It was the week of the Big Festival when David and his half-breed
arrived at Towaskook's village. Towaskook was the "farthest east" of the
totem-worshippers, and each of his forty or fifty people reminded David
of the devil chaser on the canvas of the Snow Fox's tepee. They were
dressed up, as he remarked to the half-breed, "like fiends." On the day
of David's arrival Towaskook himself was disguised in a huge bear head
from which protruded a pair of buffalo horns that had somehow drifted up
there from the western prairies, and it was his special business to
perform various antics about his totem pole for at least six hours
between sunrise and sunset, chanting all the time most dolorous
supplications to the squat monster who sat, grinning, at the top. It was
"the day of good hunting," and Towaskook and his people worked
themselves into exhaustion by the ardour of their prayers that the game
of the mountains might walk right up to their tepee doors to be killed,
thus necessitating the smallest possible physical exertion in its
capture. That night Towaskook visited David at his camp, a little up the
river, to see what he could get out of the white man. He was monstrously
fat--fat from laziness; and David wondered how he had managed to put in
his hours of labour under the totem pole. David sat in silence, trying
to make out something from their gestures, as his half-breed, Jacques,
and the old chief talked.
Jacques repeated it all to him after Towaskook, sighing deeply, had
risen from his squatting posture, and left them. It was a terrible
journey over those mountains, Towaskook had said. He had been on the
Stikine once. He had split with his tribe, and had started eastward with
many followers, but half of them had died--died because they would not
leave their precious totems behind--and so had been caught in a deep
snow that came early. It was a ten-day journey over the mountains. You
went up above the clouds--many times you had to go above the clouds. He
would never make the journey again. There was one chance--just one. He
had a young bear hunter, Kio, his face was still smooth. He had not won
his spurs, so to speak, and he was anxious to perform a great feat,
especially as he was in love with his medicine man's daughter
Kwak-wa-pisew (the Butterfly). Kio might go, to prove his valour to the
Butterfly. Towaskook had gone for him. Of course, on a mission of this
kind, Kio would accept no pay. That would go to Towaskook. The two
hundred dollars' worth of supplies satisfied him.
A little later Towaskook returned with Kio. He was exceedingly youthful,
slim-built as a weazel, but with a deep-set and treacherous eye. He
listened. He would go. He would go as far as the confluence of the
Pitman and the Stikine, if Towaskook would assure him the Butterfly.
Towaskook, eyeing greedily the supplies which Jacques had laid out
alluringly, nodded an agreement to that. "The next day," Kio said, then,
eager now for the adventure. "The next day they would start."
That night Jacques carefully made up the two shoulder packs which David
and Kio were to carry, for thereafter their travel would be entirely
afoot. David's burden, with his rifle, was fifty pounds. Jacques saw
them off, shouting a last warning for David to "keep a watch on that
devil-eyed Kio."
Kio was not like his eyes. He turned out, very shortly, to be a
communicative and rather likable young fellow. He was ignorant of the
white man's talk. But he was a master of gesticulation; and when, in
climbing their first mountain, David discovered muscles in his legs and
back that he had never known of before, Kio laughingly sympathized with
him and assured him in vivid pantomime that he would soon get used to
it. Their first night they camped almost at the summit of the mountain.
Kio wanted to make the warmth of the valley beyond, but those new
muscles in David's legs and back declared otherwise. Strawberries were
ripening in the deeper valleys, but up where they were it was cold. A
bitter wind came off the snow on the peaks, and David could smell the
pungent fog of the clouds. They were so high that the scrub twigs of
their fire smouldered with scarcely sufficient heat to fry their bacon.
David was oblivious of the discomfort. His blood ran warm in hope and
anticipation. He was almost at the end of his journey. It had been a
great fight, and he had won. There was no doubt in his mind now. After
this he could face the world again.
Day after day they made their way westward. It was tremendous, this
journey over the backbone of the mountains. It gave one a different
conception of men. They like ants on these mountains, David
thought--insignificant, crawling ants. Here was where one might find a
soul and a religion if he had never had one before. One's littleness, at
times, was almost frightening. It made one think, impressed upon one
that life was not much more than an accident in this vast scale of
creation, and that there was great necessity for a God. In Kio's eyes,
as he sometimes looked down into the valleys, there was this thing; the
thought which perhaps he couldn't analyze, the great truth which he
couldn't understand, but felt. It made a worshipper of him--a devout
worshipper of the totem. And it occurred to David that perhaps the
spirit of God was in that totem even as much as in finger-worn rosaries
and the ivory crosses on women's breasts.
Early on the eleventh day they came to the confluence of the Pitman and
the Stikine rivers, and a little later Kio turned back on his homeward
journey, and David and Baree were alone. This aloneness fell upon them
like a thing that had a pulse and was alive. They crossed the Divide and
were in a great sunlit country of amazing beauty and grandeur, with wide
valleys between the mountains. It was July. From up and down the valley,
from the breaks between the peaks and from the little gullies cleft in
shale and rock that crept up to the snow lines, came a soft and droning
murmur. It was the music of running water. That music was always in the
air, for the rivers, the creeks, and the tiny streams, gushing down from
the snow that lay eternally up near the clouds, were never still. There
were sweet perfumes as well as music in the air. The earth was bursting
with green; the early flowers were turning the sunny slopes into
coloured splashes of red and white and purple--splashes of violets and
forget-me-nots, of wild asters and hyacinths. David looked upon it all,
and his soul drank in its wonders. He made his camp, and he remained in
it all that day, and the next. He was eager to go on, and yet in his
eagerness he hesitated, and waited. It seemed to him that he must become
acquainted with this empty world before venturing farther into
it--alone; that it was necessary for him to understand it a little, and
get his bearings. He could not lose himself. Jacques had assured him of
that, and Kio had pantomimed it, pointing many times at the broad,
shallow stream that ran ahead of him. All he had to do was to follow the
river. In time, many weeks, of course, it would bring him to the white
settlement on the ocean. Long before that he would strike Firepan Creek.
Kio had never been so far; he had never been farther than this junction
of the two streams, Towaskook had informed Jacques. So it was not fear
that held David. It was the _aloneness_. He was taking a long mental
breath. And, meanwhile, he was repairing his boots, and doctoring
Baree's feet, bruised and sore by their travel over the shale of the
mountain tops.
He thought that he had experienced the depths of loneliness after
leaving the Missioner. But here it was a much larger thing. This night,
as he sat under the stars and a great white moon, with Baree at his
feet, it engulfed him; not in a depressing way, but awesomely. It was
not an unpleasant loneliness, and yet he felt that it had no limit, that
it was immeasurable. It was as vast as the mountains that shut him in.
Somewhere, miles to the east of him now, was Kio. That was all. He knew
that he would never be able to describe it, this loneliness--or
aloneness; one man, and a dog, with a world to themselves. After a
time, as he looked up at the stars and listened to the droning sound of
the waters in the valley, it began to thrill him with a new kind of
intelligence. Here was peace as vast as space itself. It was not
troubled by the struggling existence of men, and women, and it seemed to
him that he must remain very still under the watchfulness of those
billions of sentinels in the sky, with the white moon floating under
them. The second night he made himself and Baree a small fire. The third
morning he shouldered his pack and went on.
Baree kept close at his master's side, and the eyes of the two were
constantly on the alert. They were in a splendid game country, and David
watched for the first opportunity that would give Baree and himself
fresh meat. The white sand bars and gravelly shores of the stream were
covered with the tracks of the wild dwellers of the valley and the
adjoining ranges, and Baree sniffed hungrily whenever he came to the
warm scent of the last night's spoor. He was hungry. He had been hungry
all the way over the mountains. Three times that day David saw a caribou
at a distance. In the afternoon he saw a grizzly on a green slope.
Toward evening he ran into luck. A band of sheep had come down from a
mountain to drink, and he came upon them suddenly, the wind in his
favour. He killed a young ram. For a full minute after firing the shot
he stood in his tracks, scarcely breathing. The report of his rifle was
like an explosion. It leaped from mountain to mountain, echoing,
deepening, coming back to him in murmuring intonations, and dying out at
last in a sighing gasp. It was a weird and disturbing sound. He fancied
that it could be heard many miles away. That night the two feasted on
fresh meat.
It was their fifth day in the valley when they came to a break in the
western wall of the range, and through this break flowed a stream that
was very much like the Stikine, broad and shallow and ribboned with
shifting bars of sand. David made up his mind that it must be the
Firepan, and he could feel his pulse quicken as he started up it with
Baree. He must be quite near to Tavish's cabin, if it had not been
destroyed. Even if it had been burned on account of the plague that had
infested it, he would surely discover the charred ruins of it. It was
three o'clock when he started up the creek, and he was--inwardly--much
agitated. He grew more and more positive that he was close to the end of
his adventure. He would soon come upon life--human life. And then? He
tried to dispel the unsteadiness of his emotions, the swiftly growing
discomfort of a great anxiety. The first, of course, would be Tavish's
cabin, or the ruins of it. He had taken it for granted that Tavish's
location would be here, near the confluence of the two streams. A hunter
or prospector would naturally choose such a position.
He travelled slowly, questing both sides of the stream, and listening.
He expected at any moment to hear a sound, a new kind of sound. And he
also scrutinized closely the clean, white bars of sand. There were
footprints in them, of the wild things. Once his heart gave a sudden
jump when he saw a bear track that looked very much like a moccasin
track. It was a wonderful bear country. Their signs were everywhere
along the stream, and their number and freshness made Baree restless.
David travelled until dark. He had the desire to go on even then. He
built a small fire instead, and cooked his supper. For a long time after
that he sat in the moonlight smoking his pipe, and still listening. He
tried not to think. The next day would settle his doubts. The Girl? What
would he find? He went to sleep late and awoke with the summer dawn.
The stream grew narrower and the country wilder as he progressed. It was
noon when Baree stopped dead in his tracks, stiff-legged, the bristles
of his spine erect, a low and ominous growl in his throat. He was
standing over a patch of white sand no larger than a blanket.
"What is it, boy?" asked David.
He went to him casually, and stood for a moment at the edge of the sand
without looking down, lighting his pipe.
"What is it?"
The next moment his heart seemed rising up into his throat. He had been
expecting what his eyes looked upon now, and he had been watching for
it, but he had not anticipated such a tremendous shock. The imprint of a
moccasined foot in the sand! There was no doubt of it this time. A human
foot had made it--one, two, three, four, five times--in crossing that
patch of sand! He stood with the pipe in his mouth, staring down,
apparently without power to move or breathe. It was a small footprint.
Like a boy's. He noticed, then, with slowly shifting eyes, that Baree
was bristling and growling over another track. A bear track, huge,
deeply impressed in the sand. The beast's great spoor crossed the outer
edge of the sand, following the direction of the moccasin tracks. It
was thrillingly fresh, if Baree's bristling spine and rumbling voice
meant anything.
David's eyes followed the direction of the two trails. A hundred yards
upstream he could see where gravel and rock were replaced entirely by
sand, quite a wide, unbroken sweep of it, across which those clawed and
moccasined feet must have travelled if they had followed the creek. He
was not interested in the bear, and Baree was not interested in the
Indian boy; so when they came to the sand one followed the moccasin
tracks and the other the claw tracks. They were not at any time more
than ten feet apart. And then, all at once, they came together, and
David saw that the bear had crossed the sand last and that his huge paws
had obliterated a part of the moccasin trail. This did not strike him as
unusually significant until he came to a point where the moccasins
turned sharply and circled to the right. The bear followed. A little
farther--and David's heart gave a sudden thump! At first it might have
been coincidence, a bit of chance. It was chance no longer. It was
deliberate. The claws were on the trail of the moccasins. David halted
and pocketed his pipe, on which he had not drawn a breath in several
minutes. He looked at his rifle, making sure that it was ready for
action. Baree was growling. His white fangs gleamed and lurid lights
were in his eyes as he gazed ahead and sniffed. David shuddered. Without
doubt the claws had overtaken the moccasins by this time.
It was a grizzly. He guessed so much by the size of the spoor. He
followed it across a bar of gravel. Then they turned a twist in the
creek and came to other sand. A cry of amazement burst from David's
lips when he looked closely at the two trails again.
_The moccasins were now following the grizzly!_
He stared, for a few moments disbelieving his eyes. Here, too, there was
no room for doubt. The feet of the Indian boy had trodden in the tracks
of the bear. The evidence was conclusive; the fact astonishing. Of
course, it was barely possible....
Whatever the thought might have been in David's mind, it never reached a
conclusion. He did not cry out at what he saw after that. He made no
sound. Perhaps he did not even breathe. But it was there--under his
eyes; inexplicable, amazing, not to be easily believed. A third time the
order of the mysterious footprints in the sand was changed--and the
grizzly was now following the boy, obliterating almost entirely the
indentures in the sand of his small, moccasined feet. He wondered
whether it was possible that his eyes had gone bad on him, or that his
mind had slipped out of its normal groove and was tricking him with
weirdly absurd hallucinations. So what happened in almost that same
breath did not startle him as it might otherwise have done. It was for a
brief moment simply another assurance of his insanity; and if the
mountains had suddenly turned over and balanced themselves on their
peaks their gymnastics would not have frozen him into a more speechless
stupidity than did the Girl who rose before him just then, not twenty
paces away. She had emerged like an apparition from behind a great
boulder--a little older, a little taller, a bit wilder than she had
seemed to him in the picture, but with that same glorious hair sweeping
about her, and that same questioning look in her eyes as she stared at
him. Her hands were in that same way at her side, too, as if she were on
the point of running away from him. He tried to speak. He believed,
afterward, that he even made an effort to hold out his arms. But he was
powerless. And so they stood there, twenty paces apart, staring as if
they had met from the ends of the earth.
Something happened then to whip David's reason back into its place. He
heard a crunching--heavy, slow. From around the other end of the boulder
came a huge bear. A monster. Ten feet from the girl. The first cry
rushed out of his throat. It was a warning, and in the same instant he
raised his rifle to his shoulder. The girl was quicker than he--like an
arrow, a flash, a whirlwind of burnished tresses, as she flew to the
side of the great beast. She stood with her back against it, her two
hands clutching its tawny hair, her slim body quivering, her eyes
flashing at David. He felt weak. He lowered his rifle and advanced a few
steps.
"Who ... what ..." he managed to say; and stopped. He was powerless to
go on. But she seemed to understand. Her body stiffened.
"I am Marge O'Doone," she said defiantly, "and this is my bear!"