After the trapper has laid in his provisions, disposed of his horses,
and settled down in his solitary winter quarters, incidents are few;
and as none of a pleasant character are likely to occur, the fewer
they are, the better for him....
In our case about this time, martens being scarce and the camp, in
consequence of the lateness of our arrival, having been badly chosen,
it was found necessary to shift it in the dead of winter; for which
purpose, taking but little provision from our scanty store and
_caching_ the rest of our effects, we pushed out in a northerly
direction, hoping to find a better location on some of the other
tributaries of the Peace. But with ground covered by heavy snow,
streams hard bound with ice, and frequent wind storms which at the low
prevailing temperatures none can face and live, our progress was slow
and no place looked very attractive. Hence no great time had elapsed
before we found our provisions exhausted, in a difficult country with
game not to be had. Making a temporary shelter in a bad place and
under unfavorable circumstances, we therefore proceeded to devote our
whole attention to hunting, till after some days we became awake to
the fact that the district was absolutely without game. Every day the
weather permitted, we covered long distances in opposite directions,
without finding so much as a recent sign or track. Then we set traps
for fish in such rapids as remained open, and for birds and small
animals, but without success....
After trying in vain all the resources practiced by trappers in such
straits, all of which were well known to François, we ate the grease
in our rifle stocks, all the fringes and unnecessary parts of our
buck-leather clothes, gun and ammunition bags, and every scrap of
eatable material, boiling it down in an Assinaboine basket with hot
stones, and were finally reduced to buds and twigs. After many days of
this extreme privation, no longer possessing strength to travel or
hunt, I became discouraged; and as we lay down one night I determined
to abandon the struggle and remain there, enduring with such fortitude
as I might the final pangs, which could not be long deferred. At this
last stage in the struggle, an event occurred of the most
extraordinary character, which cannot seem more strange and incredible
to any one than it has always appeared to me on the innumerable
occasions when I have since reflected on it. Notwithstanding our
exhaustion and desperate conclusion of the night before, François rose
at daylight, made up the fire as well as his strength permitted,
blazed a tree near by on which he marked with charcoal a large cross,
and carefully reloading and standing his gun against that emblem,
proceeded to repeat in such feeble whispers as he was yet capable of,
all the scraps of French and Latin prayers he could remember, to all
of which I was in no condition to give much attention. When he got
through he remarked with much cheerfulness that he was now sure of
killing something and urged me to make one more effort with him, which
I rather angrily refused, and bade him lie down and take what had to
come, like a man. With cheerful assurance he replied that he was not
afraid to die, but our time had not come. He knew he would find and
kill, and we would escape all right. Then desisting from his useless
effort to get me up, François, leaving his heavy snow-shoes behind,
directed himself with weak and uneven steps down the little stream in
the deep gorge of which our camp was made; and never expecting to see
him again, my mind relapsed into an idle, vacuous condition, in which
external circumstances were forgotten or disregarded. But scarcely a
few minutes had elapsed, and as it afterwards appeared he had hardly
traversed a couple of hundred yards when I heard his gun, which I knew
never cracked in vain.
I had thought myself unable to rise, but at that joyful sound promptly
discovered my mistake. I found François in the spot from which he had
fired, leaning against a tree in such deep excitement that he could
speak with difficulty. On that rugged side hill apparently destitute
of life, in that most improbable of all places, within sound and smell
of our camp, he had seen, not a squirrel or a rabbit, but a deer.
Attempting to climb for a better shot, the deer jumped, and with
terrible misgivings he had fired at it running. He had heard it
running after his shot but was sure he had made a killing hit.
Scrambling with difficulty up the hill, we found a large clot of blood
and a morsel of “lights” [_lungs_], which we divided and ate on the
spot. After taking up the trail we soon found the animal....
After passing safely through that period of starvation, we were glad
enough to get back to the old camp and make the best of it during the
remainder of the season, which furnished little more of incident to
vary the monotony of our solitary occupation.