bob had unconsciously dropped
into the habit of talking a great deal to himself. It was not very
satisfactory, however, and there were always questions arising that
he wished to ask. He had, therefore, devoted himself since his advent
amongst the Indians to learning their language, and every day he
acquired new words and phrases. Manikawan would pronounce the names of
objects for him and have him repeat them after her until he could
speak them correctly, laughing merrily at his blunders.
It does not require a large vocabulary to make oneself understood, and
in an indescribably short time Bob had picked up enough Indian to
converse brokenly, and one day, shortly after the arrival at
Petitsikapau he found he was able to explain to Sishetakushin where he
came from and his desire to return to the Big Hill trail and the Grand
River country.
"It is not good to dwell on the great river of the evil spirits" (the
Grand River), said the Indian. "Be contented in the wigwam of your
brothers."
Bob parleyed and plead with them, and when he finally insisted that
they take him back to the place where they had found him, he was met
with the objection that it was "many sleeps towards the rising sun,"
that the deer had left the land as he had seen for himself, and if
they turned back their kettle would have no flesh and their stomachs
would be empty.
"We are going," said Sishetakushin, "where the deer shall be found
like the trees of the forest, and there our brother shall feast and be
happy."
So Bob's last hope of reaching home vanished.
Manikawan's kindness towards him grew, and she was most attentive to
his comfort. She gave him the first helping of "nab-wi"--stew--from
the kettle, and kept his clothing in good repair. His old moccasins
she replaced with new ones fancifully decorated with beads, and his
much-worn duffel socks with warm ones made of rabbit skins. Everything
that the wilderness provided he had from her hand. But still he was
not happy. There was an always present longing for the loved ones in
the little cabin at Wolf Bight. He never could get out of his mind his
mother's sad face on the morning he left her, dear patient little
Emily on her couch, and his father, who needed his help so much,
working alone about the house or on the trail. And sometimes he
wondered if Bessie ever thought of him, and if she would be sorry when
she heard he was lost.
"Manikawan an' all th' Injuns be wonderful kind, but 'tis not like
bein' home," he would often say sadly to himself when he lay very
lonely at night upon his bed of boughs and skins.
At first Manikawan's attentions were rather agreeable to Bob, but he
was not accustomed to being waited upon, and in a little while they
began to annoy him and make him feel ill at ease, and finally to
escape from them he rarely ever remained in the wigwam during daylight
hours.
"I'm wishin' she'd not be troublin' wi' me so--I'm not wantin' un," he
declared almost petulantly at times when the girl did something for
him that he preferred to do himself.
Mornings he would wander down through the valley attending to his
deadfalls and snares, and afternoons tramp over the hills in the hope
of seeing caribou.
One afternoon two weeks after the arrival at Petitsikapau he was
skirting a precipitous hill not far from camp, when suddenly the snow
gave way under his feet and he slipped over a low ledge. He did not
fall far, and struck a soft drift below, and though startled at the
unexpected descent was not injured. When he got upon his feet again he
noticed what seemed a rather peculiar opening in the rock near the
foot of the ledge, where his fall had broken away the snow, and upon
examining it found that the crevice extended back some eight or ten
feet and then broadened into a sort of cavern.
"'Tis a strange place t' be in th' rocks," he commented. "I'm thinkin'
I'll have a look at un."
Kicking off his snow-shoes and standing his gun outside he proceeded
to crawl in on all fours. When he reached the point of broadening he
found the cavern within so dark that he could see nothing of its
interior, and he advanced cautiously, extending one arm in front of
him that he might not strike his head against protruding rocks. All at
once his hand came in contact with something soft and warm. He drew it
back with a jerk, and his heart stood still. He had touched the shaggy
coat of a bear. He was in a bear's den and within two feet of the
sleeping animal. He expected the next moment to be crushed under the
paws of the angry beast, and was quite astonished when he found that
it had not been aroused.
Cautiously and noiselessly Bob backed quickly out of the dangerous
place. The moment he was out and found himself on his feet again with
his gun in his hands his courage returned, and he began to make plans
for the capture of the animal.
"'Twould be fine now t' kill un an' 'twould please th' Injuns
wonderful t' get th' meat," he said. "I'm wonderin' could I get un--if
'tis a bear."
He stooped and looked into the cave again, but it was as dark as night
in there, and he could see nothing of the bear. Then he cut a long
pole with his knife and reached in with it until he felt the soft
body. A strong prod brought forth a protesting growl. Bruin did not
like to have his slumbers disturbed.
"Sure '_tis_ a bear an' that's wakenin' un," he commented.
Bob prodded harder and the growls grew louder and angrier.
"He's not wantin' t' get out o' bed," said Bob prodding vigorously.
Finally there was a movement within the den, and Bob sprang back and
made ready with his gun. He had barely time to get into position when
the head of an enormous black bear appeared in the cave entrance, its
eyes flashing fire and showing fight. Bob's heart beat excitedly, but
he kept his nerve and took a steady aim. The animal was not six feet
away from him when he fired. Then he turned and ran down the hill,
never looking behind until he was fully two hundred yards from the den
and realized that there was no sound in the rear.
The bear was not in sight and he cautiously retraced his steps until
he saw the animal lying where it had fallen. The bullet had taken it
squarely between the eyes and killed it instantly. This was the first
bear that Bob had ever killed unaided and he was highly elated at his
success.
It was not an easy task to get the carcass out of the rock crevice,
but he finally accomplished it and outside quickly skinned the bear
and cut the meat into pieces of convenient size to haul away on a
toboggan when he should return for it. Then, with the skin as a
trophy, he triumphantly turned towards camp.
Night had fallen when he reached the wigwam and Sishetakushin and
Mookoomahn had already arrived after their day's hunt. It was a proud
moment for Bob when he entered the lodge and threw down the bear skin
for their inspection. They spread it out and examined it, and a great
deal of talking ensued. Bob, in the best Indian he could command,
explained where he had found the "mushku" and how he had killed it,
and his story was listened to with intense interest. When he was
through Sishetakushin said that the "Snow Brother," as they called
Bob, was a great hunter, and should be an Indian; for only an Indian
would have the courage to attack a bear in its den single handed. Bob
had risen very perceptibly in their estimation. All doubt of his skill
and prowess as a hunter had been removed. He had won a new place, and
was now to be considered as their equal in the chase.
The following morning the two Indians assisted Bob to haul the bear's
meat to camp. No part of it was allowed to waste. In the wigwam it was
thawed and then the flesh stripped from the bones, and that not
required for immediate use was permitted to freeze again that it might
keep sweet until needed. The skull was thoroughly cleaned and fastened
to a high branch of a tree as an offering to the Manitou.
Sishetakushin explained to Bob that unless this was done the Great
Spirit would punish them by driving all other bears beyond the reach
of their guns and traps in future.
For several days a storm had been threatening, and that night it broke
with all the terrifying fury of the north. The wind shrieked through
the forest and shook the wigwam as though it would tear it away. The
air was filled with a swirling, blinding mass of snow and any one
venturing a dozen paces from the lodge could hardly have found his way
back to it again. For three days the storm lasted, and the Indians
turned these three days into a period of feasting. A big kettle of
bear's meat always hung over the fire, and surrounding it pieces of
the meat were impaled upon sticks to roast. It seemed to Bob as though
the Indians would never have enough to eat.
Finally the storm cleared, and then it was discovered that the
ptarmigans and rabbits, which had been so plentiful and constituted
their chief source of food supply, had disappeared as if by magic. Not
a ptarmigan fluttered before the hunter, and no rabbit tracks broke
the smooth white snow beneath the bushes.
The jerked venison was gone and the only food remaining was the bear
meat. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to push on
still farther to the northward in the hope of meeting the invisible
herds of caribou that somewhere in those limitless, frozen barrens
were wandering unmolested.
XVI
ONE OF THE TRIBE
If Bob Gray had held any secret hope that the Indians would eventually
listen to his plea to guide him back to the Big Hill trail it was
mercilessly swept away by the next move, for again they faced steadily
towards the north. Whenever he thought of home a lump came into his
throat, but he always swallowed it bravely and said to himself:
"'Tis wrong now t' be grievin' when I has so much t' be thankful for.
Bill'll be takin' th' silver fox an' other fur out, and when father
sells un 'twill pay for Emily's goin' t' th' doctor. Th' Lard saved me
from freezin', an' I'm well an' th' Injuns be wonderful good t' me.
Maybe some time they'll be goin' back th' Big Hill way--maybe 'twill
be next winter--an' then I'll be gettin' home."
In this manner the hope of youth always conquered, and his desperate
situation was to some extent forgotten in the pictures he drew for
himself of his reunion with the loved ones in the uncertain "Sometime"
of the future.
On and on they travelled through the endless, boundless white, over
wind-swept rocky hills so inhospitably barren that even the snow could
not find a lodgment on them, or over wide plains where the few trees
that grew had been stunted and gnarled into mere shrubs by winter
blasts. On every hand the mountains began to raise their ragged
austere heads like grim giant sentinels placed there to guard the way.
Finally they turned into a pass, which brought them, on the other side
of the ridge it led through, to a comparatively well-wooded valley
down which a wide river wound its way northward. The trees were larger
than any Bob had seen since leaving the Big Hill trail, and this new
valley seemed almost familiar to him.
As they emerged from the pass a wolf cry, long and weird, came from a
distant mountainside and broke the wilderness stillness, which had
become almost insufferable, and to the lad even this wild cry held a
note of companionship that was pleasant to hear after the long and
deathlike quiet that had prevailed.
They took to the river ice and travelled on it for several miles
when, rounding a bend, they suddenly came upon a cluster of half a
dozen deerskin wigwams standing in the spruce trees just above the
river bank. An Indian from one of the lodges discovered their
approach, and gave a shout. Instantly men, women and children sprang
into view and came running out to welcome them. It was a curious,
medley crowd. The men were clad in long, decorated deerskin coats such
as Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn wore, and the women in deerskin skirts
reaching a little way below the knees, and all wearing the fringed
buckskin leggings.
The greeting was cordial and noisy, everybody shaking hands with the
new arrivals, talking in the high key characteristic of them, and
laughing a great deal. Two of the men embraced Sishetakushin and
Mookoomahn and shed copious tears of joy over them. These two men it
appeared were Mookoomahn's brothers. The women were not so
demonstrative, but showed their delight in a ceaseless flow of words.
When the first greetings were over Sishetakushin told the assembled
Indians how Bob had been found sleeping in the snow, and that the
Great Spirit had sent the White Snow Brother to dwell in their lodges
as one of them. After this introduction and a rather magnified
description of his accomplishments as a hunter they all shook Bob's
hand and welcomed him as one of the tribe.
A few caribou had been killed, and the travellers received gifts of
the frozen meat with a good proportion of fat, and that night a great
feast was held in their behalf.
With plenty to eat there was no occasion to hunt and the Indians were
living in idleness during the intensely cold months of January and
February, rarely venturing out of the wigwams. This was not only for
their comfort, but because the fur bearing animals lie quiet during
this cold period of the winter and the hunt would therefore yield
small reward for the exposure and suffering it would entail.
They had an abundance of tobacco and tea. Sishetakushin and his family
had been without these luxuries, and it seemed to Bob that he had
never tasted anything half so delicious as the first cup of tea he
drank. His Indian friends could not understand at first his refusal of
their proffered gifts of "stemmo"--tobacco--but he told them finally
that it would make him sick, and then they accepted his excuse and
laughed at him good naturedly.