ROY CONDUCTS A HUNT
"At first," he said, "it looked simple enough. So far as this letter is
concerned, I'm not bothered. That is, I'm not afraid of Ewen and Miller.
But Chandler's proposition is another matter. It's plain enough that he
wanted our men to join him and go to Edmonton and file papers on this
claim. But that isn't as ridiculous as it appears. You know," he said,
"Mr. Zept asked me if I hadn't grubstaked these fellows. If they could
make it appear that I had, then part of this claim would belong to them.
And if they all got together and swore that I had, I don't know how I
could prove that they were working for me on wages. Even if our own men
would testify for me that this was my claim, if Chandler should happen to
file his papers, this would cloud my title. Besides," went on the
colonel, "Chandler is a naturalized Canadian and you know the mining laws
up here are not made to favor the outsider. A foreigner such as I am,
when he's working in these unsurveyed districts, can only stake out his
claim, wait for the survey and then buy the property. Chandler would have
it all over me if he set up the claim of a native, especially ahead of
me."
"I don't think he's gone," suggested Paul, "for he ate breakfast here
yesterday morning."
"And it's somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred miles
between here and the land office," exclaimed Norman.
"It would be interesting to know whether he has gone," answered Colonel
Howell.
"Why not ask Miller or Ewen?" broke in Roy. "They might know something
about him."
Colonel Howell shook his head: "They'd better know nothing about the
letter," he answered at last. "It was written a long time ago."
"You mean they may have changed their minds?" asked Norman.
"I don't mean that," answered Colonel Howell, his face again sober, "but
they had the matter under consideration once. I don't suspect them. I'll
just keep my eyes open and say nothing. If they are all right they might
get sore and leave me."
"Do you mind," asked Roy, "if I go out and do a little investigating?
Chandler may be over to Fort McMurray."
The colonel thought a moment and then answered:
"That won't do any harm. All of you might go hunting this afternoon over
in that direction--if it isn't too cold."
Eagerly enough the boys accepted the suggestion. Protected by their heavy
clothing and carrying the camera and their skin-protected rifles, they
found the trip to the settlement only exhilarating. At Fort McMurray the
temperature, which was twenty-two below zero, did not give much trouble
so long as the wind did not blow. To those whom they met, the boys talked
of being on their way to the hills for moose. But later they determined
not to venture upon the highlands, deciding to make a detour in the
timber on their way back for a possible deer.
They had no trouble in getting trace of Chandler. In the cabin of a white
prospector, where Chandler was well known, they picked up the latest town
gossip. This was that Chandler, who yet seemed to have plenty of money,
had hired Pete Fosseneuve, a half-breed, only two days before to take him
back to his trapping camp at Pointe aux Tremble.
"He's been working there all fall," explained their informant, "and
Fosseneuve has a team of six fine dogs. He paid Pete a lot of money to
take him back to his camp night before last. They ought to be there
to-morrow some time."
This statement allayed the suspicion directed against the dissolute
Englishman and the young men made an early return to the camp.
"I'm glad I didn't say anything to Ewen and Miller," commented Colonel
Howell, when he learned that Chandler had gone still further into the
woods. "Now we'll get to work on our prospecting in earnest."
When the controlled gas had been piped into the cabin, in spite of the
cold weather, Ewen and Miller at once went to work building a new derrick
near the best prospect and sledging the boiler and engine to that
location. In this work nearly a week went by, the boys finding little to
do. The weather seemed settled into a cold spell in which the thermometer
ranged at noonday about twenty below.
It was at this time that a long suppressed ambition of Norman and Roy
came to the surface. They wanted a real hunting trip. The three young men
were natural lovers of the open and curious about animal life in the
wilderness. But, so far, none of the younger members of the camp had
really had an opportunity to test himself amid the rigors of a northern
winter.
Colonel Howell finally consented to their leaving on a hunting expedition
that would give them at least one over-night camp in the snow. This was
on the condition that Philip should accompany the shooting party and that
it should not proceed over a day's march from camp.
The plan of the hunt was really Roy's. He prepared the provisions and was
accepted as leader of the party.
"It wouldn't be any trouble to equip ourselves like tenderfeet," he
explained to Colonel Howell, "and to make a featherbed trip of this. But
we're going to travel like trappers."
The hunt was to be for caribou back over the hills in the direction of
the Barren Lands. In the end Colonel Howell agreed that the party might
advance two days' travel into the wilderness but that it must return to
camp on the evening of the fourth day.
Less than an hour's preparation was necessary and when Philip and the
three boys left camp one morning, the expedition had little appearance of
the usual, heavily laden winter hunters. Each member of the party was on
snowshoes, and behind them they drew a small sled containing their camp
equipment. It was hardly more than a packload for a strong Indian but the
sled was taken in the hope that it might bring in a return load of fresh
meat.
Philip and Norman carried rifles carefully protected in mooseskin cases.
Paul carried nothing but his camera and an automatic revolver. Roy took
the first turn at the sled. The morning was fair but cold, and the bright
sun had no effect upon the snow-laden trees.
When the enthusiastic hunters reached the Fort McMurray settlement just
below the camp they left the river and struck inland. Within an hour they
had passed through the pines and poplars fringing the river and had
reached the summit of a "hog-back" range of hills beyond which there was
known to be a little valley running at right angles to the course of the
river.
When the four travelers reached the top of the "hog-back" and saw the
frozen snow-covered valley before them, like children out for a lark,
Philip no less active than the others, they coasted into the valley.
Until the sun was high above them they made their way along the frozen
creek toward the head of the wide defile. About noon, camp was made, tea
was brewed and, partly behind the protection of a little frozen
waterfall, bannock and cold meat were added to the hot tea. No time was
lost in cooking.
With faces and ears protected by their heavy caps, and with heavy mittens
to guard their fingers against frost bite, not one of the party
complained of the intense cold.
"It's all right," explained Philip, "unless the wind comes up, and if it
does we'll have to go into camp."
But in the valley no wind arose to make any trouble. The party set
forward to reach the head of the valley before time to go into camp. They
did this by three o'clock and then, mounting an elevation and passing
through a thin fringe of dwarf pines, the boys found themselves on a
wind-swept plateau where the snow clung with difficulty.
They had seen plenty of deer, rabbits and small game during the day but
had done no shooting. They were after caribou or moose. The first look
over the desolate plateau, where not even trees broke the landscape, was
far from inviting. As the sun began to go down and little was to be seen
other than a few rocky irregularities and a thin covering of snow with
drifts here and there like white islands, camp prospects were not as
inviting as they had seemed in the valley behind them.
"Come on," exclaimed Roy, as the party paused on the edge of the heights.
"This begins to look like the real thing."
"Maybe some moose," was Philip's rejoinder. "No moose track on de valley
below."
"Hear that?" exclaimed Roy. "Everybody get busy. I reckon we can't go any
farther inland to-night than that heap o' rock way over there." He
pointed to a barren elevation on the already darkening horizon. "You
hunters," he added, indicating Norman and Philip, "ought to spread out
and look for game tracks in the swales to the right and left. But don't
go too far. Work your way in toward those rocks before night. You'll find
us there. Come on, Paul," he added with unusual enthusiasm, considering
that it was rapidly growing colder in the open country, "there's probably
no wood over there. You and I'll get some here and meet the hunters at
the rock pile."
While Norman and the Indian started out, Roy loosened the axe and drew
the sled back into the pine scrub to look for fallen timber. This was a
tedious process and it was even more of a task to load the firewood onto
the sled.
"The tent'll fix us all right," explained Roy as he backed against the
wind and began to dump his firewood on the snow. "But first we've got to
make a camp site. Take off your snowshoes."
Where the wind had been cutting over the tops of the rocks a sort of
vacuum had been formed behind the ridge and into this the snow had been
piled up to a depth of four or five feet. With a snowshoe, each boy
tackled this bank. Soon they had dug a pit in it about ten by ten feet.
By throwing the loose snow around the edge of this they created a wall
about seven feet high.
"Now I'll show you a trick I read about," exclaimed Roy.
From the pine grove on the edge of the plateau he had dragged the slender
trunk of a poplar tree about twelve feet long. This he now threw over the
opening in the snow, making a sort of a ridge pole, and then with Paul's
assistance unrolled the tent and spread it across. While Paul held the
edges of the somewhat awkward canvas in place on top of the snow wall Roy
piled snow on the ends of the canvas and just as it was too dark to see
more the excavation was thoroughly roofed except in one corner where the
irregular canvas did not fit.
"We need that for a chimney opening anyway," exclaimed Roy.
Before a fire could be started, however, there was the sound of a rifle
off to the south, to which Paul responded with a pistol shot. Then the
camp makers carried their wood into the snow house and while Paul
attended to their scanty food supply and arranged the sleeping bags as
rugs on the crisp snow floor, Roy started a fire. The blaze emphasized
the darkness without and, realizing that their companions had no signal,
the two boys split up a torch with the axe and carried it outside where,
while they could keep it alight, it might serve as a beacon.
But this was not necessary. Both the Indian and Norman came in, guided by
Paul's revolver shot. Neither reported signs of game. Both were elated
over the house which was already so warm within that the heavy coats and
mittens could be discarded.
"I s'pose supper's all ready," exclaimed Norman after he had got his
numbed limbs warmed.
"No," answered Roy, "I've just been waiting for you so we could have it
all fresh and hot. I'm going to prepare it myself and everything's going
to be in trapper style. It won't be much but it's all you need and it's
according to the rules and regulations. I've already got my hot water.
Now I'll get the bannocks ready."
"Didn't you bring those I made for you?" asked Philip, the camp cook and
hunter.
"I prefer to make 'em myself," answered Roy, "just as the Indians make
'em in the woods."
Philip smiled and Norman and Paul looked somewhat disappointed but
neither made objection.
"Here's my flour," explained Roy who had already rolled up his sweater
sleeves and produced an old flour bag with a few pounds of flour in the
bottom of it. "I mixed the baking powder with the flour before we left
camp so as to save time," he explained.
"Seems to me we've got all night," interrupted Norman. "They don't do
that to save time--you're mixed. They do that to save carrying the baking
powder in a separate package."
"Anyway," retorted Roy, "it's the way real trappers do."
He had rolled the sides of the sack down to make a kind of receptacle at
the bottom of which lay his flour. Then with a piece of wood he pried off
the top of the tea kettle and was about to pour some boiling water onto
the flour when Philip with a grunt stopped him.
"Non," exclaimed the Indian. "You spoil him."
Over Roy's feeble protest the Indian scooped up snow and deposited it in
the boiling water until the fluid was somewhat cooler. Then he passed the
kettle to the waiting Roy who began to mix his Indian bread. But had
Philip allowed Roy to proceed in his generous application of water, his
proposed bannocks would have resulted in flour paste. In the end, because
Roy had to get his pork ready, the volunteer cook permitted Philip to
finish the fashioning of a bannock as big as the frying pan,--the only
cooking utensil that Roy had thought necessary to bring with them.
"Now," exclaimed Roy, as he deposited a generous piece of salt pork in
the frying pan, "I'll show you how the hungry trapper makes a supper fit
for a king."
As the pork began to sizzle in the pan those who were eagerly watching
the amateur cook saw the piece separating into thin sections.
"You see, that's what we trappers always do," explained Roy rather
proudly. "You can't slice pork when it's frozen solid. I sliced my pork
before we left camp this morning."
By this time the rashers of pork were swimming about in the hot fat like
doughnuts in bubbling lard.
"It certainly smells all right," exclaimed Paul, as the appetizing odor
from the frying meat filled the snow cave. "Hurry up and give us a
piece."
Roy made no reply but busied himself stirring the bits of meat with the
point of his knife.
"Is the bread ready?" the cook asked, turning to Philip.
The Indian only pointed to the big ball of dough flattened out like a
gigantic pancake and ready for the skillet.
There upon Roy seized the handle of his frying pan, shifted the skillet
to one side and, resting it on the snow, began to flip the bits of salt
pork onto the snow floor.
"Here, what are you doing?" shouted Norman.
"You don't eat those scraps," announced Roy positively. "The only good in
pork is the fat and the fat's all in the skillet. We trappers give these
scraps to the dogs--only we ain't got any dogs."
"Well I'll be a dog all right," exclaimed Norman and as fast as Roy
flipped the brown rashers out with his knife point Norman and Paul
grabbed them up.
"There ain't any need of doin' that," snorted Roy. "I tell you there
ain't any good in those things and it's against all the rules anyhow.
You'll get all the fat you want when our bannock's done."
"Well, then, why don't you start it?" asked Paul. "I suppose it'll take
it an hour to cook. And your fat's getting cold anyway."
"That's where you show your ignorance," retorted Roy. "I suppose you
fellows think I don't know my business. If I'd put that bannock right
into this hot fat it would have fried like a doughnut. I've got to get
this grease soaked up in my bread. That's why I'm lettin' the grease get
cool."
With this he took the flat looking loaf from the Indian's hands and
slipped it into the already nearly full frying pan. But Roy knew his
limitations. As he lifted the pan back upon the coals and the grease
began to sizzle and snap he knew that he had exhausted his culinary
knowledge.
"Here," he said to the Indian, "you can watch this while it cooks."
With a smile the Indian took the handle of the pan, shook it deftly a few
times, lifted the edge of the dough with skilled fingers and then settled
the pan upon a bed of coals just outside the heart of the fire and,
squatted by its side, carefully watched the baking. Meanwhile, Norman and
Paul were crunching bacon scraps while Roy was mopping his perspiring
brow with the sleeve of his sweater.
"If that's all we're going to have," broke in Norman, "I want to go
home."
But that was all they did have. The conscientious Roy, who had given the
subject much consideration, had carefully refrained from bringing any
luxuries other than tea and a little sugar. But by the time the bannock
was done--and the Indian knew how to cook it--the three boys had become
so hungry that the Indian bread was eaten ravenously. Then the party
crept into their sleeping bags at an early hour and passed the night
without discomfort.
Philip took charge of the camp in the morning and before the boys crept
out of their bags he served each of them with a cup of hot tea. When the
boys looked outside of their snow tent it seemed hardly dawn and yet it
was after eight o'clock. Philip shook his head and announced prospects of
bad weather. There was no sun and, although it was no colder than it had
been the day before, there was a gloom over all that suggested a storm.
Not one of the boys would have suggested it but the Indian did not
hesitate to warn them that they should return to the camp at once.
"I don't know how I would vote on this question," said Norman, "if we'd
had proper provisions. But I don't propose to live three more days on the
_ghost_ of salt pork. And, besides, we've got plenty of moose meat in
camp. I'm not so keen about going to the Barren Lands as I was."
This was why late that afternoon Colonel Howell was both surprised and
glad to see his young friends trot into camp.