the kettle over.
"Well," asked Dick, when Ed was finally seated, "how'd th' mother take
un?"
"Rare hard on th' start off," said Ed. "'Twere th' hardest thing I
ever done, tellin' she, an' 'twere all I could do t' keep from
breakin' down myself. I 'most cried, I were feelin so bad for un.
"Douglas were there an' Bessie were visitin' th' sick maid, which were
a blessin', fer Richard were away on his trail.
"I goes in an' finds un happy an' thinkin' maybe Bob'd be comin'. I
finds th' bones gettin' weak in my legs, soon's I sees un, an' th'
mother, soon's she sees me up an' says she's knowin' somethin'
happened t' Bob, an' I has t' tell she wi'out waitin' t' try t' make
un easy's I'd been plannin' t' do. She 'most faints, but after a while
she asks me t' tell she how Bob were killed, an' I tells.
"Then she's wantin' t' see a bit o' the clothes we found, an' when she
looks un over she raises her head an' says, '_Them_ weren't Bob's. I
knows Bob's clothes, an' them weren't _his_! When I tells 'bout
findin' _two_ axes she says Bob were havin' only one axe, an' then
she's believin' Bob wasn't got by th' wolves, an' is livin'
somewheres.
"Douglas goes for Richard, an' when Richard comes he says th'
clothes's Bob's an' th' gun _ain't_, an' Bob were havin' only one axe.
"Richard's not doubtin' th' remains was Bob's though, an' o' course
the's no doubtin' _that_. Th' clothes's gettin' so stained up I'm
thinkin' th' mother'd not be knowin' un. But Richard sure would be
knowin' th' gun, an' that's what _I'm_ wonderin' at."
"'Tis rare strange," assented Dick. "An' _I'm_ wonderin' why Micmac
John were leavin' th' fur in th' 'tilt after stealin' un. That's what
_I'm_ wonderin' at."
The whole evening was thus spent in discussing the pros and cons of
the affair. They both decided that while the gun and axe question were
beyond explanation, there was no doubt that Bob had been destroyed by
wolves and the remains that they found were his.
The plan that Bill had suggested for hunting the trails without taking
Sunday rest, thus enabling them to attend to a part of Bob's Big Hill
trail, was resorted to, and the winter's work was the hardest, they
all agreed, that they had ever put in.
January and February were excessively cold months and during that
period, when the fur bearing animals keep very close to their lairs,
the catch was indifferent. But with the more moderate weather that
began with March and continued until May the harvest was a rich one,
for it was one of those seasons, after a year of unusual scarcity, as
the previous two years had been, when the fur bearing animals come in
some inexplicable way in great numbers, and food game also is
plentiful.
At length the hunting season closed, when the mild weather with daily
thaws arrived. The fur that was now caught was deteriorating to such
an extent that it was not wise to continue catching it. The traps on
the various trails were sprung and hung upon trees or placed upon
rocks, where they could be readily found again, and Dick and Ed joined
Bill at the river tilt, where the boat had been cached to await the
breaking up of the river, and here enjoyed a respite from their
labours.
Ptarmigans in flocks of hundreds fed upon the tender tops of the
willows that lined the river banks, and these supplied them with an
abundance of fresh meat, varied occasionally by rabbits, two or three
porcupines and a lynx that Dick shot one day near the tilt. This lynx
meat they roasted by an open fire outside the tilt, and considered it
a great treat. It may be said that the roasted lynx resembles in
flavour and texture prime veal, and it is indeed, when properly
cooked, delicious; and the hunter knows how to cook it properly.
Trout, too, which they caught through the ice, were plentiful. They
had brought with them when coming to the trails in the autumn, tackle
for the purpose of securing fish at this time. The lines were very
stout, thick ones, and the hooks were large. A good-sized piece of
lead, melted and moulded around the stem of the hook near the eye,
weighted it heavily, and it was baited with a piece of fat pork and a
small piece of red cloth or yarn, tied below the lead. The rod was a
stout stick three feet in length and an inch thick.
With this equipment the hook was dropped into the hole and moved up
and down slowly, until a fish took hold, when it was immediately
pulled out. The trout were very sluggish at this season of the year
and made no fight, and were therefore readily landed. The most of them
weighed from two to five pounds each, and indeed any smaller than that
were spurned and thrown back into the hole "t' grow up," as Ed put it.
One evening a rain set in and for four days and nights it never
ceased. It poured down as if the gates of the eternal reservoirs of
heaven had been opened and the flood let loose to drown the world. The
snow became a sea of slush and miniature rivers ran down to join
forces with the larger stream.
At first the waters overflowed the ice, but at last it gave way to the
irresistible force that assailed it, and giving way began to move upon
the current in great unwieldly masses.
The river rose to its brim and burst its banks. Trees were uprooted,
and mingling with the ice surged down towards the sea upon the crest
of the unleashed, untamed torrent. The break-up that the men were
awaiting had come.
"'Tis sure a fearsome sight," remarked Bill one day when the storm was
at its height, as he returned from "a look outside" to join Dick and
Ed, who sat smoking their pipes in silence in the tilt.
"An' how'd un like t' be ridin' one o' them cakes o' ice out there,
an' no way o' reachin' shore?" asked Ed.
"I wouldn't be ridin' un from choice, an' if I were ridin' un I'm
thinkin' 'twould be my last ride," answered Bill.
"Once I were ridin' un, an' ridin' un from choice," said Ed, with the
air of one who had a story to tell.
"No you weren't never ridin' un. What un tell such things for, Ed?"
broke in Dick. "Un has dreams an' tells un for happenin's, I'm
thinkin'."
Ed ignored the interruption as though he had not heard it, and
proceeded to relate to Bill his wonderful adventure.
"Once," said he,--"'twere five year ago--I were waitin' at my lower
tilt for th' break-up t' come, an' has my boat hauled up t' what I
thinks is a safe place, when I gets up one mornin' t' find th' water
come up extra high in th' night an' th' boat gone wi' th' ice. That
leaves me in a rare bad fix, wi' nothin' t' do, seems t' me, but wait
for th' water t' settle, an' cruise down th' river afoot.
"I'm not fancyin' th' cruise, an' I watches th' ice an' wonders, when
I marks chance cakes o' ice driftin' down close t' shore an' touchin'
land now an' agin as un goes, could I ride un. Th' longer I watches un
th' more I thinks 'twould be a fine way t' ride on un, an' at last I
makes up my pack an' cuts a good pole, an' watches my chance, which
soon comes. A big cake comes rollin' down an' I steps aboard un an'
away I goes.
"'Twere fine for a little while, an' I says, 'Ed, now _you_ knows th'
thing t' do in a tight place.'
"'Twere a rare pretty sight watchin' th' shore slippin' past, an' I
forgets as 'tis a piece o' ice I'm ridin' till I happens t' look
around an' finds th' cake o' ice, likewise myself, in th' middle o'
th' river, an' no way o' gettin' ashore. The's nothin' t' do but hang
on, an' I hangs.
"Then I sees th' Gull Island Rapids an' I 'most loses my nerve. 'Tis a
fearsome torrent at best, as un knows, but now wi' high flood 'tis
like ten o' unself at low water. Th' waves beats up twenty foot high."
Ed paused here to light his pipe which had a way of always going out
when he reached the most dramatic point in his stories. When it was
finally going again, he continued:
"Lucky 'twere for me th' rocks were all covered. In we goes, me an'
th' ice, an' I hangs on an' shuts my eyes. When I opens un we're
floatin' peaceful an' steady below th' rapids, an' I feels like
breathin' agin.
"Then we runs th' Porcupine Rapids, an' I begins t' think I has th'
Muskrat Falls t' run too which would be th' endin' o' me, sure. But I
ain't. I uses my pole, an' works up t' shore, an' just as we gets th'
rush o' th' water above th' falls, I lands.
"That were how I rid th' river on a' ice cake."
"Where'd ye land, now?" asked Dick. "This side o' th' river or t'
other?"
"This side o' un," answered Ed, complacently.
"'Tis sheer rock this side, an' no holt t' land on," said Dick,
triumphantly.
"'Th' water were t' th' top o' th' rock," explained Ed.
"Then," said Dick, with the air of one who has trapped another, "th'
hull country were flooded an' there were no falls."
Ed looked at him for a moment disdainfully.
"I were on th' ice six days, an' _I knows_."
The men were held in waiting for several days after the storm ceased
for the river to clear of debris and sink again to something like its
normal volume, before it was considered safe for them to begin the
voyage out. Then on a fair June morning the boat was laden with the
outfit and fur.
"Poor Bob," said Dick, as Bob's things were placed in the boat. "Th'
poor lad were so hopeful when we were comin' in t' th' trails, an'
now un's gone. 'Twill be hard t' meet his mother an Richard."
"Aye, 'twill be hard," assented Ed. "She'll be takin' un rare hard.
Our comin' home'll be bringin' his goin' away plain t' she again."
"An' Emily, too," spoke up Bill. "They were thinkin' so much o' each
other."
Then the journey was begun, full of danger and excitement as they shot
through rushing rapids and on down the river towards Eskimo Bay, where
great and unexpected tidings awaited them.
XXVI
BACK AT WOLF BIGHT
Bob's apparent death was a sore shock to Richard Gray. When Douglas
found him on the trail and broke the news to him as gently as
possible, he seemed at first hardly to comprehend it. He was stunned.
He said little, but followed Douglas back to the cabin like one in a
mesmeric sleep. A few days before he had gone away happy and buoyant,
now he shuffled back like an old man.
Mechanically he looked at the remains and examined the gun and the
axe--Ed had brought out but one of the axes found by the rock with the
remains--and said, "Th' gun's not Bob's. Th' axe were his."
"Th' gun's not Bob's!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray "Th' clothes is not Bob's!
Now I knows 'tis not my boy we've found."
"Yes, Mary," said he broken-heartedly. "Tis Bob th' wolves got. Our
poor lad is gone. No one else could ha' had his things."
He and Douglas made a coffin into which the remains were tenderly
placed, and it was put upon a high platform near the house, out of
reach of animals, there to rest until the spring, when the snow would
be gone and it could be buried.
For a whole week after this sad duty was performed the father sat by
the cabin stove and brooded, a broken-hearted, dispirited counterpart
of what he had been at the Christmas time. It was the man's nature to
be silent in seasons of misfortune. During the previous year, when
luck had been so against him, this characteristic of silent brooding
had shown itself markedly, but then he did not remain in the house and
neglect his work as he did now. He seemed to have lost all heart and
all ambition. He scarcely troubled to feed the dogs, and the few tasks
that he did perform were evidently irksome and unpleasant to him, as
things that interfered with his reveries.
From morning until night Richard Gray nursed the grief in his bosom,
but never referred to the tragedy unless it was first mentioned by
another; and at such times he said as little as possible about it,
answering questions briefly, offering nothing himself, and plainly
showing that he did not wish to converse upon the subject.
Over and over again he reviewed to himself every phase of Bob's life,
from the time when, a wee lad, Bob climbed on his knee of an evening
to beg for stories of bear hunts, and great gray wolves that harried
the hunters, and how the animals were captured on the trail; and
through the years into which the little lad grew into youth and
approached manhood, down to the day that he left home, looking so
noble and stalwart, to brave, for the sake of those he loved, the
unknown dangers that lurked in the rude, wild wastes beyond the line
of blue mysterious hills to the northward. And now the poor remains
enclosed in the rough box that rested upon the scaffold outside were
all that remained of him. And that was the end of all the plans that
he and the mother had made for their son's future, of all their hopes
and fine pictures.
Mrs. Gray had never seen her husband in so downcast and despondent a
mood, and as the days passed she began to worry about him and finally
became alarmed. He had lost all interest in everything, and had a
strange, unnatural look in his eyes that she did not like.
One evening she sat down by his aide, and, taking his hand, said:
"Be a brave man, Richard, and bear up. Th' Lard's never let Bob die
so. That were _not_ Bob as th' wolves got. I'm knowin' our lad's
somewheres alive. I were dreamin' last night o' seem' he--an'--I feels
it--I feels it--an' I can't go agin my feelin'."
"No, Mary, 'twere Bob," he answered.
"I feels 'tweren't, but if 'twere 'tis th' Lard's will, an' 'tis our
duty t' be brave an' bear up. Tis hard--rare hard--but bear up,
Richard--an' bear un like a man. Remember, Richard, we has th' maid
spared to us."
And so, heart-broken though she was herself, she comforted and
encouraged him, as is the way of women, for in times of great
misfortune they are often the braver of the sexes. Her husband did not
know the hours of wakeful uncertainty and helplessness and despair
that Mrs. Gray spent, as she lay long into the nights thinking and
thinking, until sometimes it seemed that she would go mad.
Bessie, gentle and sympathetic, was the pillar upon which they all
leaned during those first days after the dreadful tidings came. It was
her presence that made life possible. Like a good angel she moved
about the house, unobtrusively ministering to them, and Mrs. Gray
more than once said,
"I'm not knowin' what we'd do, Bessie, if 'twere not for you."
After a week of silent despondency the father roused himself to some
extent from the lethargy into which he had fallen, and returned to his
trail. The work brought back life and energy, and when, a fortnight
later, he came back, he had resumed somewhat his old bearing and
manner, though not all of the buoyancy. He entered the cabin with the
old greeting--"An' how's my maid been wi'out her daddy?" It made the
others feel better and happier; and he was almost his natural self
again when he left them for another period.
The report of Bob's death did not appear to affect Emily as greatly as
her mother feared it would. She was silent, and took less interest in
her doll, and seemed to be constantly expecting something to occur.
One day after her father had left them she called her mother to her,
and, taking her hand to draw her to a seat on the couch, asked:
"Mother, do angels ever come by day, or be it always by night?"
"I'm--I'm--not knowin', dear. They comes both times, I'm thinkin'--but
mostly by night--I'm--not knowin'," faltered the mother.
"Does un think Bob's angel ha' been comin' by night while we sleeps,
mother? I been watchin', an' he've never come while I wakes--an' I'm
wonderin' an' wonderin'."
"No--not while we sleeps--no--I'm not knowin'," and then she buried
her face in Emily's pillow and wept.
"Bob's knowin', mother, how we longs t' see he," continued Emily, as
she stroked her mother's hair, "an' he'd sure be comin' if he were
killed. He'd sure be doin' that so we could see un. But he's not been
comin', an' I'm thinkin' he's livin', just as you were sayin'. Bob'll
be home wi' th' break-up, mother, I'm thinkin'--wi' th' break-up,
mother, for his angel ha' never come, as un sure would if he were
dead."
On two or three other occasions after this--once in the night--Emily
called Mrs. Gray to her to reiterate this belief. She would not accept
even the possibility of Bob's death without first seeing his angel,
which she was so positive would come to visit them if he were really
dead; and it was this that kept back the grief that she would have
felt had she believed that she was never to see him again.
Bessie remained with them until the last of February, when her father
drove the dogs over to take her home, as many of the trappers were
expected in from their trails about the first of March to spend a few
days at the Post, and her mother needed her help with the additional
work that this entailed. Emily was loath to part from her, but her
father promised that she should return again for a visit as soon as
the break-up came and before the fishing commenced.
Douglas Campbell was very good to the Grays, and at least once each
week, and sometimes oftener, walked over to spend the day and cheer
them up. Often he brought some little delicacy for Emily, and she
looked forward to his visits with much pleasure.
One day towards the last of May he asked Emily:
"How'd un like t' go t' St. Johns an' have th' doctors make a fine,
strong maid of un again? I'm thinkin' th' mother's needin' her maid t'
help her now."
"Oh, I'd like un fine, sir!" exclaimed Emily.
"I'm thinkin' we'll have t' send un. 'Twill be a long while away from
home. You won't be gettin' lonesome now?"
"I'm fearin' I'll be gettin' lonesome for mother, but I'll stand un t'
get well an' walk again."
"Now does un hear that," said Douglas to Mrs. Gray, who at that moment
came in from out of doors. "Your little maid's goin' t' St. Johns t'
have th' doctors make she walk again, so she can be helpin' wi' th'
housekeepin'."
"The's no money t' send she," said Mrs. Gray sadly. "'Tis troublin' me
wonderful, an' I'm not knowin' what t' do--'tis troublin' me so."
"I'm thinkin' th' money'll be found t' send she--I'm _knowin'_
'twill," Douglas prophesied convincingly. "Ed were sayin' Bob had a
rare lot o' fur that he'd caught before th'--before th' New Year--a
fine lot o' martens an' th' silver foxes. Them'll pay Bob's debt an'
pay for th' maid's goin' too. That's what Bob were wantin'."
"Did Ed say now as Bob were gettin' all that fur?" she asked. "I were
feelin' so sore bad over Bob's goin' I were never hearin' un--I were
not thinkin' about th' lad's fur--I were thinkin' o' he."
"Aye, Ed were sayin' that. Emily must be ready t' go on th' cruise t'
meet th' first trip o' th' mail boat. Th' maid must be leavin' here
by th' last o' June," planned Douglas.
"But we'll not be havin' th' money then--not till th' men comes out,
an' then we has t' sell th' fur first t' get th' money," Mrs. Gray
explained. "Then--then I hopes th' maid may go. 'Tis what Bob were
goin' t' th' bush for--an' takin' all th' risks for--my poor lad--he
were countin' on un so----"
"We'll not be waitin'. We'll not be waitin'. _I_ has th' money now an'
th' maid must be goin' th' _first_ trip o' th' mail boat," said
Douglas, in an authoritative manner.
"Oh, Douglas, you be wonderful good--so wonderful good." And Mrs. Gray
began to cry.
"Now! Now!" exclaimed the soft-hearted old trapper, "'Tis nothin' t'
be cryin' about. What un cryin' for, now?"
"I'm--not--knowin'--only you be so good--an' I were wantin' so bad t'
have Emily go--I were wantin' so wonderful bad--an' 'twill save
she--'twill save she!"
"'Tis no kindness. 'Tis no kindness. 'Tis Bob's fur pays for un--no
kindness o' mine," he insisted.
Emily took Douglas' hand and drew him to her until she could reach his
face. Then with a palm on each cheek she kissed his lips, and with her
arms about his neck buried her face for a moment in his white beard.
"There! There!" he exclaimed when she had released him. "Now what un
makin' love t' me for?"
Richard returned that evening from his last trip over his trail for
the season, and he was much pleased with the arrangement as to Emily.
"Your daddy'll be lonesome wi'out un," said he, "but 'twill be fine t'
think o' my maid comin' back walkin' again--rare fine."
"An' 'twill be rare hard t' be goin'," she said. "I'm 'most wishin' I
weren't havin' t' go."
"But when you comes back, maid, you'll be well, an' think, now, how
happy that'll make un," Mrs. Gray encouraged. "Th' Lard's good t' be
providin' th' way. 'Twill be hard for un an' for us all, but th' Lard
always pays us for th' hard times an' th' sorrow He brings us, wi'
good times an' a rare lot o' happiness after, if we only waits wi'
patience an' faith for un."
"Aye, mother, I knows, an' I _is_ glad--oh, _so_ glad t' know I's t'
be well again," said Emily very earnestly. "But," she added, "I'm
thinkin' 'twould be so fine if you or daddy were goin' wi' me. Bob
were countin' on un so--I minds how Bob were countin' on my goin'--an'
he's not here t' know about un--an' I feels wonderful bad when I
thinks of un."
Of course it was quite out of the question for either the father or
the mother to go with her, for that would more than double the expense
and could not be afforded. There was no certainty as to how much would
be coming to them after Bob's share of the furs were sold. This could
not be estimated even approximately for they had not so much as seen
the pelts yet. Richard, grown somewhat pessimistic with the years of
ill fortune, even doubted if, after Bob's debt to Mr. MacDonald was
paid, there would be sufficient left to reimburse Douglas for the
money he had agreed to advance to meet Emily's expenses. "But then,"
he said, "I suppose 'twill work out somehow."
At last the great storm came that opened the rivers and smashed the
bay ice into bits, and when the fury of the wind was spent and the
rain ceased the sun came out with a new warmth that bespoke the summer
close at hand. The tide carried the splintered ice to the open sea,
wild geese honked overhead in their northern flight, seals played in
the open water, and the loon's weird laugh broke the wilderness
silence. The world was awakening from its long slumber, and summer was
at hand.
Tom Black kept his word, and when the ice was gone brought Bessie over
in his boat to stay with Emily until she should go to the hospital. It
was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when they arrived and Bessie brought
a good share of the sunshine into the cabin with her.
"Oh, Bessie!" cried Emily, as her friend burst into the room. "I were
thinkin' you'd not be comin', Bessie! Oh, 'tis fine t' have you come!"
Tom remained the night, and he and Bessie cheered up the Grays, for it
had been a lonely, monotonous period since their last visit, and never
a caller save Douglas had they had.
Time, the great healer of sorrow, had somewhat mitigated the shock of
Bob's disappearance, and had reconciled them to some extent to his
loss. But now the sore was opened again when, one day, a grave was dug
in the spruce woods behind the cabin, and the coffin, which had been
resting upon the scaffold since January, was taken down and
reverently lowered into the earth by Richard and Douglas. Mrs. Gray,
though still firm in the intuitive belief that her boy lived, wept
piteously when the earth clattered down upon the box and hid it
forever from view.
"I knows 'tis not Bob," she sobbed, "but where is my lad? What has
become o' my brave lad?"
Bessie, with wet eyes, comforted her with soothing words and gentle
caresses.
Richard and Douglas did their work silently, both certain beyond a
doubt that it was Bob they had laid to rest.
Nothing was said to Emily of the burial. That would have done her no
good and they did not wish to give her the pain that it would have
caused.
The days were rapidly lengthening, and the sun coming boldly nearer
the earth was tempering and mellowing the atmosphere, and every
pleasant afternoon a couch was made for Emily out of doors, where she
could bask in the sunshine, and breathe the air charged with the
perfume of the spruce and balsam forest above, and drink in the wild
beauties of the wilderness about her.
Here she lay, alone, one day late in June while her mother and Bessie
washed the dinner dishes before Bessie came out to join her, and her
father and Douglas, who had come over to dinner, smoked their pipes
and chatted in the house. She was listening to the joyous song of a
robin, that had just returned from its far-off southland pilgrimage,
and was thinking as she listened of the long, long journey that she
was soon to take. Her heart was sad, for it was a sore trial to be
separated all the summer from her father and mother and never see them
once.