IN THE BARRENS
Late that evening Brent and Joe Pete were surprised by a knock upon the
door of their cabin. Brent answered the summons and three Indians filed
solemnly into the room. Two of them stood blinking foolishly while the
third drew from a light pack a fox skin which he extended for Brent's
inspection. Brent handed the skin to Joe Pete: "What's all this?" he
asked, "What do they want?"
"Hooch," answered the Indian who had handed over the skin.
Brent shook his head: "No hooch here," he answered, "You've come to the
wrong place. You are the fellow I saw today in the camp up the river.
Tell me, who is the young lady that claims she's an Injun? And why is
she on the war-path?" The three stared stolidly at each other and at
Brent, but gave no hint of understanding a word he had uttered. He
turned to Joe Pete. "You try it," he said, "See if you can make 'em
talk." The Indian tried them in two or three coast dialects, but to no
purpose, and at the end of his attempt, the visitors produced two more
fox skins and added them to the first.
"They think we're holding out for a higher price," laughed Brent.
"No wonder these damned hooch-peddlers can afford to take a chance. What
are those skins worth?"
Joe Pete examined the pelts critically: "Dis wan she dark cross fox,
wort' mebbe-so, t'irty dolla. Dis wan, an' dis wan, cross fox, wort'
'bout twenty dolla."
"Seventy dollars for a bottle of hooch!" cried Brent, "It's robbery!"
He handed back the skins, and at the end of five minutes, during which
time he indicated as plainly as possible by means of signs, that there
was no hooch forthcoming, the Indians took their departure. The next
evening they were back again, and this time they offered six skins, one
of them a silver fox that Joe Pete said would bring eighty dollars at
any trading post. After much patient pantomime Brent finally succeeded
in convincing them that there was really no hooch to be had, and with
openly expressed disgust, the three finally took their departure.
Shortly after noon a week later, Brent drew the last bucket of gravel
from the shallow shaft, threw it onto the dump, and leaving Joe Pete to
look after the fire, took his rifle and struck off up the river in
search of caribou. "Go down the river," whispered the still small voice
of Common Sense, "There are no hunters there." But Brent only smiled,
and held his course. And as he swung over the snow trail his thoughts
were of the girl who had stepped from the cabin and angrily ordered him
from the village at the point of her rifle. Each day during the
intervening week he had thought of her, and he had lain awake at night
and tried in vain to conjure a reason for her strange behaviour. Alone
on the trail he voiced his thoughts: "Why should she threaten to shoot
me? Who does she think I am? Why should she declare she is an Injun? I
don't believe she's any more Injun than I am. Who ever heard of an Injun
with eyes like hers, and lips, yes, and a tip-tilted nose? Possibly, a
breed--but, never an Injun. And, I wonder if her warlike attitude
includes the whole white race, or a limited part of it, or only me? I'll
find out before this winter is over--but, I'll bet she can shoot! She
threw that shell into her rifle in a sort of off-hand _practiced_ way,
like most girls would powder their nose."
His speculation was cut short by a trail that crossed the river at a
right angle and headed into the scrub in a south-easterly direction. The
trail was only a few hours old and had been made by a small band of
caribou traveling at a leisurely pace. Abruptly, Brent left the River
and struck into the trail. For an hour he followed it through the
scraggly timber and across patches of open tundra and narrow beaver
meadows. The animals had been feeding as they traveled and it was
evident that they could not be far ahead. Cautiously topping a low
ridge, he sighted them upon a small open tundra, about two hundred yards
away. There were seven all told, two bulls, three cows, and two
yearlings. One of the bulls and two cows were pawing the snow from the
moss, and the others were lying down. Taking careful aim, Brent shot the
standing bull. The animals that had been lying down scrambled to their
feet, and three more shots in rapid succession accounted for a cow and
one of the yearlings, and Brent watched the remaining four plunge off
through the snow in the direction of the opposite side of the tundra
which was a mile or more in width. When they had almost reached the
scrub he was startled to see the flying bull suddenly rear high and
topple into the snow, the next instant one of the others dropped, and a
moment later a third. Then to his ears came the sound of four shots
fired in rapid succession. As Brent stepped out onto the tundra and,
sheath knife in hand, walked to his fallen caribou, he saw a figure from
the opposite scrub. An exclamation of surprise escaped him. It was the
girl of the Indian Village.
"Wonder if she needs any help?" he muttered as he slit the throat of his
third caribou. He glanced across the short open space to see the girl
bending over the carcass of the other bull. "Guess I'll take a chance,"
he grinned, "And go and see. I knew she could shoot--three out of four,
running shots--that's going some!" When he was half way across the open
he saw the girl rise and wipe the blade of her knife upon the hair of
the dead bull's neck. She turned and knife in hand, waited for him to
approach. Brent noted that her rifle lay within easy reach of her hand,
propped against the dead animal's belly. He noted also, that as he drew
near, she made no move to recover it.
Jerking at the strings of his cap, he removed it from his head: "That
was mighty good shooting," he smiled, "Those brutes were sure
traveling!"
"But, they were very close. I couldn't have missed. It took two shots
for the last one, but both bullets counted. You did good shooting, too.
Your shots were harder--they were farther away. Did all your bullets
count?"
Brent laughed aloud from pure joy. He hardly heard her words. The only
thing he could clearly comprehend was the fact that there was no hint of
anger in the dark eyes, and that the red lips were smiling. "I'm sure I
don't know," he managed to reply, "I didn't stop to look. I think very
likely I missed one shot."
"Why do you take your cap off?" she asked, and almost instantly she
smiled again: "Oh, yes, I know--I have read of it--but, they don't do it
here. Put it on please. It is cold."
Brent returned the cap to his head. "I'm glad I didn't know the other
day, how expert you are with your rifle," he laughed, "Or I wouldn't
have stayed as long as I did."
The girl regarded him gravely: "You are not angry with me?" she asked.
"Why, no, of course not! Why should I be angry with you? I knew that
there was no reason why you should shoot me. And I knew that things
would straighten out, somehow. I thought you had mistaken me for someone
else, and----"
"I thought you were a hooch-runner," interrupted the girl. "I did not
think any white man who is not a hooch-runner, or a policeman, would be
way over here, and I could see that you were not in the Mounted."
"No," answered Brent, "I am not in the Mounted, but, how do you know
that I am not a hooch-runner?"
"Because, three of our band went to your cabin that very night to buy
hooch, and they did not get it. And the next night they went again and
took more fox skins, and again they came away empty handed."
"You sent them then?"
"No, no! But, I knew that they would think the same as I did, that you
wanted to trade them hooch, so I followed them when they slipped out of
the village. Both nights I followed, and I pressed my ear close to the
door, so that I heard all you said."
Brent smiled: "I have some recollection of asking one of those wooden
images something about a certain warlike young lady----"
The girl interrupted him with a laugh: "Yes, I heard that, and I heard
you swear at the hooch traders, and tell the Indians there was no hooch
in the cabin, and I was glad."
The man's eyes sought hers in a swift glance: "Why--why were you glad?"
he asked.
"Because I--because you--because I didn't want to kill you. And I would
have killed you if you had sold them hooch."
"You wouldn't--really----"
"Yes, I would!" cried the girl, and Brent saw that the dark eyes
flashed, "I would kill a hooch-runner as I would a wolf. They are
wolves. They're worse than wolves! Wolves kill for meat, but they kill
for money. They take the fur that would put bread in the mouths of the
women and the little babies, and they make the men drunken and no good.
There used to be thirty of us in the band, and now there are only
sixteen. Two of the men deserted their families since we came here,
because they would not stay where there was no hooch." The girl ceased
speaking and glanced quickly upward: "Snow!" she cried, "It is starting
to snow, and darkness will soon be here. I must draw these caribou,
before they freeze." She drew the knife from her belt and stepped to the
carcass of the bull. But Brent took it from her hand.
"Let me do it," he said, eagerly, "You stand there and tell me how, and
we'll have it done in no time."
"Tell you how!" exclaimed the girl, "What do you mean?" Brent laughed:
"I'm afraid I'm still an awful _chechako_ about some things. I can shoot
them, all right, but there has always been someone to do the drawing,
and skinning, and cutting up. But, I'll learn quickly. Where do I
begin?"
Under the minute directions of the girl Brent soon had the big bull
drawn. The two smaller animals were easier and when the job was finished
he glanced apprehensively at the thickening storm. "We had better go
now," he said. "Do you know how far it is to your camp?"
"Nine or ten miles, I think," answered the girl, "We have only been here
since fall and this is the first time I have hunted in this direction.
But, first we must draw your caribou. If they freeze they cannot be
drawn and then they will not be fit for food."
"But, the snow," objected Brent. "It is coming down faster all the
time."
"The snow won't bother us. There is no wind. Hurry, we must finish the
others before dark."
"But, the wind might spring up at any moment, and if it does we will
have a regular blizzard."
"Then we can camp," answered the girl, and before the astounded man
could reply, she had led off at a brisk pace in the direction of the
other caribou.
The early darkness was already beginning to make itself felt and Brent
drove to his task with a will, and to such good purpose that the girl
nodded hearty approval. "You did learn quickly," she smiled, "I could
not have done it any better nor quicker, myself."
"Thank you," he laughed, "And that is a real compliment, for by the way
you can handle a rifle, and cover ground on snowshoes, I know you are
_skookum tillicum_."
"Yes," admitted the girl, "I'm _skookum tillicum_. But, I ought to be. I
was born in the North and I have lived in the woods and in the barrens,
and upon rivers, all my life."
Brent was about to reply when each glanced for a moment into the other's
face, and then both stared into the North. From out of the darkness came
a sullen roar, low, and muffled, and mighty, like the roar of surf on
the shore of a distant sea.
"It is the wind!" cried the girl, "Quick, take a shoulder of meat! We
must find shelter and camp."
"I can't cut a leg bone with this knife!"
"There are no bones! It is like this." She snatched the knife from
Brent's hand and with a few deft slashes severed a shoulder from the
yearling caribou. "Come, quick," she urged, and led the way toward a
dark blotch that showed in the scraggling timber a few hundred yards
away: "When the storm strikes, we shall not be able to see," she flung
over her shoulder, "We must make that thicket of spruce--or we're
bushed."
Louder and louder sounded the roar of the approaching wind. Brent
encumbered with his rifle and the shoulder of meat, found it hard to
keep up with the girl whose snowshoes fairly flew over the snow. They
gained the thicket a few moments before the storm struck. The girl
paused before a thick spruce, that had been broken off and lay with its
trunk caught across the upstanding butt, some four feet from the ground.
Jerking the ax from its sheath she set to work lopping branches from the
dead tree.
"Break some live branches for the roof of our shelter!" she commanded.
"This stuff will do for firewood, and in a minute you can take the ax
and I will build the wikiup." The words were snatched from her lips by
the roar of the storm. Full upon them, now, it bent and swayed the thick
spruces as if to snap them at the roots. Brent gasped for breath in the
first rush of it and the next moment was coughing the flinty dry
snow-powder from his lungs. No longer were there snow-flakes in the
air--the air itself was snow--snow that seared and stung as it bit into
lips and nostrils, that sifted into the collars of _capote_ and
mackinaw, and seized neck and throat in a deadly chill. Back and forth
Brent stumbled bearing limbs which he tore from the trunks of trees, and
as he laid them at her feet the girl deftly arranged them. The ax made
the work easier, and at the end of a half-hour the girl shouted in his
ear that there were enough branches. Removing their rackets, they stood
them upright in the snow, and stooping, the girl motioned him to follow
as she crawled through a low opening in what appeared to be a mountain
of spruce boughs. To his surprise, Brent found that inside the wikiup he
could breathe freely. The fine powdered snow, collecting upon the
close-lying needles had effectively sealed the roof and walls.
For another half hour, the two worked in the intense blackness of the
interior with hands and feet pushing the snow out through the opening,
and when the task was finished they spread a thick floor of the small
branches that the girl had piled along one side. Only at the opening
there were no branches, and there upon the ground the girl proceeded to
build a tiny fire. "We must be careful," she cautioned, "and only build
a small fire, or our house will burn down." As she talked she opened a
light packsack that Brent had noticed upon her shoulders, and drew from
its interior a rabbit robe which she spread upon the boughs. Then from
the pack she produced a small stew pan and a little package of tea. She
filled the pan with snow, and smiled up into Brent's face: "And, now, at
last, we are snug and comfortable for the night. We can live here for
days if necessary. The caribou are not far away, and we have plenty of
tea."
"You are a wonder," breathed Brent, meeting squarely the laughing gaze
of the dark eyes, "Do you know that if it had not been for you, I would
have been--would never have weathered this storm?"
"You were not born in the bush," she reminded, as she added more snow to
the pan. "I do not even know your name," she said, gravely, "And yet I
feel--" she paused, and Brent, his voice raised hardly above a whisper,
asked eagerly:
"Yes, you feel--how do you feel?"
"I feel as though--as though I had known you always--as though you were
my friend."
"Yes," he answered, and it was with an effort he kept the emotion from
his voice, "We have known each other always, and I am your friend. My
name is Carter Brent. And now, tell me something about yourself. Who are
you? And why did you tell me you were an Indian?"
"I am an Indian," she replied, quickly, "That is, I am a half-breed. My
father was a white man."
"And what is your name?"
"Snowdrift."
"Snowdrift!" he cried, "what an odd name! Is it your last name or your
first?"
"Why, it is the only name I have, and I never had any other."
"But your father--what was your father's name?"
There was a long moment of silence while the girl threw more snow into
the pan, and added wood to the fire. Then her words came slowly, and
Brent detected a peculiar note in her voice. He wondered whether it was
bitterness, or pain: "My father is dead," she answered, "I do not know
his name. Why is Snowdrift an odd name?"
"I think it a beautiful name!" cried Brent.
"Do you--really?" The dark eyes were regarding him with a look in which
happiness seemed to be blended with fear lest he were mocking her.
"Indeed I do! I love it. And now tell me more--of your life--of your
education."
"I went to school at the mission on the Mackenzie. I went there for a
good many years, and I worked hard, for I like to study. And books! I
love to read books. I read all they had, and some of them many times. Do
you love books?"
"Why yes," answered Brent, "I used to. I haven't read many since I came
North."
"Why did you come North?"
"I came for gold."
"For gold!" cried the girl, her eyes shining, "That is why we are here!
Wananebish says there is gold here in the barrens. Once many years ago
she found it--but we have tried to find the place again, and we cannot."
"Who is Wananebish?"
"Wananebish is my mother. She is an Indian, and she has tried to keep
the band together through many years, and to keep them away from the
hooch, but, they will not listen to her. It was hard work to persuade
them to come away from the river. And, have you found gold?"
"Yes," answered Brent, "Way over beyond the mountains that lie to the
westward of the Mackenzie, I found much gold. But I lost it."
"Lost it! Oh, that was too bad. Did it fall off your sled?"
"Well, not exactly," answered the man dryly. "In my case, it was more of
a toboggan."
"Couldn't you find it again?"
"No. Other men have it, now."
"And they won't give it back!"
"No, it is theirs. That part of it is all right--only I would give
anything in the world to have it--now."
"Why do you want it now? Can you not find more gold? I guess I do not
understand."
Brent shook his head: "No, you do not understand. But, sometime you will
understand. Sometime I think I shall have many things to tell you--and
then I want you to understand."
The girl glanced at him wonderingly, as she threw a handful of tea into
the pan. "You must sharpen some green sticks and cut pieces of meat,"
she said, "And we will eat our supper."
A silence fell upon them during the meal, a silence broken only by the
roar of the wind that came to them as from afar, muffled as it was by
its own freighting of snow. Hardly for a moment did Brent take his eyes
from the girl. There was a great unwonted throbbing in his breast, that
seemed to cry out to him to take the girl in his arms and hold her
tight against his pounding heart, and the next moment the joy of her was
gone, and in its place was a dull heavy pain.
"Now, I know why I like you," said the girl, abruptly, as she finished
her piece of venison.
"Yes?" smiled Brent, "And are you going to tell me?"
"It is because you are good." She continued, without noting the quick
catch in the man's breath. "Men who hunt for gold are good. My father
was good, and he died hunting for gold. Wananebish told me. It was years
and years ago when I was a very little baby. I know from reading in
books that many white men are good. But in the North they are bad.
Unless they are of the police, or are priests, or factors. I had sworn
to hate all white men who came into the North--but I forgot the men who
hunt gold."
"I am glad you remembered them," answered Brent gravely. "I hope you are
right."
"I am sleepy," announced the girl. "We cannot both sleep in this robe,
for we have only one, and to keep warm it is necessary to roll up in it.
One of us can sleep half the night while the other tends the fire, and
then the other will sleep."
"You go to sleep," said Brent. "I will keep the fire going. I am not a
bit sleepy. And besides, I have a whole world of thinking to do."
"I will wake up at midnight, and then you can sleep," she said, and,
taking off her moccasins, and leggings, and long woolen stockings she
arranged them upon sticks to dry and rolled up in the thick robe.
"Good night," called Brent, as she settled down.
"Good night, and may God keep you. You forgot that part," she corrected,
gravely, "We used to say that at the Mission."
"Yes," answered Brent, "May God keep you. I did forget that part."
Suddenly the girl raised her head: "Do you believe we have known each
other always?" she asked.
"Yes, girl," he answered, "I believe we have known each other since the
beginning of time itself."
"Why did you come way over here to find gold? I have heard that there is
much gold beyond the mountains to the westward."
It was upon Brent's tongue to say: "I came to find you," but, he
restrained the impulse. "All the gold claims that are any good are taken
up over there," he explained, "And I read in a book that a man gave me
that there was gold here."
"What kind of a book was that? I never read a book about gold."
"It was an old book. One that the man had picked up over in the Hudson
Bay country. Its title was torn off, but upon one of its pages was
written a man's name, probably the name of the former owner of the book.
I have often wondered who he was. The name was Murdo MacFarlane."
"Murdo MacFarlane!" cried the girl, sitting bolt upright, and staring at
Brent.
"Yes," answered the man, "Do you know him?"
The girl reached out and tossed her belt to Brent. "It is the name upon
the sheath of the knife," she answered, "It is Wananebish's knife. I
broke the point of mine."
Brent took the sheath and held it close to the light of the little fire.
"Murdo MacFarlane," he deciphered, "Yes, the name is the same." And long
after the girl's regular breathing told him she was sleeping, he
repeated the name again: "Murdo MacFarlane. I don't know who you were or
who you are, if you still live, but whoever you were, or whoever you
are--here's good luck to you--Murdo MacFarlane!"