Chapter V.]

Though I well knew that packeteers did not carry firearms, I asked

Chief Factor Thompson--just for the sake of getting the truth from him

and giving it to the public:

"How does the Hudson's Bay Company arm their packeteers?"

"Arm them?" the Chief Factor laughed outright, "why, we always provide

them with an axe."

"Firearms, I mean."

"Firearms! Why, they aren't allowed to carry firearms at all. It's

against the rules and regulations of the Company. In the first place,

packeteers are supplied with plenty of grub for the trip; in the next

place, if they had a gun they might go hunting and fooling around with

it instead of attending to their business; and, moreover, it doesn't

matter whether the mail travels two hundred or two thousand miles,

there is no occasion for packeteers to carry firearms, for there are no

highwaymen and no animals in this country that would make an offensive

attack upon them."

And in truth, in all that wild brigade there were no fire-arms save

Oo-koo-hoo's old muzzle-loader; but then The Owl was a hunter by

profession, and he carried a gun only as a matter of business. Now for

the last twenty-five years that is exactly what I have wanted to tell

the public. When one reads a story, or sees a play or a moving

picture, in which characters bristling with firearms are set forth as

veritable representatives of life in the Canadian wilderness, he may

rest assured that the work is nothing but a travesty on life in Canada.

Any author, any illustrator, any playwright, any scenario writer, any

actor or any director who depicts Canadian wilderness life in that way

is either an ignoramus or a shameless humbug. And to add strength to

my statement I shall quote the experience of a gentleman who was the

first City Clerk, Treasurer, Assessor, and Tax Collector of Dawson

City--Mr. E. Ward Smith:

POLICE AND GUNMEN

"The Mounted Police generally received word in advance when any

particularly bad character was headed for the Yukon, and in all such

cases he was met when he slipped off the boat. I remember particularly

one case of the kind, as I happened to be on hand when the American

gunman landed. He was a quiet enough looking individual and had no

weapons of any kind in sight, but a close scrutiny revealed the fact

that he had a particularly evil eye in his sandy-freckled face. One of

the Mounties picked him out unerringly and tapped him on the shoulder.

"'Gat Gardiner?' he asked.

"'No,' said the newcomer. 'My name is Davidson.'

"'I happen to know you as Gat Gardiner,' insisted the policeman. 'Got

any weapons on you?'

"'Leave go of me,' flared the so-called Davidson, all the veneer of

civility gone. 'You got nothing on me. Let go, I say!'

"'I've got something on you,' declared the policeman, hauling a

revolver from the hip pocket of the man. 'Carrying concealed weapons

is against the law on this side the line. Back on the boat, you, and

don't you dare put foot ashore or I'll have you in jail. You go back

the way you came.'

"And Gardiner went. I saw him leaning over the rail when the boat

started on the return trip and he shook his fist at the policeman on

the wharf and emitted a string of vile oaths. But he never came back.

"When the notorious 'Soapy' Smith was killed at Skagway, Alaska, his

gang of desperadoes was promptly broken up and word came to Dawson that

some of them were headed for the Canadian side. They were gathered in

as soon as they crossed the line, denuded of weapons, and sent back.

Not one of the gang eluded the vigilance of the police.

"The law against carrying concealed weapons was a big factor in keeping

the peace. Comparatively few men took advantage of their legal right

to carry a revolver in sight. I remember seeing an open box in a

pawnshop containing the most amazing collection of weapons I had ever

set eyes on--revolvers with silver handles, pistols of carved ivory,

antiquated breech-loaders, weapons of fantastic design, and, probably,

of equally fantastic history, strange implements of death that had come

from all climes and bespoke adventures on all the seven seas.

"'Where did you get the lot?' I asked the proprietor.

"'They all sell their shooting irons. No use for them here. I get 'em

for practically nothing. Help yourself if you have any fancy that way.

I'll make you a present of anything you want.'

"So much for the wild Yukon of the novelists! Instead of lurching into

the dance hall and blazing away at the ceiling, picture the

'old-timer', the hardened miner of a hundred camps, planking down his

pistols on the counter of the pawnshop and asking 'How much?' That's

the truer picture."

As part of my boyhood education was derived from the study of American

illustrated magazines, I was led by those periodicals to believe that

the North American wilderness was inhabited by wild and woolly men

bedecked with firearms, and ever since I have been on the lookout for

just such characters. Now while I cannot speak for the Western States,

I can at least speak for Canada; and I must now admit that, during my

thirty-three years of contact with wilderness life, on one

occasion--but on one only--I found that there was justification for

describing the men of the northern wilderness as carrying firearms for

protection. But does not the one exception prove the rule?

It happened near Stewart, on the borderline of Alaska, several years

ago. I encountered a prospector who wanted to cross Portland Canal

from Alaska to Canada, and as I was rowing over, I offered to take him

across. When, however, he turned to pick up his pack I caught sight of

something that fairly made me burst out laughing; for it was as funny a

sight as though I had witnessed it on Piccadilly or Broadway. At first

I thought he was a movie actor who, in some unaccountable way, had

strayed from Los Angeles and become lost in the northern wilderness

before he had had time to remove his ridiculous "make-up"; but a moment

later he proved beyond doubt that he was not an actor, for he blushed

scarlet when he observed that I was focussing a regular Mutt-and-Jeff

dotted-line stare at a revolver that hung from his belt, and he

faltered:

"But . . . Why the mirth?"

"Well, old man," I laughed again, "for over twenty-five years I have

been roaming the Canadian wilderness from the borderline of Maine right

up here to Alaska, and in all that time--with the exception of the

Constables of the North-West Mounted Police--you are the first man,

woman, or child, I have seen carrying a revolver. And I swear, old

dear, that that's the truth. So now, do you wonder that I laugh?"

RECORD TRAVELLING

But to return to the Hudson's Bay Company's packet system, I asked

Chief Factor Thompson:

"Which is the more important, the summer or the winter mail?"

"Oh, the winter; for, when inward bound, it bears the Commissioner's

instructions to the district chief factors; and, when outward bound, it

contains information regarding the results and the progress of the

fur-trade, and orders for additional supplies."

"How many miles a day do the packeteers average on their winter trips?"

"Well," replied the Chief Factor, "I think the rate of speed maintained

by our packeteers is remarkable; especially when one considers the

roughness of the country, the hardships of winter travel, the fact that

the men must make their bread, cook their meals, care for their dogs,

and, when on the trail, cannot even quench their thirst without halting

to build a fire and melt snow. Yet the packeteers of the Mackenzie

River mail cover their two thousand miles on snowshoes at an average

rate of twenty-seven and a half miles a day, including all stoppages."

"That is certainly splendid travelling. Some of the packeteers, I

should judge, have made great records; haven't they?"

"Yes, that's true," acknowledged the trader, "the packeteers do make

great efforts to break records between posts. But, though they may

have succeeded in cutting down the time, their achievement is never

mentioned on the way-bill, nor does it affect the time allowed for the

completion of the trip; for, though the mail be brought in ahead of

time, it is never handed over to the relay until the appointed hour has

struck. Otherwise, the whole system would be thrown out of gear.

Exceptionally fast runs are not shown upon the way-bills, because they

would eventually affect the average time allowed for the trip; and in

stormy weather that would be hard upon the packeteers. The time

allowed for the transmission of a packet is calculated on a ten-years'

average. No excuse for delay, except death, is tolerated. At each

post on certain fixed dates relays of men and dogs are kept in

readiness to forward the mail without delay. A through way-bill

accompanies every packet from point of departure to point of delivery.

At each post along the route the time of arrival and the time of

departure of the mail must be entered upon the way-bill, as well as the

names of the packeteers and of the officers in charge."

"I understand that packets contain not only the despatches of the

Company, but the private mail of the employees, that of missionaries of

all denominations, that of chance 'explorers' or travellers, and even

that of opposition fur-traders. Is that a fact?"

"Yes, sir, and moreover, no charge is made by the Company."

"Do the Company's officers experience much trouble in procuring men to

act as packeteers?"

"Oh, no; none whatever. As a rule, when men enter the Company's

service, they stipulate that they shall be given a place on the packet;

for that affords them an opportunity to pay a visit to the next post,

and to join in the dance which is always held on the arrival of the

mail. Trippers consider themselves greatly honoured on being given

charge of a packet; for it means that they are held to be trustworthy,

and thoroughly familiar with the topography of the district."

"Before the advent of the railroad and the steamboat, which was the

longest of the Company's packet routes?"

"By all odds that of the Yukon packet. It made the journey from

Montreal to Fort Yukon, which was then situated at the junction of the

Porcupine and Yukon rivers. It was routed by way of the Ottawa River,

Lake Huron, Lake Superior, Lake of the Woods, Lake Winnipeg, the

Athabasca River, the Slave River, and the Mackenzie River. It was

forwarded in summer by canoe, in winter by dog-train, for the enormous

distance of four thousand five hundred miles. And let me tell you, it

is to-day, as it was two hundred years ago, the pride of the Company's

people that not one packet was ever lost beyond recovery. Packeteers

have been drowned, frozen, burned, shot, smothered, and even eaten; but

the packet has always reached its destination somehow."

BEAR HOLDS UP MAIL

A sudden burst of laughter from the men at a neighbouring fire

attracted the attention of Chief Factor Thompson, and glancing over, he

remarked to me:

"Telling yarns, eh! Let's go over and listen."

Twelve or fifteen men were crowded round that fire--including Factor

Mackenzie, the Rev. Mr. Wilson, Father Jois, and Oo-koo-hoo--and they

were now coaxing "Old Billy Brass" to tell the next story. He was a

wiry little white man of about sixty who had seen much service in the

Hudson's Bay Company. He hesitated. They clamoured again, and he

began:

"But talkin' 'bout bears reminds me of a little affair I once had on

the Peace River," said the old man, glancing slyly from the corner of

his eye to see what effect his statement made upon his campfire

companions. Billy was sitting cross-legged upon his caribou robe; and,

as he turned the browning bannocks before the fire, he continued:

"Well, as I was sayin', me an' Old-pot-head's son once had a go with a

great big black bear away up on the Peace River. But, don't you forget

it, Billy Brass didn't lose the packet."

"Come, Billy, tell us all about it," coaxed the Chief Factor, well

knowing that if he were once started there would be on his part little

need of urging in order to extract from the old tripper all he knew, or

could invent to suit the occasion.

"Well, gentlemen, if you ain't too sleepy, an' if some o' you boys'll

watch the bannock, I don't mind tellin'," replied Billy as he leaned

toward the fire, picked up a red-hot coal, and palmed it into his pipe.

"But I can't give a funny bear story, the same as you've been tellin',

because all my experiences with bears have been mighty serious.

However, I'll try and tell you 'bout me an Old-pot-head's son; an' to

my mind it's the most serious of 'em all.

"As I was sayin', we was in charge of the Peace River packet; an' if it

hadn't been for the charm Father La Mille blessed for me at Fort Good

Hope, I don't know 's I'd be here to tell about it.

"Anyway, me an' Old-pot-head's son was carryin' the packet and headin'

for Hudson's Hope. It was the fall packet, an'--as winter was just

about due--we was hustlin' 'long for all we was worth, an' jabbin'

holes in the river with our paddles as fast as we could, in fear o' the

freeze up.

"As bad lack would have it, that very night the ice overtook us, an' we

had to leave the canoe ashore an' finish the voyage afoot. Lucky for

us, we was only about three-days' travel from the Fort, so we leaves

our axe an' whatever we don't particular need with the canoe.

"Mile after mile we walks along the river bank; an' as we don't have no

extra moccasins, our bare skin was soon upon the sand. What with

havin' our duds torn by bushes, an' our fallin' in the mud once or

twice, and several times a-wadin' creeks, we was a pretty sight when we

stops to camp that night. When the sun went down, we was so tired that

we just stopped dead in our tracks. We had been packin' our blankets,

our grub, an' cookin' gear to say nothin' o' the packet; so, of course,

we didn't give much thought to the campin' ground. But after supper I

looks round an' sees that we'd made our fire down in a little hollow,

an' that the place was bare o' trees 'ception three that stood in a row

'bout four lengths of a three-fathom canoe from our fire. The middle

one was a birch with a long bare trunk, an' on each side stood a pine.

Now, I want you gentlemen to pay perticler 'tention to just how they

stood; for them three trees is goin' to do a mighty lot o' figgerin' in

this here story.

"As I was sayin', there was two pines with a birch in between, an' all

standin' in a row, with the upper branches o' pines runnin' square in

among the branches o' the birch. 'Bout half ways between the birch and

the east pine, but a trifle off the line, was a pool o' water. Before

I turns in for the night, I takes the packet an' sticks it on the end

of a long pole, an' shoves it up against the birch tree, for fear o'

the fire spreadin' an' burnin' up the mail.

"Me an' Old-pot-head's son turns in an' sleeps as sound as any trippers

could. Some time in the night I wakes up with a mighty start that

almost busts me heart. Somethin' was maulin' me. So, with me head

still under the blanket, for I dassn't peep out, I sings out to the

Injun an' asks him what in creation he's kickin' me for; an' if he

couldn't wake me without killin' me. Old-pot-head's son yells back

that he hasn't touched me. Then you bet I was scared; for the thing

hauls off agen an' gives me a clout that knocks the wind plum' out o'

me.

"Just then I heard Old-pot-head's son shout, 'Keep still, Bill, it's a

big black bear.' I grabs the edges o' me blanket an' pulls 'em in under

me so hard I thinks I've bust it. But the bear keeps on maulin' me,

an' givin' me such hard swats that I began to fear it'd cave in me

ribs."

"But, Billy, why didn't you shoot it?" asked the Reverend Mr. Wilson.

"Shoot? Why, your reverence, don't you know, packeteers never carries

a gun?" the old man exclaimed with disgust, and then continued his

story:

"Not content with that, the brute starts to roll me over an' over. An'

all the time I'm doin' me best to play dead. Now you needn't laff.

I'd like to see any o' youse pretendin' you was dead while a big bear

was poundin' you that hard that you begin to believe you ain't

shammin'. An' when that ugly brute hauls off an' hits me agen, I

decides then an' there that there's no occasion to sham it. But just

as soon as I makes up my mind I'm dead, the bear leaves me; an' when I

can no longer hear him breathin', I peeps out of a tiny little hole,

and sees the big brute maulin' me old friend the Injun. Then I takes

another peep roun', an' don't see no escape 'cept by way o' them three

trees, so I just jumps up, an' lights out like greased lightnin' for

the nearest tree. After me comes the bear gallopin'. I guess that was

the quickest runnin' I ever done in all me life. I just managed to

climb into the lower branches o' the west pine as the bear struck the

trunk below me.

"When I stops for breath in the upper branches, I sees the old bear

canterin' back agen to have another go with me pardner.

"Just as soon as I was safe, the whole performance struck me as bein'

pretty funny, an' I couldn't help roarin' out and a-laffin' when I saw

the beast maulin' Old-pot-head's son, an' him tryin' for all he was

worth to play dead.

"Thinks I, I'll make me old friend laff. So I starts in to guy him,

an' he begins to snicker, an' that makes the bear mad, an' he begins to

roll the Injun. Then, you bet, I couldn't make him laff no more; for,

what with shammin' dead, an' bein' frightened to death into the

bargain, I don't think there was much laff left in him.

"You know how bears will act when they sometimes comes across a handy

log? Well, that's just what the beast was doin' with Old-pot-head's

son--it was rollin' him over an' over. The very next second it rolls

his feet into the fire. Down the tree I slid, like snow down a

mountain, an' stood at the foot of it an' pelted the bear with stones.

The Injun's blanket began to smoke. It was no laffin' matter, for I

knowed if I didn't drive the brute off in a jiffy Old-pot-head's son

would be a comin' out of his trance mighty sudden an' that meant a

catch-as-catch-can with a great, big, crazy black bear.

"As good luck would have it, the next time I threw a stone, it landed

on the tip of the bear's snout, an' with a snarl he comes for me. I

waits as long as I dares, then up the tree I skips, with the brute

follerin' me. About half ways up I thinks I hears a human bein'

laffin' in the east pine. So I looks over, an' sure enuff, I sees me

old pardner settin' on a limb an' fairly roarin'. All the same, I was

feelin' mighty squeemish, for the bear was comin' up lickety splinter

after me.

"Just then I spies a good stout branch that reaches out close against a

big limb of the birch, an' I crawls over. As the bear follers me, I

slides down the trunk o' the birch, an' lights out for the east pine

where me pardner was doin' the laffin'. On its way down the bear

rammed itself right smack against the mail-bag; and when the beast

struck ground, it smelt the man smell on the packet, an' began to gnaw

it.

"Now me an' Old-pot-head's son knowed well enuff we had to save the

mail-sack, so I slips down the east pine a ways, an' breaks off dead

branches, an' pelts them at the bear while the Injun crosses over into

the top o' the west pine. Then we both at once slides down as low as

we dares, an' I begins to lamm the brute with a shower o' sticks. Up

the tree it comes for me, while me pardner slips down, grabs the

mail-sack, an' sails up the west pine again.

"That was a mighty clever move, thinks I, but a bag is an orkad thing

to portage when you're meanderin' up an' down a tree with a bear after

you. But the tump-line was on it, just as we carried it the day

before, so it wasn't as bad as it might 'a' been.

"Well, when I went up the east pine, the bear follered, an', as there

wasn't any too much room between me an' the bear, I crosses over into

the birch an' slides down its slippery trunk as tho' it was greased. I

hits the ground a little harder than I wanted to, but didn't waste no

time in lightin' out for the west pine, where the Injun was restin';

an' all the time the bear was tryin' to grab me coat-tails.

"It was just a case of up to the west pine, cross over and down the

birch; then up the east pine, cross over an' down the birch; then up

the west pine, cross over an' down the birch, till we got so dizzy we

could a hardly keep from fallin'. If you could just 'a' seen the way

we tore roun' through them trees, I'll bet you would 'a' done a heap o'

laffin'.

"The bear was mighty spry in goin' up, but when it came to goin' down

he'd just do the drop-an'-clutch, drop-an'-clutch act. That's just

where me an' me pardner had the advantage on the brute; for we just

swung our arms an' legs roun' that birch an' did the drop act, too;

but, somehow, we hadn't time to do the clutch, so our coat-tails got

badly crushed every time we landed.

"It was a kind of go-as-you-please until about the tenth roun', when I

accidentally drops the mail-bag on the bear's head, an' that makes him

boilin' mad; so he lights out after us as tho' he had swallered a

hornet's nest.

"Then away we goes up an' down, up an' down, an' roun' an' roun' that

perpendicular race track, until we made such a blur in the scen'ry that

any fool with half an eye an' standin' half a mile away could 'a' seen

a great big figger eight layin' on its side in the middle o' the

landscape. We took turns at carryin' the packet, but sometimes I

noticed Old-pot-head's son was havin' a good deal of trouble with it.

It didn't seem to bother him much when he was climbin' up; for he just

swung it on his back with the loop o' the tump-line over his head, an'

so he had his hands free. But it was when he was comin' down the

slippery birch that the weight of the bag made him rather more rapid

than he wanted to be; an' so, when he an' the bag struck groun', they

nearly always bounced apart; an' if the Injun failed to get his feet in

time to ketch the sack on the first bounce, I ketched it on the second

bounce as I glode by. So between the two of us we managed to hang on

to the packet.

"By-an'-by, we was gettin' terribly tuckered out. It was a good thing

for us that the bear was gettin' winded an' dizzy as well; because, at

about the sixty-seventh roun', the brute had no sooner gone down the

birch than he bounded up agen just when Old-pot-head's son was

a-climbin' thro' the upper branches o' the birch. So he slips over

into the top o' the east pine, while I stays in the top o' the west

pine, an' the bear sits down in a upper crotch o' the birch.

"Well, we puts in a good many heats of anywhere from twenty-five to

seventy-five laps roun' that track by the time daylight comes, an'

sunrise finds us all ketching our wind in the upper branches. I

noticed that whenever the brute wanted to stop the whirligig it always

climbed up the birch just in time to separate me an' me pardner; an'

there we would sit, me in the west pine, me pardner in the east pine,

an' the black brute right in between.

"About breakfast time me an' the Injun was feelin' mighty hungry.

There we sat cussin' our luck an' castin' longin' glances down at the

grub bag. By the time I'd caught me wind a great idea strikes me.

Durin' the next heat I would rush out. So I sings out my intentions to

me pardner; an' he says he thinks we can do it. So while he was

carryin' Her Majesty's mail I was to try an' grab the grub bag.

"We got ready, an' dropped down them pines so fast that we both hits

groun' before the bear knows what's doin'. Then I leaves that tree

like as if all the animals in the woods was after me. I got on so much

speed that by the time I grabs the grub bag I was goin' so fast that I

couldn't turn roun' without slackin' down. That's where I loses a

terrible amount o' time, an' I was beginnin' to think it was all up

with me. By the time I got headed roun' agen for the tree, I sees that

the bear is comin' down with his back to me. When he hits groun' he

sees the Injun dancin' roun' the foot o' the west pine; so he makes for

the redskin, an' chases him up while I climbs the east pine.

"Then we all went roun' an' roun' for maybe fifty laps, an' the way we

wore the bark off them trees an' trod down the grass between 'em was a

caution. By-an'-by the bear gets so dizzy that he bucks up the birch

agen, an' sure enuff that stops the performance.

"I didn't need any breakfast bell to remind me to open the grub bag. I

just reaches in an' pulls out some busted bannock an' throws a chunk

over to Old-pot-head's son, an' without even sayin' grace, we starts

in. Every little while I'd toss another chunk of bread over to me

pardner an' just out o' sheer spite I'd chuck it so that it would go

sailin' thro' the air right in front o' the bear's snout. That makes

him mad. So he tried to catch the stuff as it flies by; but I just

puts on a little more curve, an' that makes him madder still, an' he

ups an' comes for me.

"Then we all knocks off breakfast an' goes for another canter. But it

don't do no good, 'ceptin' that we all gets puffed out agen. After a

bit, the bear stops to ketch his breath, an' then me an' me pardner

goes on with our breakfast.

"With the bear exercisin' us the way he did, we had to take our

breakfast in a good many courses. That makes it so long drawn out that

we gets mighty thirsty. The Injun asks me if the cups is in the grub

bag. I puts me han' in an' feels, but they ain't there. Then I

remembers that we left them down by the fire. We didn't either of us

care to risk snakin' a cup, so I tells me pardner that the next time we

goes roun' we'd best try an' grab a handful o' water. We didn't have

long to wait, for the bear soon gets another move on; an' then away we

all goes sailin' roun' agen. Every time me an' the Injun canters past

the pool, we just makes a sudden dip an' grabs up a handful o' water

an' throws it in.

"It took so much exercise to get so little water that I thought I'd die

of thirst while I was tryin' to drink me fill. When the bear caught on

to what we was doin', it just made him madder an' madder; an' he lights

out after us at such a breathless clip that we had to fairly gallop up

them pines, an' slide down the birch faster than ever. It wasn't long

before nearly every button was wore off, an' our clothes was so ripped

up an' torn down that I'd blush every time I'd ketch the bear lookin'

at me. An' every time we ran 'long the groun' from one tree to

another, me an' me pardner had to use both hands on our garments in

order to keep up our--er--respectability. However, the bear didn't

have the laff on us altogether, for he had gone up an' down them trees

so often an' so fast that he had worn all the hair off his stomach.

"After a while we all gets tuckered out agen; an' while we rests in the

trees me an' me pardner talks about the weather, lettin' on that there

ain't no bear anywheres nigh. So the time passed. As we didn't

recollect just how much grub we had at the start, or how much water

there was in the pool first off, we couldn't for the life of us reckon

just how long we'd been there. Neither me nor Old-pot-head's son would

care to take our oaths whether we'd been there a night an' half a day,

or half a dozen nights an' days; the night time an' the day time was so

mixed up together that we hadn't time to separate 'em. We were sure,

tho', that our grub was givin' out, the water was dryin' up, an' death

was gettin' good an' ready for us.

"We was in such a terrible tight place that I begins to think o' takin'

off me shirt an' flyin' it from the top o' the tallest pine as a signal

o' distress; for we was worse off than if we'd been shipwrecked. Talk

about bein' cast adrift on a raft! Why, it wasn't in it with bein'

fixed the way we was. We just stayed in one spot with no chance of

ever driftin' to'rds help. As long as the bear kept tab on us there

wasn't no sign of our ever gettin' a wink o' sleep. And more, besides

starvin' to death, we had to face bein' frozen; for our clothes was all

wore off, an' winter was comin' on mighty fast.

"At last, when me an' Old-pot-head's son had about given up hope, an'

was just pickin' out which would be the easiest death, what should we

see but somethin' bobbin' in an' out among the bushes. Say, it was

another bear! When it comes a little closer, we makes out it was a

little lady bear. No sooner does our old stern-chaser spy her than he

slides down to the groun', an' risin' up on his hind legs, throws out

his chest, an' cocks his eye at her, for all the world like a man when

he sees a pretty girl comin' his way. But when her dainty little

ladyship ketches sight of his bald-headed stomach, she just tosses up

her nose with disgust, an' wheels roun' an' makes for the tall timbers

with our affectionate friend limpin' the best he can after her.

"An' that's the last we sees o' the bear that tried to hold up the

Company's packet."

After the laughter had died down, Chief Factor Thompson yawned:

"Well, gentlemen, it's getting on. I must be turning in or my men will

be late in getting under way in the morning."

GOD AND THE WILD MEN

Drowsiness had indeed overtaken the camp. But now I must digress a

moment to tell you something that the public--at least the public that

has derived its knowledge of northern wilderness life from fiction--may

find it hard to believe. And this is what I want to say: that every

one in that whole brigade of wild men of the wilderness, from the

lowest dog-driver right up to the Chief Factor--when each had fixed his

bed in readiness for the night--knelt down, and with bowed head, said

his evening prayer to The Master of Life. Moreover, the fact that two

clergymen were present had nothing whatever to do with it, for the

"barbarians" of the forest would have done just the same had no priest

been there--just as I have seen them do scores and scores of times. In

fact, in some sections of the forest the native wilderness man--red,

white, or half-breed--who does not, is not the rule, but the exception.

Then, too--unless one's ears are closed to such sounds--one may

occasionally hear the voyageurs of the "North canoe" and the "York

boat" brigades, while straining on the tracking line, singing, among

other hymns:

Onward, Christian soldiers,

Marching as to war,

With the Cross of Jesus,

Going on before.

And, furthermore, I wonder if the fiction-reading public will believe

that the majority of the men in the fur brigades always partake of the

holy sacrament before departing upon their voyages? Nevertheless, it

is the truth--though of course truth does not agree with the orgies of

gun-play that spring from the weird imaginations of the stay-at-home

authors, who, in their wild fancy, people the wilderness with

characters from the putrescence of civilization. It is time these

authors were enlightened, for a man, native to the wilderness, is a

better man . . . more honest, more chivalrous, more generous, and--at

heart, though he talks less about it--more God-respecting . . . than

the man born in the city. That is something the public should never

forget; for if the public remembers that, then the authors of

wilderness stories will soon have to change their discordant tune.

Yes, it is true, every one of those wild men said his evening prayer

and then, with his blanket wrapped about him, lay down upon his thick,

springy mattress of fir-brush, with his feet toward the fire, and

slumbered as only a decent, hard-working man can. Out among the

dancing shadows that flitted among the snow-mantled bushes and heavily

laden trees a hundred and fifty eyes glared in the brooding

darkness--as though all the wolves in the forest were gathering there.

Later, when the sound of heavy breathing was heard round the fires, a

fierce, wolfish-looking dog, bolder than the rest, left its snowy bed

to hunt for more sheltered quarters. There was a whine, a snarl, then

the sound of clashing teeth. In a moment every dog leaped up with

bristling hair. Instantly bedlam reigned. Over seventy dogs waged the

wildest kind of war and the distant woods reechoed the horrible din. A

dozen blanketed mounds rose up, and many long lashes whistled through

the air. The seething mass broke away and flew howling and yelping

into outer darkness followed by a roar of curses--but only in civilized

tongues.

Presently all was still again. The men lay down, and the dogs, one by

one, came slinking back to their resting places. But in a couple of

hours one of the half-frozen brutes silently rose up, cautiously

stepped among the sleeping men, and lay couched close to a smouldering

fire. Another followed and then another until most of the dogs had

left their beds. Growing bolder, a couple of the beasts fought for a

warmer spot. In their tussle they sprawled over one of the men, but a

few lusty blows from a handy frying-pan restored calm. As the night

wore on some of the dogs, not contented with sleeping beside the men,

curled up on top of their unconscious masters. Then for hours nothing

but the heavy breathing and snoring in camp and the howling of distant

wolves was heard. Slumber had at last overtaken the wild men of the

wilderness--who always made it a rule to kneel down every night, and

ask God to bless their little children at home.

Now, though time still sped on, silence possessed the forest--until:

"Hurrah, _mes bons hommes_! _Levey, levey, levey_! Up, up up, up,

up!" ending in a shrill yell from the guide startled the drowsy crew.

It was three o'clock in the morning. Had it not been for the

brilliancy of the Northern Lights all would have been in darkness. An

obscure form bent over an ash-bed and fumbled something. A tiny blaze

appeared and rapidly grew until the surrounding forest was aflare.

Over the fires frying-pans sizzled, while tea-pails heaped with snow

began to steam. A hurried breakfast followed. The sleds were packed.

The dogs, still curled up in the snow, pretended to be asleep.

"Caesar! Tigre! Cabri! Whiskey! Tête Noire! Pilot! Michinass!

Coffee! Bull! Brandie! Caribou!" shouted the men. A few of the dogs

answered to their names and came to harness while some holding back

were tugged forward by the scruff of the neck. Others were still in

hiding. The men searched among the mounds and bushes. Every now and

then the crack of a whip and the yelp of a dog announced the finding of

a truant. Two trackers on large snowshoes had already gone ahead to

break the trail. It was easy to follow their tracks though the woods

were still in darkness and remained so for several hours. At dawn

Oo-koo-hoo and our little outfit parted company with the Dog Brigade.

Already the packet was many miles ahead. As I turned on my western

way, I thought of the work of these postmen of the wilderness, of the

hardships they endured, and the perils they braved; and the Chief

Factor's assertion that no packet had ever been lost beyond recovery,

recalled to mind other stories that were worth remembering: For

instance, a canoe express was descending the Mackenzie River; the canoe

was smashed in an ice jam, and the packeteers were drowned. A few

weeks later passing Indians caught sight of a stick bobbing in the

surface of the stream. Though the water was deep and the current was

running at the rate of three miles an hour, the stick remained in the

same place. So the Indians paddled over to investigate. They found

that to the floating stick was fastened a long thong, which on being

pulled up brought the missing packet to light.

Again, while making camp near the Athabasca River, the packeteers had

slung the packet in a tree, the usual place for it while in camp.

During the night their fire spread and burned up the whole equipment

except the tree, which, being green, received little more than a

scorching. The packet was unharmed.

On Great Slave Lake during a fierce snowstorm the packeteers became

separated from their dogs, and were frozen to death. But the packet

was recovered.

In one autumn two packeteers journeying from George's River Post to

Ungava Post drew up their canoe on a sandy beach, and camped beneath a

high, overhanging bank. During the night the bank gave way and buried

them as they slept. When the ice formed, the trader at Ungava sent out

two men to search for the missing packet. They found the canoe on the

beach; and from the appearance of the bank, conjectured what had

happened. Next spring the landslide was dug into, and the packeteers

were found both lying under the same blanket, their heads resting upon

the packet.

VI

WILD ANIMALS AND MEN

WOLVERINE AND HUNTER

One evening, while sitting before the fire in Oo-koo-hoo's lodge, we

heard sounds that told us that Amik had returned, and presently he

entered the tepee, full of wrath over the havoc a wolverine had wrought

along his trapping path. The pelts of more dead game had been ruined;

deadfalls had been broken; and even some of his steel traps had been

carried away. There and then Oo-koo-hoo decided that he would drop all

other work and hunt the marauder.

For its size--being about three feet in length and from twelve to

eighteen inches high--the wolverine is an amazingly powerful creature.

In appearance it somewhat resembles a small brown bear. Though it is

not a fast traveller its home range may cover anywhere from five to

fifty miles. It feeds upon all sorts of small game, and has been known

to kill even deer. It mates about the end of March, dens in any

convenient earthen hole or rocky crevice or cave that may afford

suitable shelter; and it makes its bed of dry leaves, grass, or moss.

The young, which number from three to five, are born in June. Whenever

necessary, the mother strives desperately to protect her young, and is

so formidable a fighter that even though the hunter may be armed with a

gun, he runs considerable risk of being injured by the brute. It has

been known to take possession of the carcass even of a caribou and to

stand off the hunter who had just shot it. Also, it has been known to

drive a wolf, and even a bear, away from their quarry. The

superstitious Indian not only believes that the wolverine is possessed

of the devil--for it is the most destructive animal in the northern

world--but he considers it also to be endowed with great intelligence.

The wily Indian, however, knowing the animal's habit of trying to

destroy what it cannot carry away, takes advantage of that very fact

and hunts it accordingly.

All that has been said in relation to trapping the fox applies also to

_le Carcajou_--_i.e._, the wolverine--save that the trap chain should

be doubled, and everything else made stronger and heavier in proportion

to the wolverine's greater size and strength. That evening Oo-koo-hoo

talked much of wolverines.

"My son, no other animal surpasses it in devilish cunning. For it is

not content to merely spring a trap, but it will carry it away--more

often for a short distance, but sometimes for miles--and hide or bury

it. Later on the wolverine may visit it again, carry it still farther

away and bury it once more. The wolverine has good teeth for cutting

wood, and will sometimes free a trap from its clog by gnawing the pole

in two. My son, I have even known a wolverine go to the trouble of

digging a hole in which to bury a trap of mine; but just in order to

fool me, the beast has filled up the hole again, carried the trap to

another place, and there finally buried it. But as a good hunter is

very observant, he is seldom fooled that way, for the wolverine, having

very short legs, has difficulty in keeping both the chain and the trap

from leaving tell-tale marks in the snow.

"Yes, my son, the wolverine is a very knowing brute, and if he thinks

he may be trailed, he will sometimes--without the slightest sign of

premeditation--jump sideways over a bush, a log, or a rock, in order to

begin, out of sight of any trailer, a new trail; or he may make a great

spring to gain a tree, and ascend it without even leaving the evidence

of freshly fallen bark. Then, too, he may climb from tree to tree, by

way of the interlocking branches, for a distance of a hundred paces or

more, all the while carrying the trap with him. Then, descending to

the ground, he may travel for a considerable distance before eventually

burying the trap. I have known him even leave a trap in a tree, but in

that case it was not done from design, for signs proved that the chain

had been caught upon a branch."

"How many wolverines," I asked, "do you suppose are causing all the

trouble on your and Amik's trapping paths?"

"Only one, my son, for even one wolverine can destroy traps and game

for twenty or thirty miles around; and the reason the brute is so

persistent in following a hunter's fur path is that it usually affords

the wolverine an abundance of food. Then, when the hunter finds the

brute is bent on steady mischief, it is time for him to turn from all

other work and hunt the thief. If at first steel traps fail, he may

build special deadfalls, often only as decoys round which to set,

unseen, more steel traps in wait for the marauder.

"If a hunter still fails, he may sit up all night in wait for the

robber, knowing that the more stormy the night, the better his chance

of shooting the brute. Sometimes, too, I have found a wolverine so

hard to catch that I have resorted to setting traps in the ashes of my

dead fires, or beneath the brush I have used for my bed, while camping

upon my trapping path." Then he added with a twinkle about his eye and

a shake of his finger: "But, my son, I have another way and I am going

to try it before the moon grows much older."

I asked him to explain, but he only laughed knowingly, so I turned the

subject by asking:

"Does an animal ever eat the bait after it is caught?"

"No, my son, no animal ever does that, not even if it be starving, but

it may eat snow to quench its thirst. Animals, however, do not often

starve to death when caught in traps, but if the weather be very

severe, they may freeze in a single night. If, however, the beast is

still alive when the hunter arrives, the prisoner will in most cases

feign death in the hope of getting free. That is true of most animals,

and, furthermore, it will feign death even when other animals approach;

but then, more often, its purpose is to secure the advantage of making

a sudden or surprise attack."

An Indian named Larzie, who was engaged to hunt meat for the priests at

Fort Resolution, once came upon a wolverine in one of his traps that

had done that very thing and won the battle, too. The snow, the trap,

and the carcass of a wolf, silently told Larzie every detail of the

fight. The wolverine, having been caught by the left hind leg, had

attempted by many means to escape, even trying to remove the nuts from

the steel trap with its teeth, as well as trying to break the steel

chain, and gnaw in two the wooden clog to which the trap was fastened.

But before accomplishing this, the wolverine had spied a pack of five

wolves approaching. In an effort to save its life the wolverine worked

itself down low in the snow and there lay, feigning death. The

cautious wolves, on sighting the wolverine, began circling about, each

time drawing a little nearer. Still suspicious, they sat down to watch

the wolverine for a while. Then they circled again, sat down once

more, and perhaps did a little howling, too. Then they circled again,

each time coming closer, until at last, feeling quite sure the

wolverine was dead, one of the wolves, in a careless way, ventured too

near. No doubt it was then that the wolverine, peeping through his

almost closed eyelids, had seen his chance--that the nearest wolf was

now not only within reach, but off guard, too--for the snow gave

evidence of a sudden spring. The wolverine had landed upon the back of

the wolf, clung on with his powerful forelegs, and not only ripped away

at the wolf's belly with the long, sharp claws of his free hind foot,

but with his terrible jaws had seized the wolf by the neck and chewed

away at the spinal cord. Then, no doubt, the other wolves, seeing

their comrade overpowered and done to death, had turned away and left

the scene of battle. Later, Larzie had arrived, and after killing the

wolverine and skinning both the conqueror and the conquered, had

lighted his pipe and leisurely read every detail of the story in that

morning's issue of the forest publication called _The Snow_.

Next morning, when I turned out before breakfast, I found that

Oo-koo-hoo had left camp before daylight; and half the afternoon passed

before he returned. That evening he explained that during the previous

night, the thought of the wolverine having haunted him and spoilt his

rest, he had decided on a certain plan, risen before dawn, and started

upon the trail. Now he was full of the subject, and without my asking,

described what he had done. Securing a number of fish hooks--trout

size--he had wired them together, enclosed them in the centre of a ball

of grease which he had placed inside an old canvas bag, and fastened

there with the aid of wires attached to the hooks. Then, carrying the

bag to where he found fairly fresh wolverine signs, he had dropped it

upon the trail as though it had accidentally fallen there. The

wolverine, he explained, would probably at first attempt to carry away

the bag, but on scenting the grease it would paw the bag about; then,

upon discovering the opening, it would thrust its head inside, seize

the ball of grease in its mouth, and start to pull it out. "If that

should happen," commented Oo-koo-hoo, "the wolverine would never leave

that spot alive; it would just lie there and wait for me to come and

knock it on the head."

But now at last--as later events proved--Oo-koo-hoo, the great hunter,

had encountered his match. Now it was no longer an unequal contest,

for now two could play at cunning--especially when both were masters at

the game. Three times The Owl visited his latest wolverine trap, only

to learn that twice the brute had inspected it and spurned it, for its

tracks proved that caution had kept the animal more than five feet

away. Later, as the winter wore on, the subject of wolverines was

rarely mentioned as it did not add to the cheerfulness of Oo-koo-hoo's

otherwise happy mood.

THE BEST FOOT-GEAR

About a week later, with a few days' outfit loaded upon our sled,

Oo-koo-hoo and I were heading first for the Moose Hills where we were

to hunt moose, and if successful, to cache the meat where Granny and

the boys could find it; then continuing farther north we were to call

upon The Owl's sister to deliver her a present from the children of

Oo-koo-hoo. In the meantime, Amik had gone upon one of his trapping

paths, and the boys were off to a swampy region to examine deadfalls

set for mink and fisher. The boys had taken the dogs with them.

It was a fine, cold, sunny morning when Oo-koo-hoo and I set out upon

our hunt, and with every breath we seemed to be drinking aerial

champagne that made us fairly tingle with the joy of living--for such

is the northern air in winter time. As we snowshoed along I felt

thankful for the excellent socks with which the old hunter had provided

me. On the last hunt my snowshoe thongs had blistered my feet, but

now, thanks to Oo-koo-hoo, I was shod with the most perfect footgear

for winter travel I have ever known--a natural sock that was both

blister- and cold-proof. I had never heard of it before, but The Owl

assured me that it had been long in fashion among the Indians. On each

foot I was now wearing next my bare skin a rabbit pelt--minus legs and

ears--put on, hair side out, while the skin was still green and damp,

and then allowed to dry and shape itself to the foot. Over the rabbit

pelts I wore my regular woollen socks, duffel neaps, and caribou-skin

mitten moccasins. The pelts had been removed from the rabbits by

simply cutting them between the hind legs, and then peeling them off

inside out. With the inside of the skin next the foot blisters never

form, nor does the hair wear off and ball up under the foot in such a

way that it may hurt the wearer. Though the rabbit pelt is very tender

and tears easily, it can be worn for five or six days of hard travel.

For warmth and comfort it is unexcelled.

Early that afternoon we came upon many lynx tracks, evidently there had

been a "pass of lynxes" as the hunters call it, for lynxes have a way

of gathering in bands of about four to eight and passing through the

forest. Oo-koo-hoo stated that they migrated in that way from one

region to another, covering many miles in search of game, especially

during the years when the rabbit plague causes a great shortage of

food; and had he known of their presence in time, he would have cut big

heaps of poplar, birch, and willow branches to attract the rabbits, and

thus furnish more food for the lynxes. Hoping, however, that he was

not too late, he set what few snares he had; nevertheless, he regretted

that the boys had gone off with the dogs, for, if they had not, he

would have tried to trail and tree the lynxes.

The boys had taken the dogs because they wanted them to haul their

sled. It was, however, against the advice of their grandfather, for he

had admonished them that only white men and half-breeds would use dogs

to haul a sled on a trapping path; that a good hunter would never do

such a foolish thing, and for many reasons: the traps--being usually

set close to the path--were apt to be either set off or destroyed by

the swinging sled; besides, the dogs' tracks would obliterate the

tracks of game; also the dogs might be caught in the traps;

furthermore, the smell of dogs always inspired fear in animals, again,

the noise of driving dogs frightened the game away. So, according to

Oo-koo-hoo, the wise hunter either packs his load upon his back, or, by

himself, hauls it upon his sled. But one must remember that The Owl

was an Ojibway and that those Indians as well as the Saulteaux Indians

prefer to haul their own sleds on the hunting trail and to keep their

dogs solely for trailing game; though all other Indians of the Strong

Woods use their dogs for hauling sleds. One advantage of the Ojibway

custom is that hunting dogs--when running loose--never have to be fed.

Amik, however, being a rather shiftless fellow, often spoilt his boys

as much as the average white father spoils his, for he never thrashed

them, though they frequently deserved it, and having given in to them

on many previous occasions, he had now let them take the dogs. But

speaking of parents' treatment of children, even an old she-bear could

give many a civilized father or mother pointers on how to bring up

children, for even among animals and birds one frequently finds a model

parent.

According to the verdict of the old fur-traders, the best trapper is

the uncivilized Indian. Though, apparently, he does not derive the

same amount of sport from his work as the white man does, he never

shirks his work and always takes great pains to prepare for and perfect

the setting of his traps. Though he is slow, he is, nevertheless, sure

and deadly in his work. Oo-koo-hoo assured me that the secret of

successful hunting was intelligence, caution, and patience.

During December and January, or according to the Indians, Yeyekoopewe

Pesim--"The Rime Moon," and Kakisapowatukinum--"The Moon When

Everything Is Brittle," there is always a lull in the trapping, for the

reason that then the days are shorter and the weather colder, and on

that account and also on account of the fact that the sun and winds of

March have not arrived to harden the deep soft snow, the forest

creatures prefer to remain more at home.

APPROACHING MOOSE

In approaching the Moose Hills we saw many moose tracks, but they were

old, the freshest having been made two days before. The age of these

the hunter was able to determine from the amount of newly fallen snow

in the track, as well as from other conditions; for he well remembered

how much snow had fallen each day for the last week or two, when and

which way the wind had blown, and when the sun was strong and the cold

severe. Now selecting a two-day-old trail as the best for us to

follow, he decided to camp for the night, and we spent the interval

between supper and bedtime discussing not only the hunting of moose,

but also their range and habits.

The extreme range of a moose covers from five to fifteen miles. More

often it is confined to a much smaller area that merely includes the

low-lying river and lake valleys that afford him the choicest of summer

food--the pineapple-like roots of waterlilies--and also affords him

protection from flies while he is wading and delving for those very

roots; and the higher lands among the hills, where he spends the winter

in the denser forest.

But it is in midsummer that we can study the moose with greatest ease,

for then he spends the sunrises and sunsets wading among the lily pads,

and if we are careful to observe the direction of the wind to guard

against being scented, and also careful to cease paddling or any other

motion before the big brute looks at us, we may, with the greatest ease

and safety, propel our canoe to within from a hundred yards to fifty or

forty feet of the great beast as he stands looking at us with raised

head and dilating nostrils trying to catch our scent. If he catches

it, he suddenly tosses his ponderous head, drops back slightly on his

hind legs as he swings round, and is off with a grunt. Nevertheless,

he--or she--will pause long enough to leave the sign that all deer

leave upon the ground when suddenly startled by--to them--the dreadful

smell of human beings. Or if it happens to be moonlight and the moose

is a bit mystified by the steady, but silent, scentless, and motionless

approach of our canoe, he may at first stand gazing at us, then grunt

at us, then back out of the water up on to the bank and there stand,

not fifty feet away, towering above us--for he may measure from six to

seven feet at the shoulder and weigh three quarters of a ton--shaking

his great antlers and grunting, or perhaps, more properly speaking,

_barking_ at us while he stamps his big fore hoofs until he shakes the

very river bank.

How children love to take part in such sport! How they thrill over

such an experience! Many a time I have taken them right up to even the

largest of bulls until the little tots could look into the very eyes of

the greatest of all living deer. What fine little hunters, too, they

made, never speaking, not even in a whisper; never moving--save only

their eyelids. In fact, I have been so close to wild moose that on one

occasion I could have spanked a huge bull with my paddle. He was

standing belly-deep in the river with his head under water, and so

close did my canoe glide past him that I had to turn it to prevent it

from running in between his hind legs. It was the sound of turning

aside the canoe that brought his head up, and when he beheld the cause,

he lunged forward and trotted away leaving a great wake of surging foam

behind him. His head, crowned with massive antlers, was a ponderous

affair. His body was as large as that of a Shire stallion and his back

just as flat, while his legs were very much longer. He was the largest

moose I have ever seen--and yet, by leaning slightly toward him, I

could have spanked him with my paddle! One such experience with a

great, wild animal, is more adventuresome, more thrilling and more

satisfactory, than the shooting of a hundred such creatures. It is

more than the sport of kings--it is the sport of men of common sense.

On another occasion, at Shahwandahgooze, in Quebec, in broad daylight,

I paddled a friend of mine right in between three bulls and a cow, and

there we rested with moose on three sides of us. They were standing in

a semicircle and no one of them was more than fifty paces away. They

were unusually fine specimens and had the bulls been triplets they

could not have been more alike even to the detail of their antlers.

The cow paid little attention to us and went on feeding while the

bulls, with heads held much higher than usual, stood as though in

perfect pose for some sculptor. There wasn't a breath of wind and the

wondrous spell must have lasted from eight to ten minutes; then a faint

zephyr came and carried our tell-tale scent to them and they wheeled

round and trotted away. Yet the head hunter from the city, who usually

stands off at long range and fires at the first sight of game, will

argue that killing is the greatest sport; when in truth it requires

greater courage and greater skill to approach, unarmed, so close to

game that one may touch it with a fish pole, and the reward is a much

greater and a more satisfactory thrill than the head hunter ever gets

from lying off at long range with a high-powered rifle and utterly

destroying life. Furthermore, think of how much better one can study

natural history by observing live animals in action, rather than

motionless ones in death! An artist, in his effort to render a perfect

portrait of a human being, never murders his sitter, as the so-called

"sportsman-naturalist" does. It seems to me that if sportsmen were

more active, more skilful, and more courageous, they would give up

slaughtering animals and birds for the sake of the unbounded pleasure

and adventure of observing wild game at closer quarters; but in truth,

long experience has taught me that the average hunter from the city is

something of a coward--never daring to walk alone in the forest without

his trusty, life-destroying machines.

But if those same hunters would only take a little more interest in

nature, pluck up a little more courage, and remember that the wild

animals of the northern forest are less vicious--when unmolested--than

are many of the tame animals of civilization, how much more sane they

would be. Remember, it is much safer to approach the great bulls of

the forest than it is to approach the smaller bulls of the farmers'

fields. Likewise, when tramping along the rural road one runs a much

greater chance of being bitten by the farmer's dog, than one does, when

travelling through the forest, of being bitten by a wolf. Then, too,

it is just the same of men, for the men of the cities are much more

quarrelsome, dishonest, and evil-minded than are those of the

wilderness, and that, no doubt, accounts for the endless slandering of

the wilderness dwellers by fiction writers who live in towns, for those

authors--never having lived in the wilderness--form their judgment of

life, either as they have experienced it in cities or as they imagine

it to be in the wilderness.

THE OUTLAW AND NEW YORKER

Now, in order to confirm my statement, I shall go to the very extreme

and quote what Al Jennings, the notorious outlaw, says upon this very

subject. The quotation is taken from Jennings' reminiscences of his

prison days, when he and the late lamented William Sydney Porter--the

afterward famous author O. Henry--formed such a strong friendship. In

the following dialogue Jennings is in New York City visiting

Porter--whom he calls "Bill"--and Porter is speaking:

"I have accepted an invitation for you, Colonel." He was in one of his

gently sparkling moods. "Get into your armor asinorum, for we fare

forth to make contest with tinsel and gauze. In other words, we mingle

with the proletariat. We go to see Margaret Anglin and Henry Miller in

that superb and realistic Western libel, 'The Great Divide.'"

After the play the great actress, Porter, and I, and one or two others

were to have supper at the Breslin Hotel. I think Porter took me there

that he might sit back and enjoy my unabashed criticisms to the young

lady's face.

"I feel greatly disappointed in you, Mr. Porter," Margaret Anglin said

to Bill as we took our places at the table.

"In what have I failed?"

"You promised to bring your Western friend--that terrible Mr.

Jennings--to criticize the play."

"Well, I have introduced him." He waved his hand down toward me.

Miss Anglin looked me over with the trace of a smile in her eye.

"Pardon me," she said, "but I can hardly associate you with the lovely

things they say of you. Did you like the play?"

I told her I didn't. It was unreal. No man of the West would shake

dice for a lady in distress. The situation was unheard of and could

only occur in the imagination of a fat-headed Easterner who had never

set his feet beyond the Hudson.

Miss Anglin laughed merrily. "New York is wild over it; New York

doesn't know any better."

Porter sat back, an expansive smile spreading a light in his gray eyes.

"I am inclined to agree with our friend," he offered. "The West is

unacquainted with Manhattan chivalry."

That is the truth in a sentence; and while O. Henry and Jennings have

spoken for the West, may I add my own experience of wilderness men and

say that the North, also, is unacquainted with Manhattan chivalry.

LAW AND ORDER ENFORCED

Furthermore, while upon this subject, I wish to add to my own protest

against the novelists' wild dreams of outlawry in the Canadian

wilderness, a quotation from E. Ward Smith's "Chronicles of the

Klondyke." Mr. Smith--as you no doubt remember--was the first city

clerk, treasurer, assessor, and tax collector of Dawson City; and this

is what he says:

"I want to say at the very outset that the Yukon was, in my opinion at

least, one of the most orderly corners of the earth. Even in the early

days of the boom, when miners and adventurers of all nationalities

poured in, the scales of justice were held firmly and rigidly. The

spell of the Mounted Police hung over the snow-bound land and checked

the evil-doer. It may sound ridiculous when I assert that the

Yukon--that gathering spot of so much of the scum of the earth--was

better policed than Winnipeg, or Toronto, or Halifax; but,

nevertheless, I believe it to be a fact.

"Of course, crimes were committed, some of which were never solved.

Doubtless, also many deeds of violence occurred whose authors never

came to light. But, on the whole, life and property were surprisingly

secure. One day I visited the cabin of my friend Lippy, who made a

million or so upon El Dorado. The door was partly open, so, on

receiving no response to my knock, I walked in. The cabin was empty.

On the table was a five-gallon pail heaped high with glittering nuggets

of gold! I glanced around the place. On the shelves and rafters, on

chairs and under bunks, were cans filled with gold. There was a snug

fortune in sight. Any one could have slipped in and stolen the lot. I

took Lippy to task about it when he came in. He did not seem at all

concerned, however.

"Pshaw," he said, "I always have quite a lot of gold about. But no one

would steal it. I've never lost anything."

But as the Yukon and New York are a long way from where Oo-koo-hoo was

hunting, let us return to his Moose Hills.

THE WAYS OF THE MOOSE

Moose mate in September and October, and during this period great

battles between bulls frequently occur before the victor walks off with

his hard-won spouse. The young--either one or two, but generally two

after the mother's first experience--are born in May, in some secluded

spot, and the calves soon begin to follow their mother about, and they

follow her, too, into their second year. Horns begin to grow on the

young bull before he is a year old, but they are mere knobs until he is

a year and a half old, when spikes form; by the third year he is

supplied with antlers. The perfect antlers of a big bull sometimes

measure seventy inches across, yet every winter--in January or

February--the horns are shed. During the mating season moose are

frequently hunted by the method known as "calling." The hunter, with

the aid of a birch-bark megaphone, imitates the long-drawn call of the

cow, to attract the bull. Then, when a bull answers with his guttural

grunt of Oo-ah, Oo-ah, the Indian imitates that sound, too, to give the

first bull the impression that a second is approaching, and thus

provokes the first to hurry forward within range of the hunter's gun.

But when the rutting season is over, the hunting is done by snaring or

stalking or trailing. The moose derives its winter food principally

from browsing upon hardwood twigs, and when the deep snows of midwinter

arrive, he is generally to be found in a "yard" where such growth is

most abundant.

A moose yard is usually composed of a series of gutters from one foot

to eighteen inches wide, intersecting one another at any distance from

ten to fifty feet or more apart, and each gutter being punctured about

every three feet with a post hole in which the moose steps as it walks.

The space between the tracks is generally nothing but deep, soft snow,

anywhere from three to five feet in depth.

Beside the moose tracks that Oo-koo-hoo and I had seen that day was

much silver birch and red willow, and from the signs of freshly cropped

twigs we knew that the moose were not unusually tall, and we knew, too,

from the fact that the tracks were sharply defined as well as from

their ordinary size and that they were not deeply impressed in the

snow, that the moose were those of about three years old.

THE OWL TRACKS MOOSE

That night, as Oo-koo-hoo was in a talkative mood, he told me much

about the hunting of moose, as we sat before our snow-encircled fire in

the still, silent, sombre woods.

"We hunters usually take moose by shooting or snaring them, and the

first thing to do is to find a track, and if it is old, follow it up

until new signs appear. And now, my son, as you may some day want to

hunt moose on your own account, I shall tell you how to trail them and

what to do when you find them. Listen to my words and remember: As

soon as you find a fresh track, look toward the sun to learn the time

of day; for if it is between eight and nine on a winter morning the

moose will be feeding, as it seldom lies down until between ten and

three. If feeding, the track will zig-zag about, and for a time head

mainly up wind, until its feeding is nearly done, then if the wind is

from the right, the moose will turn to the left and circle down wind

and finally come about close to its old trail where it will lie down to

rest. So when you find a zig-zagging track about which the brush has

been browsed, and when the wind comes from the right of the trail, you,

too, should circle to the left, but instead of circling down wind as

the moose has done, or is now doing, you circle up wind until you

either approach the danger point where the wind may carry your scent to

the moose, or otherwise, until you cut the moose's track. In either

case you should now retrace your steps for some distance and then begin

a new circle, and this time, a smaller one. If you now find a new

trail, but still no sign that the moose has turned up wind, or is about

to do so, you retrace your steps and begin a still smaller circle, then

when you strike the trail again, you can judge fairly well--without

even getting a sight of it--the exact position of your quarry. Then is

the time to take off your snowshoes and approach with greater care then

ever; but remember, always keep to leeward of the track and always look

up wind. Should you now come to an open space, watch carefully any

clumps of trees or bushes; if passing through heavy timber, watch for

an opening, and if there should be fallen timber there, scan it most

carefully where the dead trees lie, for there, too, your game may be

lying. Remember, my son, if you approach a moose directly he will

either see or scent you, and in circling, you must understand that only

the skill of the hunter in reading the signs can successfully determine

the size of the circle--sometimes it may cover a quarter of a mile.

"Then, too, my son, the seasons play a part in hunting. In winter, a

moose, of course, does not go to water, but eats snow to slake its

thirst. But whenever there is open water, a moose will go to drink

about sunrise; in the fly season, however, all rules are broken, as the

brute then goes to water night or day, to get rid of the pests, and it

will even remain submerged with nothing above the surface--save its

nose. In stormy weather look for moose among heavy timber, and in fair

weather search the open feeding places. But in bad weather, though the

hunter gains one advantage, the moose gains another; for while many

twigs and sticks are apt to be broken by the high wind and thus the

sound of the hunter's approach is less likely to be heard, the eddying

currents of air are then more apt to carry the hunter's scent to the

moose regardless of the fact that his approach may be faultless.

"Also, my son, you must be careful not to disturb the little tell-tale

creatures of the woods or success that seems so near may vanish in a

moment; for a raven may fly overhead, and spying you, circle

about--just as the pigeons used to do--and then crying out may warn the

moose of your presence. Or you may flush a partridge; or a squirrel,

taking fright, may rush up a tree and begin chattering about you; or a

rabbit may go drumming into a thicket, and the moose, reading these

signs of alarm, will surely look about to learn the cause.

"But, my son, should you spy a moose lying down, it is rather risky to

fire at it in that position, as it is then hard to hit a vital spot.

The better way is to stand with cocked gun covering the game, and then

break a twig--not too sharply though, or you may scare away your

quarry. Watch its ears: if they flop back and forward, it has heard

nothing, but if both ears point in your direction, keep still and be

ready, for it has heard you, and now with one great spring it may

disappear into a thicket. Instead of breaking a twig, some hunters

prefer to whistle like a startled rabbit while other hunters prefer to

speak to the moose in a gentle voice, always taking care to use none

but kindly words, such as for instance: 'Oh, my lazy brother, I see you

are sleeping long this morning.'

"For we Indians never speak harshly to so good an animal, nor do we

ever use bad words, as bad words always bring bad luck to the hunter.

"In winter, my son, a moose makes much noise in walking and feeding,

for then he often breaks off the tops of little trees--though some of

the trunks may be as thick as a man's arm. The moose breaks down trees

of such a size by placing his big shoulder against it, and curving his

powerful neck round it, and then bending it over with his massive head.

Then, too, he often rides down small trees, such as birch or poplars,

just by straddling his fore legs about them and using his chest to

force them over.

"In shooting a moose, remember the best spot is just behind the

shoulder, and while the next best is in the kidneys, the head is not a

good shot for a smooth-bore gun, for bone often deflects a round ball.

A good hunter always tries to get a clear view of his quarry, for even

a twig may deflect his bullet. And remember, too, my son, that as a

rule, when coming upon a fresh track, it is wiser to back-track it than

to follow it up at once, as back-tracking will provide the hunter with

about all the information he may require, as the back trail will tell

him if the game was travelling fast or slow, whether it was fleeing in

fright or feeding; and if feeding, whether it was feeding quietly or in

haste; and if in haste, the twigs would be torn off instead of being

clean cut. Sometimes a good hunter will back-track a trail several

miles in order to assure the success of his hunt.

"My son, if a moose is badly frightened by man-smell it may at first go

off on the gallop and then settle down to a steady trot for four or

five miles before it stops to listen--but not to feed. Then, turning

its head this way and that, and even trembling with excitement, as it

throws its snout into the air, to test if danger is still following, it

may then start off again on another long trot, but all the time it

will, as much as possible, avoid open places. Later it may attempt to

feed by tearing off twigs as it hurries along, and then at last it will

circle to leeward and finally rest not far from its old trail. Under

such conditions, the distance a moose travels depends largely upon the

depth of the snow. Two or three feet of snow will not hamper it much,

but when the depth is four feet, or when the moose's belly begins to

drag in the snow, the brute will not travel far. An old bull will not

run as far as a young one, and a cow will not travel as far as a bull;

but when tired out a moose sleeps soundly, so soundly, indeed, that a

hunter can easily approach as close as he pleases. But don't forget,

my son, that a good hunter never runs a moose--at least, not unless he

is starving--as running a moose spoils the meat.

"Sometimes, my son, a hunter may use a dog to trail a moose, but it is

dangerous work for the dog, as the moose may turn at bay and strike at

the dog with any one of its chisel-like hoofs or may even seize the dog

by the back in its mouth, carry it for a little way, then throw it into

the air and when it falls trample it to death. So, my son, when

hunting moose in that way, it is best to have two dogs or more, as then

one dog may attack while another is being pursued. But I warn you, if

you are in pursuit of a moose and if he turns at bay for the first time

. . . look out . . . for then he will surely attack you; if, however,

he turns at bay through sheer exhaustion or from over-whelming pain, he

will not always fight; but under the first condition, the hunter is a

fool if he approaches within ten paces of a bayed moose."

"THE OWL" MAKES A KILL

Rising early next morning we made a very small fire to cook our

breakfast and were ready to start as soon as dawn came to light us on

our way. Oo-koo-hoo took great care in loading his gun as he expected

to come upon moose at any time. He placed a patch of cotton about the

ball before ramming it in, and made sure that the powder showed in the

nipple before putting on the percussion cap. And as he took his

fire-steel and whetted a keener edge upon his knife, a smile of

hunter's contentment overspread his face, because he well knew how soon

he was to use the blade. That morning he did not light his pipe as

usual because, as he explained, he wanted to have his wits about him;

furthermore, he did not wish to add to the strength of his man-smell;

and whispering to me he added with a smile:

"My son, when I smell some men, especially some white men, I never

blame the animals of the Strong Woods for taking fright and running

away."

And that reminds me that while we white people consider the negro the

standard-bearer of the most offensive of all human body smells, the

Indian always unhesitatingly awards the palm to the white man, and

sometimes even the Indian children and babies, when they get an

unadulterated whiff from a white man, will take such fright that it is

hard for their mothers to console them--a fact that has often made me

wonder what the poor little tots would do if they scented one of those

highly painted and perfumed "ladies" that parade up and down

Piccadilly, Fifth Avenue, or Yonge Street?

After following the trail for about fifteen minutes, we came to where

the moose had been lying down, and the hunter whispered:

"My son, I am glad I did not smoke, but I am sorry that we camped so

near." Then he added as he pointed to the impression of a moose's body

in the snow: "A moose seldom lies twice in the same place in the snow,

as the old bed would be frozen and hard as well as dirty."

But as we had not made much noise, nor cut any big wood to make a fire,

he was hopeful that our chances were still good; and at sunrise he

concluded that it was time we should leave our sled behind and begin to

track our quarry more cautiously. From then on there was to be no

talking--not even in a whisper. Soon we came upon yesterday's tracks,

then farther on we saw where the moose had circled before lying down

again for the night, with their eyes guarding their front while their

scent guarded their rear.

At last we came upon still fresher signs that told that the moose might

be within a hundred paces or less. At a signal from the old hunter I

imitated him by slipping off my snowshoes, and standing them upon end

in the snow, and Oo-koo-hoo leading the way, began to circle to our

right as a gentle wind was coming on our left. Now our progress was

indeed slow, and also perfectly noiseless. It seemed to take an age to

make a semicircle of a couple of hundred paces. Again we came upon the

tracks of the moose. The signs were now fresher than ever. Retracing

our own tracks for a little way we started on another circle, but this

time, a smaller one, for we were now very near the moose. Silent ages

passed, then we heard the swishing of a pulled branch as it flew back

into place; a few steps nearer we progressed; then we heard the

munching sound of a large animal's jaws. Oo-koo-hoo rose slightly from

his stooped position, peered through the branches of a dense spruce

thicket, crouched again, turned aside for perhaps twenty paces . . .

looked up again . . . raised his gun and saying in a gentle voice: "My

brother, I need . . ." he fired.

Instantly there was a great commotion beyond the thicket, one sound

running off among the trees, while the other, the greater sound, first

made a brittle crash, then a ponderous thud as of a large object

falling among the dead under-branches.

The hunter now straightened up and with his teeth pulled the plug from

his powder horn, poured a charge into his gun, spat a bullet from his

mouth into the barrel, struck the butt violently upon the palm of his

left hand, then slipping a cap upon the nipple, moved cautiously

forward as he whispered: "Its neck must be broken." Soon we saw what

had happened. One moose was lying dead, the ball had struck it in the

neck; it was a three-year-old cow--the one Oo-koo-hoo had

selected--while the other, a bull, had left nothing but its tracks.

Presently The Owl re-loaded his gun with greater care, then we returned

for our snowshoes and to recover our toboggan before we started to skin

the carcass. On the way Oo-koo-hoo talked of moose hunting, and I

questioned him as to why he had turned aside for the last time, just

before he fired, and he answered:

"My son, I did it so that in case I should miss, the report of my gun

would come from the right direction to drive the moose toward home and

also toward our sled; and in case, too, that I hit the moose and only

wounded it, the brute would run toward our sled and not take us farther

away from it. Also, my son, if I had merely wounded the beast, but had

seen from the way it flinched that it had been struck in a vital spot,

I would not have followed immediately, but would have sat down and had

a smoke, so as not to further disturb the wounded animal before it had

time to bleed to death. Besides, a mere glance at the trail would tell

me whether or not I had mortally wounded the moose--whether the brute

was hit high or low, and whether the blood was dark or light. If hit

high, the blood would be upon the branches as well as upon the snow; if

the blood was black it would mean that an artery had been severed and

that the moose was mortally wounded. If the latter had happened, then

would be the time for me to get out my pipe and have a smoke."

SKINNING ANIMALS

As we were to be busy for the rest of the day, we made a suitable camp

and started a fire and by that time the moose had stiffened enough for

proper handling while removing the skin. As usual the hunter's first

act was to cut the eyes, then to cut off the head, which he at once

skinned and, removing the tongue, hung the head beside the fire to cook

while we went on with our work.

But while we propped up the moose and got it into good position, three

whiskey jacks (Canada Jays) came, as they always seem to come at the

first sign of smoke, to pay us a visit and partake of the feast. They

are fluffy, heavily feathered little birds of gray, with wings and tail

of darker hue, and with a white spot on their forehead. They are not

unlike the blue jay in their calls and shrieks, though they have some

notes of their own that are of a quieter, softer tone. They are

friendly little beggars that will at times come so near that they may

occasionally be caught in one's hand; but while one likes to have them

about for the sake of their companionship, they will, uninvited, take a

share of anything that is good to eat. They are the most familiar

birds to be seen in the winter forest, and they have a remarkable way

of laying their eggs and nesting in the month of March when the weather

may register from twenty to forty below zero.

In the forest there are several different ways of skinning animals: one

is called "case skinning" and another is called "split skinning." To

case skin an animal such as ermine, fox, fisher, lynx, marten, mink,

otter, muskrat, rabbit, or skunk, the skin is cut down the inner side

of each hind leg until the two cuts meet just under the tail, and then

the pelt is peeled off by turning it inside out. To split skin an

animal such as wood-buffalo, moose, wapiti, caribou, deer, bear,

beaver, wolf, or wolverine, the skin is cut down the belly from throat

to tail and also on the inside of each leg to the centre cut, and then

the pelt is peeled off both ways toward the back. All split skins are

stretched on rectangular frames--all save beaver skins which are

stretched on oval frames. All case skins are stretched over

wedge-shaped boards of various sizes--all save muskrat skins which are

more often stretched over a hooped frame or a looped stick. So, of

course, our moose pelt was "split skinned," but there is still another

way to skin an animal that is too large for one man to turn over, and

that is--in case the animal is lying on its belly--to split the skin

down the back and then peel it off both ways toward the belly.

If the skin is to be used as a robe, the hair is left on, and the

animal's brains are rubbed into the inner side of the pelt, after the

fat has been removed, and then the skin is left to dry. That softens

the pelt; but traders prefer skins to be sun-dried or cold-dried. If

the skin is to be used as leather, the hair is cut off with a knife,

and a deer's shin-bone is used as a dressing tool in scraping off the

fat; both sides of the skin are dressed to remove the outer surface.

It is easier to dress a skin in winter than in summer, but summer-made

leather wears better, for the reason that the roots of the hair run all

through a summer skin; whereas in winter the roots show only on the

outer side; that is why a fur-trader--when looking only at the inner

side--can tell whether a skin has been taken in winter or summer. In

dressing leather the inner side is rubbed well with brains which are

then allowed to soak in for three or four days; then the skin is soaked

in a vessel filled with water--but not in a river--for about two days

more; then it is stretched again and let dry, then scraped with a bone,

shell, or steel scraper--if it is a moose skin, only on one side, but

if it is a caribou skin, on both sides. The object of scraping is to

further soften the skin. After that, it is taken off the stretcher and

rubbed together between the hands and pulled between two people. Then

it is stretched again and smoked over a slow fire that does not blaze.

Woodsmen hunt moose for food and clothing. Townsmen hunt moose for the

satisfaction of killing. But should the townsman fail in his hunt, he

may hire a native "Head Hunter" to secure a head for him; and that

reminds me of one night during the early winter, when a strange

apparition was seen crossing the lake. It appeared to have wings, but

it did not fly, and though it possessed a tail, it did not run, but

contented itself with moving steadily forward on its long, up-turned

feet. Over an arm it carried what might have been a trident, and what

with its waving tail and great outspreading wings that rose above its

horned-like head, it suggested that nothing less than Old Beelzebub

himself had come from his flaming region beyond to cool himself on the

snow-covered lake. But in reality it was just Oo-koo-hoo returning

with a fine pair of moose horns upon his back, and which he counted on

turning over to the trader for some city sportsman who would readily

palm it off as a trophy that had fallen to his unerring aim, and which

he had brought down, too, with but a single shot . . . of $25.

While at work I recalled how Oo-koo-hoo had surmised, before he had

examined the carcass, that he had broken the moose's neck with his

ball, and on questioning him as to how he knew, he replied:

"My son, if an animal is hit in the neck and the neck is broken, the

beast will collapse right where it is; but if hit in the heart, it will

lunge forward; if hit in the nose, it will rear up; if hit in the

spine, it will leap into the air. Yes, my son, I have seen a great

bull buffalo leap lynx-like, into the air, when it was struck in the

spine."

Knowing that the hunter had wanted to procure more than one moose I

asked him why he had not at once pursued the other? And he explained:

"For two reasons, my son: first, because I don't want a bull, I want

the tenderer meat and the softer skin of a cow; and secondly, even if I

had wanted him, I would not have pursued him at once as that would

cause him to run. If a moose is pursued on the run, it overheats, and

that spoils the meat, because the moose is naturally a rather inactive

animal that lives on a small range and travels very little; but it is

quite different with the caribou, for the caribou is naturally an

active animal, a great traveller, that wanders far for its food, and to

pursue it on the run only improves the flavour and the texture of its

meat."

OLD-TIME HUNTING

After supper, as we sat in the comfortable glow of the fire, we talked

much of old-time hunting, for in certain parts of the Great Northern

Forest many of the ancient methods are practised to-day. Fire is often

made by friction; many hunters still use the bow and arrow, while

others use the flintlock gun; frequently, too, they rely upon their

spears; bone knives and awls as well as stone axes are still applied to

work; fish nets are yet woven from the inner bark of cedar; and still

to-day wooden baskets and birch-bark rogans are used for the purpose of

heating water and boiling food. Notwithstanding our far over-rated

civilization the natives in some sections are dressed to-day in

clothing entirely derived from the forest.