THE CAMP ON THE COPPERMINE
It was mid-afternoon when Brent drank the last of the liquor and threw
the bottle into the snow. He was very drunk, and with the utmost
gravity, halted the outfit and commanded the Indian to turn the dogs and
strike out on the trail of Claw. But Joe Pete merely shrugged, and
started the dogs, whereupon Brent faced about and started over the
back-trail. When he had proceeded a hundred yards the Indian halted the
dogs, and strode swiftly after Brent, who was making poor going of it on
his snowshoes. As Joe Pete understood his orders, the journey to the
Mackenzie called for no side trips after hooch, and he made this fact
known to Brent in no uncertain terms. Whereupon Brent cursed him
roundly, and showed fight. It was but the work of a few moments for the
big Indian to throw him down, tie him hand and foot and carry him,
struggling and cursing, back to the sled, where he rode for the
remainder of the day in a most uncomfortable position from which he
hurled threats and malediction upon the broad back of the Indian.
The following morning Brent awoke long before daylight. His head ached
fiercely and in his mouth was the bitter aftermath of dead liquor. In
vain he sought sleep, but sleep would not come. Remorse and shame
gripped him as it had never gripped him before. He writhed at the
thought that only a day or two ago he had laughed at hooch, and had
openly boasted that he was through with it and that he would not take a
drink if he possessed a barrel of it. And, at the very first
opportunity, he had taken a drink, and after that first drink, he had
paid gold that was not his to use for such purpose for more hooch, and
had deliberately drank himself drunk. The reviling and malediction which
he had hurled at Joe Pete from the sled were words of gentle endearment
in comparison with the terrible self-castigation that he indulged in as
he tossed restlessly between his blankets and longed for the light of
day. To be rid of the torture he finally arose, replenished the fire,
and brewed many cups of strong tea. And when Joe Pete stepped from the
tent in the grey of the morning it was to find breakfast ready, and
Brent busy harnessing the dogs. In silence the meal was eaten, and in
silence the two hit the trail. That day was a hard one owing to rough
ice encountered upon the lower Gravel River, and the two alternated
frequently between breaking trail and working at the gee-pole. The long
snow trail had worked wonders for Brent physically, and by evening he
had entirely thrown off the effects of the liquor. He ate a hearty
supper, and over the pipes beside the fire the two men talked of gold.
As they turned in, Brent slapped Joe Pete on the back: "Just forget what
I said yesterday--I was a damned fool."
The Indian shrugged: "The hooch, she all tam' mak' de damn fool. She no
good. I ain' care w'at de hooch talk 'bout. Som' tam' you queet de
hooch. Dat good t'ing. W'en you sober, you good man. You say, Joe Pete,
you do lak dis. I do it. W'en de hooch say, Joe Pete you do lak som'
nodder way. I say go to hell."
At Fort Norman, Brent bought an additional dog team and outfitted for
the trip to the Coppermine. Upon learning from Murchison, the factor,
that the lower Coppermine, from Kendall River northward to the coast,
had been thoroughly explored and prospected without finding gold, he
decided to abandon the usual route by way of Dease Bay, Dease River, the
Dismal Lakes, and the Kendall River, and swing southward to the eastern
extremity of Conjuror Bay of Great Bear Lake, and then head straight
across the barrens, to strike the upper reaches of the Coppermine in the
region of Point Lake.
Murchison expressed doubt that there was gold upon any part of the
Coppermine, "If there is," he added, "No one's ever got any of it. An'
I'm doubtin' if there's any gold east of the Mackenzie. I've been on the
river a good many years, an' I never saw any, except a few nuggets that
an old squaw named Wananebish found years ago."
"On the Coppermine?" asked Brent.
Murchison laughed: "I don't know--an' she don't either. She found 'em,
an' then her husband was drowned in a rapids and she pulled out of there
and she claims she ain't never be'n able to locate the place since, an'
she's spent years huntin' for it an' draggin' a little band of worthless
Injuns after her. They're over there now, somewhere. I heard they hit up
Hare Indian River, along about the first of September. McTavish at Good
Hope, give 'em debt to be rid of 'em. But I don't think they'll find any
gold. The formation don't seem to be right on this side of the river."
"Gold has been taken from the bottom of the sea, and from the tops of
mountains," reminded Brent, "You know the old saying, 'Gold is where you
find it.'"
"Aye," answered Murchison, with a smile, "But, east of the Mackenzie,
gold is where you don't find it."
The four hundred mile journey from Fort Norman to the Coppermine was
accomplished in sixteen days. A permanent camp-site was selected upon
the west bank of the river, and the two worked with a will in
constructing a tiny log cabin, well within the shelter of a thick clump
of spruce. Brent's eyes had lost the last trace of muddiness, the
bloated unhealthy skin had cleared, and his flabby muscles had grown
iron-hard so that he plunged into the work of felling and trimming
trees, and heaving at logs with a zest and enthusiasm that had not been
his for many a long day. He had not even thought of a drink in a week.
When the cabin was finished and the last of the chinking rammed into
place, he laughingly faced Joe Pete upon the trampled snow of the
dooryard. "Come on now, you old leather image!" he cried, "Come and take
your medicine! I owe you a good fall or two for the way you used me on
the trail. You're heap _skookum_, all right, but I can put you on your
back! Remember you didn't handle the butt ends of _all_ those logs!"
And thus challenged the big Indian, who was good for his two hundred
pound pack on a portage, sailed in with a grin, and for ten minutes the
only sounds in the spruce thicket were the sounds of scrapping _mukluks_
on the hard-trampled snow, and the labored breathing of the straining
men. Laughter rang loud as Brent twice threw the Indian, rolled him onto
his back, and rubbed snow into his face, and then, still laughing, the
two entered their cabin and devoured a huge meal of broiled caribou
steaks, and pilot bread.
Supper over, Joe Pete lighted his pipe and regarded Brent gravely: "On
de trail," he said, "I handle you lak wan leetle baby. Now, you _skookum
tillicum_. You de firs mans kin put Joe Pete on de back. De hooch, she
no good for hell!"
"You bet, she's no good!" agreed Brent, "Believe me, I'm through with
it. It's been a good while since I've even thought of a drink."
Joe Pete seemed unimpressed: "You ain't t'ink 'bout a drink cos you
ain't got non. Dat better you keep 'way from it, or you t'ink 'bout it
dam' queek." And Brent, remembering that morning on the trail when he
had said good bye to Claw, answered nothing.
For the next few days, while Joe Pete worked at the building of a cache,
Brent hunted caribou. Upon one of these excursions, while following up
the river, some three of four miles south of the cabin, he came suddenly
upon a snowshoe trail. It was a fresh trail, and he had followed it
scarcely a mile when he found other trails that crossed and recrossed
the river, and upon rounding a sharp bend, he came abruptly upon an
encampment. Three tiny log cabins, and a half-dozen tepees were visible
in a grove of scraggling spruce that gave some shelter from the sweep of
the wind. Beyond the encampment, the river widened abruptly into a lake.
An Indian paused in the act of hacking firewood from a dead spruce, and
regarded him stolidly. Brent ascended the bank and greeted him in
English. Receiving no response, he tried the jargon:
"_Klahowya, six?_"
The Indian glanced sidewise, toward one of the cabins, and muttered
something in guttural. Then, the door of the cabin opened and a girl
stepped out onto the snow and closed the door behind her. Brent stared,
speechless, as his swift glance took in the details of her moccasins,
deer-skin leggings, short skirt, white _capote_ and stocking cap. She
held a high-power rifle in her mittened hand. Then their eyes met, and
the man felt his heart give a bound beneath his tight-buttoned mackinaw.
Instantly, he realized that he was staring rudely, and as the blood
mounted to his cheeks, he snatched the cap from his head and stepped
forward with hasty apology: "I beg your pardon," he stammered, "You see,
I had no idea you were here--I mean, I had not expected to meet a lady
in the middle of this God-forsaken wilderness. And especially as I only
expected to find Indians--and I hadn't even expected them, until I
struck the trail on the river." The man paused, and for the first time
noted the angry flash of the dark eyes--noted, too, that the red lips
curled scornfully.
"_I_ am an Indian," announced the girl, haughtily, "And, now you have
found us--go!"
"An Indian!" cried Brent, "Surely, you are----"
"Go!" Repeated the girl, "Before I kill you!"
"Oh, come, now," smiled Brent, "You wouldn't do that. We are neighbors,
why not be friends?"
"Go!" repeated the girl, "and don't come back! The next time I shall not
warn you." The command was accompanied by a sharp click, as she threw a
cartridge into the chamber of her rifle, and another swift glance into
her eyes showed Brent that she was in deadly earnest. He returned the
cap to his head and bowed:
"Very well," he said gravely. "I don't know who you think I am, or why
you should want to kill me, but I do know that some day we shall become
better acquainted. Good bye--till we meet again."