LONDON, EDINBURGH,
DUBLIN, & NEW YORK
THOMAS NELSON
AND SONS
1893
*CONTENTS.*
I. _In Acland's Hut_
II. _Hunting the Buffalo_
III. _The First Snowstorm_
IV. _Maxica, the Cree Indian_
V. _In the Birch-bark Hut_
VI. _Searching for a Supper_
VII. _Following the Blackfeet_
VIII. _The Shop in the Wilderness_
IX. _New Friends_
X. _The Dog-sled_
XI. _The Hunters' Camp_
XII. _Maxica's Warning_
XIII. _Just in Time_
XIV. _Wedding Guests_
XV. _To the Rescue_
XVI. _In Confusion_
*LOST IN THE WILDS.*
*CHAPTER I.*
_*IN ACLAND'S HUT.*_
The October sun was setting over a wild, wide waste of waving grass,
growing dry and yellow in the autumn winds. The scarlet hips gleamed
between the whitening blades wherever the pale pink roses of summer had
shed their fragrant leaves.
But now the brief Indian summer was drawing to its close, and winter was
coming down upon that vast Canadian plain with rapid strides. The
wailing cry of the wild geese rang through the gathering stillness.
The driver of a rough Red River cart slapped the boy by his side upon
the shoulder, and bade him look aloft at the swiftly-moving cloud of
chattering beaks and waving wings.
For a moment or two the twilight sky was darkened, and the air was
filled with the restless beat of countless pinions. The flight of the
wild geese to the warmer south told the same story, of approaching snow,
to the bluff carter. He muttered something about finding the cows which
his young companion did not understand. The boy's eyes had travelled
from the winged files of retreating geese to the vast expanse of sky and
plain. The west was all aglow with myriad tints of gold and saffron and
green, reflected back from many a gleaming lakelet and curving river,
which shone like jewels on the broad breast of the grassy ocean. Where
the dim sky-line faded into darkness the Touchwood Hills cast a
blackness of shadow on the numerous thickets which fringed their
sheltering slopes. Onward stole the darkness, while the prairie fires
shot up in wavy lines, like giant fireworks.
Between the fire-flash and the dying sun the boy's quick eye was aware
of the long winding course of the great trail to the north. It was a
comfort to perceive it in the midst of such utter loneliness; for if men
had come and gone, they had left no other record behind them. He seemed
to feel the stillness of an unbroken solitude, and to hear the silence
that was brooding over lake and thicket, hill and waste alike.
He turned to his companion. "Forgill," he asked, in a low venturing
tone, "can you find your way in the dark?"
He was answered by a low, short laugh, too expressive of contempt to
suffer him to repeat his question.
One broad flash of crimson light yet lingered along the western sky, and
the evening star gleamed out upon the shadowy earth, which the night was
hugging to itself closer and closer every moment.
Still the cart rumbled on. It was wending now by the banks of a
nameless river, where the pale, faint star-shine reflected in its watery
depths gave back dim visions of inverted trees in wavering, uncertain
lines.
"How far are we now from Acland's Hut?" asked the boy, disguising his
impatience to reach their journey's end in careless tones.
"Acland's Hut," repeated the driver; "why, it is close at hand."
The horse confirmed this welcome piece of intelligence by a joyous neigh
to his companion, who was following in the rear. A Canadian always
travels with two horses, which he drives by turns. The horses
themselves enter into the arrangement so well that there is no trouble
about it. The loose horse follows his master like a dog, and trots up
when the cart comes to a standstill, to take the collar warm from his
companion's shoulders.
But for once the loose pony had galloped past them in the darkness, and
was already whinnying at the well-known gate of Acland's Hut.
The driver put his hand to his mouth and gave a shout, which seemed to
echo far and wide over the silent prairie. It was answered by a chorus
of barking from the many dogs about the farm. A lantern gleamed through
the darkness, and friendly voices shouted in reply. Another bend in the
river brought them face to face with the rough, white gate of Acland's
Hut. Behind lay the low farm-house, with its log-built walls and roof
of clay. Already the door stood wide, and the cheerful blaze from the
pine-logs burning on the ample hearth within told of the hospitable
welcome awaiting the travellers.
An unseen hand undid the creaking gate, and a gruff voice from the
darkness exchanged a hearty "All right" with Forgill. The lantern
seemed to dance before the horse's head, as he drew up beneath the
solitary tree which had been left for a hen-roost in the centre of the
enclosure.
Forgill jumped down. He gave a helping hand to his boy companion,
observing, "There is your aunt watching for you at the open door. Go
and make friends; you won't be strangers long."
"Have you got the child, Forgill?" asked an anxious woman's voice.
An old Frenchman, who fulfilled the double office of man and maid at
Acland's Hut, walked up to the cart and held out his arms to receive the
expected visitor.
Down leaped the boy, altogether disdaining the over-attention of the
farming man. Then he heard Forgill whisper, "It isn't the little girl
she expected, it is this here boy; but I have brought him all the same."
This piece of intelligence was received with a low chuckle, and all
three of the men became suddenly intent upon the buckles of the harness,
leaving aunt and nephew to rectify the little mistake which had clearly
arisen--not that they had anything to do with it.
"Come in," said the aunt in kindly tones, scarcely knowing whether it
was a boy or a girl that she was welcoming. But when the rough
deer-skin in which Forgill had enveloped his charge as the night drew on
was thrown aside, the look which spread over her face was akin to
consternation, as she asked his name and heard the prompt reply,
"Wilfred Acland; and are you my own Aunt Miriam? How is my uncle?" But
question was exchanged for question with exceeding rapidity. Then
remembering the boy's long journey, Aunt Miriam drew a three-legged
stool in front of the blazing fire, and bade him be seated.
The owner of Acland's Hut was an aged man, the eldest of a large family,
while Wilfred's father was the youngest. They had been separated from
each other in early life; the brotherly tie between them was loosely
knitted. Intervals of several years' duration occurred in their
correspondence, and many a kindly-worded epistle failed to reach its
destination; for the adventurous daring of the elder brother led him
again and again to sell his holding, and push his way still farther
west. He loved the ring of the woodman's axe, the felling and the
clearing. He grew rich from the abundant yield of the virgin soil, and
his ever-increasing droves of cattle grew fat and fine in the grassy sea
which surrounded his homestead. All went well until his life of arduous
toil brought on an attack of rheumatic fever, which had left him a
bedridden old man. Everything now depended upon the energy of his sole
surviving sister, who had shared his fortunes.
Aunt Miriam retained a more affectionate remembrance of Wilfred's
father, who had been her playmate. When the letter arrived announcing
his death she was plunged in despondency. The letter had been sent from
place to place, and was nine months after date before it reached
Acland's Hut, on the verge of the lonely prairie between the Qu'appelle
and South Saskatchewan rivers. The letter was written by a Mr. Cromer,
who promised to take care of the child the late Mr. Acland had left,
until he heard from the uncle he was addressing.
The brother and sister at Acland's Hut at once started the most capable
man on their farm to purchase their winter stores and fetch the orphan
child. Aunt Miriam looked back to the old letters to ascertain its age.
In one of them the father rejoiced over the birth of a son; in another
he spoke of a little daughter, named after herself; a third, which
lamented the death of his wife, told also of the loss of a child--which,
it did not say. Aunt Miriam, with a natural partiality for her
namesake, decided, as she re-read the brief letter, that it must be the
girl who was living; for it was then a baby, and every one would have
called it "the baby." By using the word "child," the poor father must
have referred to the eldest, the boy.
"Ah! very likely," answered her brother, who had no secret preference to
bias his expectations. So the conjecture came to be regarded as a
certainty, until Wilfred shook off the deer-skin and stood before his
aunt, a strong hearty boy of thirteen summers, awkwardly shy, and
alarmingly hungry.
But her welcome was not the less kindly, as she heaped his plate again
and again. Wilfred was soon nodding over his supper in the very front
of the blazing fire, basking in its genial warmth. But the delightful
sense of comfort and enjoyment was rather shaken when he heard his aunt
speaking in the inner room.
"Forgill has come back, Caleb; and after all it is the boy."
"The boy, God bless him! I only wish he were more of a man, to take my
place," answered the dreamy voice of her sick brother, just rousing from
his slumbers.
"Oh, but I am so disappointed!" retorted Aunt Miriam. "I had been
looking forward to a dear little niece to cheer me through the winter.
I felt so sure--"
"Now, now!" laughed the old man, "that is just where it is. If once you
get an idea in your head, there it wedges to the exclusion of everything
else. You like your own way, Miriam, but you cannot turn your wishes
into a coach and six to override everything. You cannot turn him into a
girl."
Wilfred burst out laughing, as he felt himself very unpromising material
for the desired metamorphosis.
"How shall I keep him out of mischief when we are all shut in with the
snow?" groaned Aunt Miriam.
"Let me look at him," said her brother, growing excited.
When Wilfred stood by the bedside, his uncle took the boy's warm hands
in both his own and looked earnestly in his bright open face.
"He will do," murmured the old man, sinking back amongst his pillows.
"There, be a good lad; mind what your aunt says to you, and make
yourself at home."
While he was speaking all the light there was in the shadowy room shone
full on Wilfred.
"He is like his father," observed Aunt Miriam.
"You need not tell me that," answered Caleb Acland, turning away his
face.
"Could we ever keep him out of mischief?" she sighed.
Wilfred's merry laugh jarred on their ears. They forgot the lapse of
time since his father's death, and wondered to find him so cheerful.
Aunt and nephew were decidedly out of time, and out of time means out of
tune, as Wilfred dimly felt, without divining the reason.
Morning showed him his new home in its brightest aspect. He was up
early and out with Forgill and the dogs, busy in the long row of
cattle-sheds which sheltered one end of the farm-house, whilst a
well-planted orchard screened the other.
Wilfred was rejoicing in the clear air, the joyous sunshine, and the
wonderful sense of freedom which seemed to pervade the place. The wind
was whispering through the belt of firs at the back of the clearing
where Forgill had built his hut, as he made his way through the long,
tawny grass to gather the purple vetches and tall star-like asters,
still to be found by the banks of the reed-fringed pool where Forgill
was watering the horses.
Wilfred was intent upon propitiating his aunt, when he returned to the
house with his autumn bouquet, and a large basket of eggs which Forgill
had intrusted to his care.
Wilfred rushed into the kitchen, elate with his morning ramble, and
quite regardless of the long trail of muddy footsteps with which he was
soiling the freshly-cleaned floor.
"Look!" cried Aunt Miriam; but she spoke to deaf ears, for Wilfred's
attention was suddenly absorbed by the appearance of a stranger at the
gate. His horse and gun proclaimed him an early visitor. His jaunty
air and the glittering beads and many tassels which adorned his
riding-boots made Wilfred wonder who he was. He set his basket on the
ground, and was darting off again to open the gate, when Aunt Miriam,
finding her remonstrances vain, leaned across the table on which she was
arranging the family breakfast and caught him by the arm. Wilfred was
going so fast that the sudden stoppage upset his equilibrium; down he
went, smash into the basket of eggs. Out flew one-half in a frantic
dance, while the mangled remains of the other streamed across the floor.
"Oh! the eggs, the eggs!" exclaimed Wilfred.
Aunt Miriam, who was on the other side of the table when he came in, had
not noticed the basket he was carrying. She held up her hands in
dismay, exclaiming, "I am afraid, Wilfred, you are one of the most
aggravating boys that ever walked this earth."
For the frost was coming, and eggs were growing scarce.
"And so, auntie, since you can't transform me, you have abased me
utterly. I humbly beg your pardon from the very dust, and lay my poor
bruised offering at your indignant feet. I thought the coach and six
was coming over me, I did indeed!" exclaimed Wilfred.
"Get up" reiterated Aunt Miriam angrily, her vexation heightened by the
burst of laughter which greeted her ears from the open door, where the
stranger now stood shaking with merriment at the ridiculous scene.
"Yes, off with you, you young beggar!" he repeated, stepping aside
good-naturedly to let Wilfred pass. For what could a fellow do but go in
such disastrous circumstances?
"It is not to be expected that the missis will put up with this sort of
game," remarked Petre Fleurie, as he passed him.
Wilfred began to think it better to forego his breakfast than face his
indignant aunt. What did she care for the handful of weeds? The mud he
had gone through to get them had caused all the mischief. Everywhere
else the ground was dry and crisp with the morning frost. "What an
unlucky dog I am!" thought Wilfred dolefully. "Haven't I made a bad
beginning, and I never meant to." He crept under the orchard railing to
hide himself in his repentance and keep out of everybody's way.
But it was not the weather for standing still, and he longed for
something to do. He took to running in and out amongst the now almost
leafless fruit-trees to keep himself warm.
Forgill, who was at work in the court putting the meat-stage in order,
looked down into the orchard from the top of the ladder on which he was
mounted, and called to Wilfred to come and help him.
It was a very busy time on the farm. Marley, the other labourer, who
was Forgill's chum in the little hut in the corner, was away in the
prairie looking up the cows, which had been turned loose in the early
summer to get their own living, and must now be brought in and
comfortably housed for the winter. Forgill had been away nearly a
fortnight. Hands were short on the farm now the poor old master was
laid aside. There was land to be sold all round them; but at present it
was unoccupied, and the nearest settler was dozens of miles away. Their
only neighbours were the roving hunters, who had no settled home, but
wandered about like gipsies, living entirely by the chase and selling
furs. They were partly descended from the old French settlers, and
partly Indians. They were a careless, light-hearted, dashing set of
fellows, who made plenty of money when skins were dear, and spent it
almost as fast as it came. Uncle Caleb thought it prudent to keep on
friendly terms with these roving neighbours, who were always ready to
give him occasional help, as they were always well paid for it.
"There is one of these hunter fellows here now," said Forgill. "The
missis is arranging with him to help me to get in the supply of meat for
the winter."
The stage at which Forgill was hammering resembled the framework of a
very high, long, narrow table, with four tall fir poles for its legs.
Here the meat was to be laid, high up above the reach of the many
animals, wild and tame. It would soon be frozen through and through as
hard as a stone, and keep quite good until the spring thaws set in.
Wilfred was quickly on the top of the stage, enjoying the prospect, for
the atmosphere in Canada is so clear that the eye can distinguish
objects a very long way off. He had plenty of amusement watching the
great buzzards and hawks, which are never long out of sight. He had
entered a region where birds abounded. There were cries in the air
above and the drumming note of the prairie-hen in the grass below. There
were gray clouds of huge white pelicans flapping heavily along, and
faster-flying strings of small white birds, looking like rows of pearls
waving in the morning air. A moving band, also of snowy white, crossing
the blue water of a distant lakelet, puzzled him a while, until it rose
with a flutter and scream, and proved itself another flock of northern
geese on wing for the south, just pausing on its way to drink.
Presently Wilfred was aware that Petre was at the foot of the ladder
talking earnestly to Forgill. An unpleasant tingling in his cheek told
the subject of their conversation. He turned his back towards them, not
choosing to hear the remarks they might be making upon his escapade of
the morning, until old Petre--or Pete as he was usually called, for
somehow the "r" slipped out of his name on the English lips around
him--raised his voice, protesting, "You and I know well how the black
mud by the reed pool sticks like glue. Now, I say, put him on the
little brown pony, and take him with you."
"Follow the hunt!" cried Wilfred, overjoyed. "Oh, may I, Forgill?"
*CHAPTER II.*
_*HUNTING THE BUFFALO.*_
The cloudy morning ended in a brilliant noon. Wilfred was in ecstasies
when he found himself mounted on the sagacious Brownie, who had followed
them like a dog on the preceding evening.
Aunt Miriam had consented to Pete's proposal with a thankfulness which
led the hunter, Hugh Bowkett, to remark, as Wilfred trotted beside him,
"Come, you young scamp! so you are altogether beyond petticoat
government, are you?"
"That is not true," retorted Wilfred, "for I was never out of her
Majesty's dominion for a single hour in my life."
It was a chance hit, for Bowkett had been over the frontier more than
once, wintering among the Yankee roughs on the other side of the border,
a proceeding which is synonymous in the North-West Dominion with
"getting out of the way."
Bowkett was a handsome fellow, and a first-rate shot, who could
accomplish the difficult task of hunting the long-eared, cunning
moose-deer as well as a born Red Indian. Wilfred looked up at him with
secret admiration. Not so Forgill, who owned to Pete there was no
dependence on these half-and-half characters. But without Bowkett's
help there would be no meat for the winter; and since the master had
decided the boy was to go with them, there was nothing more to be said.
Aunt Miriam came to the gate, in her hood and cloak, to see them depart.
"Good-bye! good-bye, auntie!" shouted Wilfred. "I am awfully sorry about
those eggs."
"Ah, you rogue! do you think I am going to believe you?" She laughed,
shaking a warning finger at him; and so they parted, little dreaming of
all that would happen before they met again.
Wilfred was equipped in an old, smoked deer-skin coat of his uncle's,
and a fur cap with a flap falling like a cape on his neck, and
ear-pieces which met under his chin. He was a tall boy of his age, and
his uncle was a little, wiry man. The coat was not very much too long
for him. It wrapped over famously in front, and was belted round the
waist. Pete had filled the pockets with a good supply of biscuit, and
one or two potatoes, which he thought Wilfred could roast for his supper
in the ashes of the campfire. For the hunting-party expected to camp
out in the open for a night or two, as the buffaloes they were in quest
of were further to seek and harder to find every season.
Forgill had stuck a hunting-knife in Wilfred's belt, to console him for
the want of a gun. The boy would have liked to carry a gun like the
others, but on that point there was a resolute "No" all round.
As they left the belt of pine trees, and struck out into the vast,
trackless sea of grass, Wilfred looked back to the light blue column of
smoke from the farm-house chimney, and wistfully watched it curling
upwards in the clear atmosphere, with a dash of regret that he had not
yet made friends with his uncle, or recovered his place in Aunt Miriam's
good graces. But it scarcely took off the edge of his delight.
Forgill was in the cart, which he hoped to bring back loaded with game.
At the corner of the first bluff, as the hills in Canada are usually
called, they encountered Bowkett's man with a string of horses, one of
which he rode. There was a joyous blaze of sunshine glinting through
the broad fringes of white pines which marked the course of the river,
making redder the red stems of the Norwegians which sprang up here and
there in vivid contrast. A light canoe of tawny birch-bark, with its
painted prow, was threading a narrow passage by the side of a tiny eyot
or islet, where the pine boughs seemed to meet high overhead. The
hunters exchanged a shout of recognition with its skilful rower, ere a
stately heron, with grand crimson eye and leaden wings, came slowly
flapping down the stream intent on fishing. Then the little party wound
their way by ripple-worn rocks, covered with mosses and lichens. At
last, on one of the few bare spots on a distant hillside, some dark
moving specks became visible. The hunt began in earnest. Away went the
horsemen over the wide, open plain. Wilfred and the cart following more
slowly, yet near enough to watch the change to the stealthy approach and
the cautious outlook over the hill-top, where the hunter's practised eye
had detected the buffalo.
"Keep close by me," said Forgill to his young companion, as they wound
their way upwards, and reached the brow of the hill just in time to
watch the wild charge upon the herd, which scattered in desperate
flight, until the hindmost turned to bay upon his reckless pursuers, his
shaggy head thrown up as he stood for a moment at gaze. With a whoop
and a cheer, in which Wilfred could not help joining, Bowkett again gave
chase, followed by his man Diome. A snap shot rattled through the air.
Forgill drew the cart aside to the safer shelter of a wooded copse, out
of the line of the hunters. He knew the infuriated buffalo would
shortly turn on his pursuers. The loose horses were racing after their
companions, and Brownie was quivering with excitement.
"Hold hard!" cried Forgill, who saw the boy was longing to give the pony
its head and follow suit. "Quiet, my lad," he continued. "None of us
are up to that sort of work. It takes your breath to look at them."
The buffalo was wheeling round. Huge and unwieldy as the beast
appeared, it changed its front with the rapidity of lightning. Then
Bowkett backed his horse and fled. On the proud beast thundered, with
lowered eyes flashing furiously under its shaggy brows. A bullet from
Diome's gun struck him on the forehead. He only shook his haughty head
and bellowed till the prairie rang; but his pace slackened as the
answering cries of the retreating herd seemed to call him back. He was
within a yard of Bowkett's horse, when round he swung as swiftly and
suddenly as he had advanced. Wilfred stood up in his stirrups to watch
him galloping after his companions, through a gap in a broken bluff at
no great distance. Away went Bowkett and Diome, urging on their horses
with shout and spur.
"Halt a bit," said Forgill, restraining Wilfred and his pony, until they
saw the two hunters slowly returning over the intervening ridge with
panting horses. They greeted the approach of the cart with a hurrah of
success, proposing, as they drew nearer, to halt for dinner in the
shelter of the gap through which the buffalo had taken its way.
Wilfred was soon busy with Diome gathering the dry branches last night's
wind had broken to make a fire, whilst Bowkett and Forgill went forward
with the cart to look for the fallen quarry.
It was the boy's first lesson in camping out, and he enjoyed it
immensely, taking his turn at the frying-pan with such success that
Diome proposed to hand it over to his exclusive use for the rest of
their expedition.
It was hard work to keep the impudent blue jays, with which the prairie
abounded, from darting at the savoury fry, and pecking out the very
middle of the steak, despite the near neighbourhood of smoke and flame,
which threatened to singe their wings in the mad attempt.
But in spite of the thievish birds, dinner was eaten and appreciated in
the midst of so much laughter and chaff that even Forgill unbent.
But a long day's work was yet before them, spurring over the sand-ridges
and through the rustling grass. They had almost reached one of the
westward jutting spurs of the Touchwood Hills, when the sun went down.
As it neared the earth and sank amidst the glorious hues of emerald and
gold, the dark horizon line became visible for a few brief instants
across its blood-red face; but so distant did it seem, so very far away,
the whole scene became dreamlike from its immensity.
"We've done, my lads!" shouted Bowkett; "we have about ended as glorious
a day's sport as ever I had."
"Not yet," retorted Diome. "Just listen." There was a trampling,
snorting sound as of many cattle on the brink of a lakelet sheltering at
the foot of the neighbouring hills.
Were they not in the midst of what the early Canadian settlers used to
call the Land of the Wild Cows? Those sounds proceeded from another
herd coming down for its evening drink. On they crept with stealthy
steps through bush and bulrush to get a nearer view in the bewildering
shadows, which were growing darker and darker every moment.
"Stop! stop!" cried Forgill, hurrying forward, as the light yet
lingering on the lake showed the familiar faces of his master's cows
stooping down to reach the pale blue water at their feet. Yes, there
they were, the truant herd Marley was endeavouring in vain to find.
Many a horned head was lifted at the sound of Forgill's well-known call.
Away he went into the midst of the group, pointing out the great "A" he
had branded deep in the thick hair on the left shoulder before he had
turned them loose.
What was now to be done?
"Drive them home," said the careful Forgill, afraid of losing them
again. But Bowkett was not willing to return.
Meanwhile Diome and Wilfred were busy preparing for the night at the
spot where they had halted, when the presence of the herd was first
perceived. They had brought the horses down to the lake to water at a
sufficient distance from the cows not to disturb them. But one or two
of the wanderers began to "moo," as if they partially recognized their
former companions.
"They will follow me and the horses," pursued Forgill, who knew he could
guide his way across the trackless prairie by the aid of the stars.
"If you come upon Marley," he said, "he can take my place in the cart,
for he has most likely found the trail of the cows by this time; or if I
cross his path, I shall leave him to drive home the herd and return. You
will see one of us before morning."
"As you like," replied Bowkett, who knew he could do without either man
provided he kept the cart. "You will probably see us back at the gate of
Acland's Hut by to-morrow night; and if we do not bring you game enough,
we must plan a second expedition when you have more leisure."
So it was settled between them.
Forgill hurried back to the camping place to get his supper before he
started. Bowkett lingered behind, surveying the goodly herd, whilst
vague schemes for combining the twofold advantages of hunter and farmer
floated through his mind.
When he rejoined his companions he found them seated round a blazing
fire, enjoying the boiling kettle of tea, the fried steak, and biscuit
which composed their supper. The saddles were hung up on the branches
of the nearest tree, and the skins and blankets which were to make their
bed were already spread upon the pine brush which strewed the ground.
"Now, young 'un," said Forgill solemnly, "strikes me I had better keep
you alongside anyhow."
"No, no," retorted Diome. "The poor little fellow has been in the
saddle all day, and he is dead asleep already; leave him under his
blankets. He'll be right enough; must learn to rough it sooner or
later."
Forgill, who had to be his own tailor and washer-woman, was lamenting
over a rent in his sleeve, which he was endeavouring to stitch up. For
a housewife, with its store of needles and thread, was never absent from
his pocket.
His awkward attempts awakened the mirth of his companions.
"What, poor old boy! haven't you got a wife at home to do the stitching
for you?" asked Diome.
"When you have passed the last oak which grows on this side the Red
River, are there a dozen English women in a thousand miles?" asked
Forgill; and then he added, "The few there are are mostly real ladies,
the wives of district governors and chief factors. A fellow must make
up his mind to do for himself and rub through as he can."
"Unless he follows my father's example," put in Bowkett, "and chooses
himself a faithful drudge from an Indian wigwam. He would want no other
tailor or washerwoman, for there are no such diligent workers in the
world. Look at that," he continued, pointing to his beautifully
embroidered leggings, the work of his Indian relations.
"Pay a visit to our hunters' winter camp," added Diome, "and we will
show you what an old squaw can do to make home comfortable."
There was this difference between the men: Diome who had been left by
his French father to be brought up by his Indian mother, resembled her
in many things; whilst Bowkett, whose father was English, despised his
Indian mother, and tried to make himself more and more of an Englishman.
This led him to cultivate the acquaintance with the Aclands.
"I am going to send your mistress a present," he said, "of a mantle
woven of wild dogs' hair. It belonged to the daughter of an Indian
chief from the Rocky Mountains. It has a fringe a foot deep, and is
covered all over with embroidery. You will see then what a squaw can
do."
Forgill did not seem over-pleased at this information.
"Are you talking of my Aunt Miriam?" asked Wilfred, opening his sleepy
eyes.
"So you are thinking about her," returned Forgill. "That's right, my
lad; for your aunt and uncle at Acland's Hut are the only kith and kin
you have left, and they are quite ready to make much of you, and you
can't make too much of them."
"You have overshot the mark there," laughed Bowkett; "rather think the
missis was glad to be rid of the young plague on any terms."
Diome pulled the blankets over Wilfred's head, and wished him a _bonne
nuit_ (good night).
When the boy roused up at last Forgill had long since departed, and
Diome, who had been the first to awaken, was vigorously clapping his
hands to warm them, and was shouting, "_Leve! leve! leve!_" to his
sleepy companions.
"Get up," interpreted Bowkett, who saw that Wilfred did not understand
his companion's provincial French. Then suiting the action to the word,
he crawled out from between the shafts of the cart, where he had passed
the night, tossed off his blankets and gave himself a shake, dressing
being no part of the morning performances during camping out in the
Canadian wilds, as every one puts on all the clothing he has at going to
bed, to keep himself warm through the night.
The fire was reduced to a smouldering ash-heap, and every leaf and twig
around was sparkling with hoar-frost, for the frost had deepened in the
night, and joints were stiff and limbs were aching. A run for a mile
was Bowkett's remedy, and a look round for the horses, which had been
turned loose, Canadian fashion, to get their supper where they could
find it.
The first red beams of the rising sun were tinging the glassy surface of
the lake when Bowkett came upon the scattered quadrupeds, and drove
them, with Wilfred's assistance, down to its blue waters for their
morning drink.
Diome's shouts recalled them to their own breakfast. He was a man of
many tongues, invariably scolding in French--especially the horses and
dogs, who heeded it, he asserted, better than any other language except
Esquimau--explaining in English, and coming out with the Indian "Caween"
when discourse required an animated "no." "Caween," he reiterated now,
as Bowkett asked, "Are we to dawdle about all day for these English
cow-keepers?" For neither Forgill nor Marley had yet put in an
appearance.
The breakfast was not hurried over. The fire was built up bigger than
ever before they left, that its blackened remains might mark their
camping place for days, if the farming men came after them.
Wilfred, who had buckled the saddle on Brownie, received a riding
lesson, and then they started, Diome driving the cart. Wilfred kept
beside him at first, but growing bolder as his spirits rose, he trotted
onward to exchange a word with Bowkett.
The sharp, frosty night seemed likely to be followed by a day of bright
and mellow sunshine. The exhilarating morning breeze banished all
thoughts of fear and care from the light-hearted trio; and when the tall
white stems of the pines appeared to tremble in the mid-day mirage,
Wilfred scampered hither and thither, as merry as the little gopher, or
ground squirrel, that was gambolling across his path. But no large game
had yet been sighted. Then all unexpectedly a solitary buffalo stalked
majestically across what was now the entrance to a valley, but what
would become the bed of a rushing river when the ice was melting in the
early spring.
Bowkett paused, looked to his rifle and saddle-girths, waved his arm to
Wilfred to fall back, and with a shout that made the boy's heart leap
dashed after it. Wilfred urged his Brownie up the bank, where he
thought he could safely watch the chase and enjoy a repetition of the
exciting scenes of yesterday.
Finding itself pursued, the buffalo doubled. On it came, tearing up the
ground in its course, and seeming to shake the quivering trees with its
mighty bellow. Brownie plunged and reared, and Wilfred was flung
backwards, a senseless heap at the foot of the steep bank.
*CHAPTER III.*
_*THE FIRST SNOWSTORM.*_
IN the midst of the danger and excitement of the chase, Bowkett had not
a thought to spare for Wilfred. He and Diome were far too busy to even
wonder what had become of him. It was not until their work was done,
and the proverbial hunger of the hunter urged them to prepare for
dinner, that the question arose.
"Where on earth is that young scoundrel of a boy? Has he fallen back so
far that it will take him all day to recover ground?" asked Bowkett.
"And if it is so," remarked Diome, "he has only to give that cunning
little brute its head. It is safe to follow the track of the
cart-wheel, and bring him in for the glorious teasing that is waiting to
sugar his tea."
"Rare seasoning for the frying-pan," retorted Bowkett, as he lit his
pipe, and proposed to halt a bit longer until the truant turned up.
"Maybe," suggested Diome, "if May bees fly in October, that moose-eared
pony [the long ears of the moose detect the faintest sound at an
inconceivable distance] has been more than a match for his raw
equestrianism. It has heard the jog-trot of that solemn and sober
cowherd, and galloped him off to join his old companions. What will
become of the scattered flock?"
"Without a leader," put in Bowkett. "I have a great mind to bid for the
office."
"Oh, oh!" laughed Diome. "I have something of the keen scent of my
Indian grandfather; I began to sniff the wind when that mantle was
talked about last night. Now then, are we going to track back to find
this boy?"
"I do not know where you propose to look for him, but I can tell you
where you will find him--munching cakes on his auntie's lap. We may as
well save time by looking in the likeliest place first," retorted
Bowkett.
The bivouac over, they returned to Acland's Hut with their well-laden
cart, and Wilfred was left behind them, no one knew where. The hunters'
careless conclusions were roughly shaken, when they saw a riderless pony
trotting leisurely after them to the well-known door. Old Pete came out
and caught it by the bridle. An ever-rising wave of consternation was
spreading. No one as yet had put it into words, until Forgill emerged
from the cattle-sheds with a sack on his shoulder, exclaiming, "Where's
the boy?"
"With you, is not he? He did not say much to us; either he or his pony
started off to follow you. He was an unruly one, you know," replied
Bowkett. Forgill's only answer was a hoarse shout to Marley, who had
returned from his wanderings earlier in the day, to come with torches.
Diome joined them in the search.
Bowkett stepped into the house to allay Aunt Miriam's fears with his
regret the boy had somehow given them the slip, but Forgill and Diome
had gone back for him.
An abundant and what seemed to them a luxuriant supper had been provided
for the hunting party. Whilst Bowkett sat down to enjoy it to his
heart's content, Aunt Miriam wandered restlessly from room to room,
cautiously breaking the ill news to her brother, by telling him only
half the hunting party had yet turned up. Pete was watching for the
stragglers.
He roused himself up to ask her who was missing.
But her guarded reply reassured him, and he settled back to sleep. Such
mishaps were of every-day occurrence.
"A cold night for camping out," he murmured. "You will see them with the
daylight."
But the chilly hour which precedes the dawn brought with it a heavy fall
of snow.
Aunt Miriam's heart sank like lead, for she knew that every track would
be obliterated now. Bowkett still laughed away her fears. Find the boy
they would, benumbed perhaps at the foot of a tree, or huddled up in
some sheltering hollow.
Then Aunt Miriam asked Bowkett if he would earn her everlasting
gratitude, by taking the dogs and Pete, with skins and blankets--
"And bringing the truant home," responded Bowkett boastfully.
The farm-house, with its double doors and windows, its glowing stoves in
every room, was as warm and cozy within as the night without was
cheerless and cold. Bowkett, who had been enjoying his taste of true
English comfort, felt its allurements enhanced by the force of the
contrast. Aunt Miriam barred the door behind him with a great deal of
unearned gratitude in her heart. Her confidence in Forgill was shaken.
He ought not to have brought home the cows and left her nephew behind.
Yet the herd was so valuable, and he felt himself responsible to his
master for their well-being. She did not blame Forgill; she blamed
herself for letting Wilfred go with him. She leaned upon the hunter's
assurances, for she knew that his resource and daring, and his knowledge
of the country, were far greater than that possessed by either of the
farming men.
The storm which had burst at daybreak had shrouded all around in a dense
white sheet of driving snowflakes. Even objects close at hand showed
dim and indistinct in the gray snow-light. On the search-party went,
groping their way through little clumps of stunted bushes, which
frequently deceived them by a fancied resemblance to a boyish figure,
now throwing up its arms to call attention, now huddled in a darkling
heap. Their shouts received no answer: that went for little. The boy
must long ago have succumbed to such a night without fire or shelter
They felt among the bushes. The wet mass of snow struck icily cold on
hands and faces. A bitter, biting wind swept down the river from the
north-east, breaking the tall pine branches and uprooting many a
sapling. The two search-parties found each other that was all. Such
weather in itself makes many a man feel savage-tempered and sullen. If
they spoke at all, it was to blame one another.
While thus they wandered to and fro over the hunting-ground of
yesterday, where was the boy they failed to meet? Where was Wilfred?
Fortunately for him the grass grew thick and tall at the bottom of the
bank down which he had fallen. Lost to view amid the waving yellow
tufts which had sprung up to giant size in the bed of the dried-up
stream, he lay for some time in utter unconsciousness; whilst the
frightened pony, finding itself free, galloped madly away over the sandy
ridges they had been crossing earlier in the morning.
By slow degrees sight and sound returned to the luckless boy. He was
bruised and shaken, and one ankle which he had bent under him made him
cry out with pain when he tried to rise. At last he drew himself into a
sitting posture and looked around. Recollections came back confusedly at
first. As his ideas grew clearer, he began to realize what had
happened. Overhead the sky was gloomy and dark. A stormy wind swept the
whitened grass around him into billowy waves. Wilfred's first thought
was to shout to his companions; but his voice was weak and faint, and a
longing for a little water overcame him.
Finding himself unable to walk, he dropped down again in the grassy nest
which he had formed for himself, and tried to think. The weight of his
fall had crushed the grass beneath him into the soft clayey mud at the
bottom of the valley. But the pain in his ankle predominated over every
other consideration. His first attempt to help himself was to take the
knife out of his belt and cut down some of the grass within reach, and
make a softer bed on which to rest it. His limbs were stiffening with
the cold, and whilst he had still feeling enough in his fingers to undo
his boot, he determined to try to bind up his ankle. Whilst he held it
pressed between both his hands it seemed easier.
But Wilfred knew he must not sit there waiting for Forgill, who, he felt
sure, would come and look for him if he had rejoined the hunting party:
if--there were so many _ifs_ clinging to every thought Wilfred grew
desperate. He grasped a great handful of the sticky clay and pressed it
round his ankle in a stiff, firm band. There was a change in the
atmosphere. In the morning that clay would have been hard and crisp
with the frost, now it was yielding in his hand; surely the snow was
coming. Boy as he was, he knew what that would do for him--he should be
buried beneath it in the hole in which he lay. It roused him to the
uttermost. Deep down in Wilfred's nature there was a vein of that cool
daring which the great Napoleon called "two o'clock in the morning
courage"--a feeling which rises highest in the face of danger, borrowing
little from its surroundings, and holding only to its own.
"If," repeated Wilfred, as his thoughts ran on--"if they could not find
me, and that is likely enough, am I going to lie here and die?"
He looked up straight into the leaden sky. "There is nothing between us
and God's heaven," he thought. "It is we who see such a little way. He
can send me help. It may be coming for what I know, one way or another.
What is the use of sitting here thinking? Has Bowkett missed me? Will
he turn back to look me up? Will Forgill come? If I fall asleep down
in this grass, how could they see me? Any way, I must get out of this
hole." He tore the lining out of his cap and knotted it round his
ankle, to keep the clay in place; but to put his boot on again was an
impossibility. Even he knew his toes would freeze before morning if he
left them uncovered. He took his knife and cut off the fur edge down
the front of the old skin coat, and wound his foot up in it as fast as
he could. Then, dragging his boot along with him, he tried hard to
crawl up the bank; but it was too steep for him, and he slipped back
again, hurting himself a little more at every slide.
This, he told himself, was most unnecessary, as he was sore enough and
stiff enough before. Another bad beginning. What was the use of
stopping short at a bad beginning? He thought of Bruce and his spider.
He had not tried seven times yet.
Wilfred's next attempt was to crawl towards the entrance of the
valley--this was easier work. Then he remembered the biscuit in his
pocket. It was not all gone yet. He drew himself up and began to eat
it gladly enough, for he had had nothing since his breakfast. The
biscuit was very hard, and he crunched it, making all the noise he
could. It seemed a relief to make any sort of sound in that awful
stillness.
He was growing almost cheery as he ate. "If I can only find the
cart-track," he thought; "and I must be near it. Diome was behind us
when I was thrown; he must have driven past the end of this valley. If
I could only climb a tree, I might see where the grass was crushed by
the cart-wheel."
But this was just what Wilfred could not do. The last piece of biscuit
was in his hand, when a dog leaped out of the bushes on the bank above
him and flew at it. Wilfred seized his boot to defend himself; but that
was hopeless work, crawling on the ground. It was a better thought to
fling the biscuit to the dog, for if he enraged it--ah! it might tear
him to pieces. It caught the welcome boon in its teeth, and devoured
it, pawing the ground impatiently for more. Wilfred had but one potato
left. He began to cut it in slices and toss them to the dog. A bright
thought had struck him: this dog might have a master near. No doubt
about that; and if he were only a wild Red Indian, he was yet a man.
Full of this idea, Wilfred emptied out his pockets to see if a corner of
biscuit was left at the bottom. There were plenty of crumbs. He forgot
his own hunger, and held out his hand to the dog. It was evidently
starving. It sat down before him, wagging its bushy tail and moving its
jaws beseechingly, in a mute appeal for food. Wilfred drew himself a
little nearer, talking and coaxing. One sweep of the big tongue and the
pile of crumbs had vanished.
There was a sound--a crashing, falling sound--in the distance. How they
both listened! Off rushed the furry stranger.
"It is my chance," thought Wilfred, "my only chance."
He picked up the half-eaten potato and scrambled after the dog, quite
forgetting his pain in his desperation. A vociferous barking in the
distance urged him on.
It was not Bowkett, by the strange dog; but another hunting party might
be near. The noise he had heard was the fall of some big game. Hope
rose high; but he soon found himself obliged to rest, and then he
shouted with all his might. He was making his way up the valley now.
He saw before him a clump of willows, whose drooping boughs must have
lapped the stream. His boot was too precious to be left behind; he
slung it to his belt, and then crawled on. One more effort. He had
caught the nearest bough, and, by its help, he drew himself upright. Oh
the pain in the poor foot when he let it touch the ground! it made him
cry out again and again. Still he persisted in his purpose. He grasped
a stronger stem arching higher overhead, and swung himself clear from
the ground. The pliant willow swayed hither and thither in the stormy
blast. Wilfred almost lost his hold. The evening shadows were gathering
fast. The dead leaves swept down upon him with every gust. The wind
wailed and sighed amongst the tall white grass and the bulrushes at his
feet. It was impossible to resist a feeling of utter desolation.
Wilfred shut his eyes upon the dreary scene. The snatch of prayer on
his lips brought back the bold spirit of an hour ago. He rested the
poor injured ankle on his other foot, and drew himself up, hand over
hand, higher and higher, to the topmost bough, and there he clung, until
a stronger blast than ever flung him backwards towards the bank. He
felt the bough giving way beneath his weight, and, with a desperate
spring, clutched at the stunted bushes which had scratched his cheek
when for one moment, in the toss of the gale, he had touched the hard,
firm, stony ridge. Another moment, and Wilfred found himself, gasping
and breathless, on the higher ground. An uprooted tree came down with a
shock of thunder, shaking the earth beneath him, loosening the
water-washed stones, and crashing among the decaying branches of its
fellow pines.
At last the whirl of dust and stones subsided, and the barking of the
dog made itself heard once more above the roar of the gale. Trembling
at his hair-breadth escape, Wilfred cleared the dust from his eyes and
looked about him. A dark form was lying upon the shelving ground. He
could just distinguish the outstretched limbs and branching antlers of a
wild moose-deer.
Whoever the hunter might be he would seek his quarry. Wilfred felt
himself saved. The tears swam before his eyes. He was looking upward
in the intensity of his thankfulness. He did not see the arrow
quivering still in the dead deer's flank, or he would have known that it
could only have flown from some Indian bow.
He had nothing to do but to wait, to wait and shout. A warm touch on the
tip of his ear made him look round; the dog had returned to him. It,
too, had been struck--a similar arrow was sticking in the back of its
neck. It twisted its head round as far as it was possible, vainly
trying to reach it, and then looked at Wilfred with a mute, appealing
glance there was no mistaking. The boy sat up, laid one hand on the
dog's back, and grasped the arrow with the other. He tugged at it with
all his might; the point was deep in the flesh. But it came out at
last, followed by a gush of blood.
"Stand still, good dog. There, quiet, quiet!" cried Wilfred quickly, as
he tore a bit of fur off his cap and plugged the hole.
The poor wounded fellow seemed to understand all about it. He only
turned his head and licked the little bit of Wilfred's face that was
just visible under his overwhelming cap. A doggie's gratitude is never
wanting.
"Don't, you stupid," said Wilfred. "How am I to see what I am about if
you keep washing me between my eyes? There! just what I expected, it is
out again. Now, steady."
Another try, and the plug was in again, firmer than before.
"There, there! lie down, and let me hold it a bit," continued Wilfred,
carefully considering his shaggy acquaintance.
He was a big, handsome fellow, with clean, strong legs and a hairy coat,
which hung about his keen, bright eyes and almost concealed them. But
the fur was worn and chafed around his neck and across his back, leaving
no doubt in Wilfred's mind as to what he was.
"You have been driven in a sledge, old boy," he said, as he continued to
fondle him. "You've worn harness until it has torn your coat and made
it shabbier than mine. You are no hunter's dog, as I hoped. I expect
you have been overdriven, lashed along until you dropped down in the
traces; and then your hard-hearted driver undid your harness, and left
you to live or die. Oh! I know their cruel ways. How long have you
been wandering? It isn't in nature that I shouldn't feel for you, for I
am afraid, old fellow, I am in for such another 'do.'"
Wilfred was not talking to deaf ears. The dog lay down beside him, and
stretched its long paws across his knee, looking up in his face, as if a
word of kindness were something so new, so unimagined, so utterly
incomprehensible. Was it the first he had ever heard?
No sunset glory brightened the dreary scene. All around them was an
ever-deepening gloom. Wilfred renewed his shouts at intervals, and the
dog barked as if in answer. Then followed a long silent pause, when
Wilfred listened as if his whole soul were in his ears. Was there the
faintest echo of a sound? Who could distinguish in the teeth of the
gale, still tearing away the yellow leaves from the storm-tossed
branches, and scaring the wild fowl from marsh and lakelet? Who could
tell? And yet there was a shadow thrown across the white pine stem.
Another desperate shout. Wilfred's heart was in his mouth as he strove
to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. On came the stately
figure of a wild Cree chief. His bow was in his hand, but he was
glancing upwards at the stormy sky. His stealthy movements and his
light and noiseless tread had been unheard, even by the dog.
The Indian was wearing the usual dress of the Cree--a coat of skin with
a scarlet belt, and, as the night was cold, his raven elf-locks were
covered with a little cap his squaw had manufactured from a rat-skin.
His blue cloth leggings and beautiful embroidered moccasins were not so
conspicuous in the fading light. Wilfred could but notice the
fingerless deer-skin mittens covering the hand which grasped his bow.
His knife and axe were stuck in his belt, from which his well-filled
quiver hung.
Wilfred tumbled himself on to one knee, and holding out the arrow he had
extracted from the dog, he pointed to the dead game on the bank.
Wilfred was more truly afraid of the wild-looking creature before him
than he would have been of the living moose.
*CHAPTER IV.*
_*MAXICA, THE CREE INDIAN.*_
Wilfred thought his fears were only too well-founded when he saw the
Indian lay an arrow on his bow-string and point it towards him. He had
heard that Indians shoot high. Down he flung himself flat on his face,
exclaiming, "Spare me! spare me! I'm nothing but a boy."
The dog growled savagely beside him.
Despite the crash of the storm the Indian's quick ear had detected the
sound of a human voice, and his hand was stayed. He seemed groping
about him, as if to find the speaker.
"I am here," shouted Wilfred, "and there is the moose your arrow has
brought down."
The Indian pointed to his own swarthy face, saying with a grave dignity,
"The day has gone from me. I know it no longer. In the dim, dim
twilight which comes before the night I perceive the movement, but I no
longer see the game. Yet I shoot, for the blind man must eat."
Wilfred turned upon his side, immensely comforted to hear himself
answered in such intelligent English. He crawled a little nearer to the
wild red man, and surveyed him earnestly as he tried to explain the
disaster which had left him helpless in so desolate a spot. He knew he
was in the hunting-grounds of the Crees, one of the most friendly of the
Indian tribes. His being there gave no offence to the blind archer, for
the Indians hold the earth is free to all.
The chief was wholly intent upon securing the moose Wilfred had told him
his arrow had brought down.
"I have missed the running stream," he went on. "I felt the willow
leaves, but the bed by which they are growing is a grassy slope."
"How could you know it?" asked Wilfred, in astonishment.
The Indian picked up a stone and threw it over the bank. "Listen," he
said; "no splash, no gurgle, no water there." He stumbled against the
fallen deer, and stooping down, felt it all over with evident rejoicing.
He had been medicine man and interpreter for his tribe before the
blindness to which the Indians are so subject had overwhelmed him. It
arises from the long Canadian winter, the dazzling whiteness of the
frozen snow, over which they roam for three parts of the year, which
they only exchange for the choking smoke that usually fills their
chimneyless wig-wams.
The Cree was thinking now how best to secure his prize. He carefully
gathered together the dry branches the storm was breaking and tearing
away in every direction, and carefully covered it over. Then he took
his axe from his belt and cut a gash in the bark of the nearest tree to
mark the spot.
Wilfred sat watching every movement with a nervous excitement, which
helped to keep his blood from freezing and his heart from failing.
The dog was walking cautiously round and round whilst this work was
going forward.
The Cree turned to Wilfred.
"You are a boy of the Moka-manas?" (big knives, an Indian name for the
white men).
"Yes," answered Wilfred.
When the _cache_, as the Canadians call such a place as the Indian was
making, was finished, the darkness of night had fallen. Poor Wilfred
sat clapping his hands, rubbing his knees, and hugging the dog to keep
himself from freezing altogether. He could scarcely tell what his
companion was about, but he heard the breaking of sticks and a steady
sound of chopping and clearing. Suddenly a bright flame shot up in the
murky midnight, and Wilfred saw before him a well-built pyramid of logs
and branches, through which the fire was leaping and running until the
whole mass became one steady blaze. Around the glowing heap the Indian
had cleared away the thick carpet of pine brush and rubbish, banking it
up in a circle as a defence from the cutting wind.
He invited Wilfred to join him, as he seated himself in front of the
glowing fire, wrapped his bearskin round him, and lit his pipe.
The whole scene around them was changed as if by magic. The freezing
chill, the unutterable loneliness had vanished. The ruddy light of the
fire played and flickered among the shadowy trees, casting bright
reflections of distorted forms along the whitening ground, and lighting
up the cloudy sky with a radiance that must have been visible for miles.
Wilfred was not slow in making his way into the charmed circle. He got
over the ground like a worm, wriggling himself along until his feet were
over the bank, and down he dropped in front of the glorious fire. He
coiled himself round with a sense of exquisite enjoyment, stretching his
stiffened limbs and spreading his hands to the glowing warmth, and
altogether behaving in as senseless a fashion as the big doggie himself.
He had waited for no invitation, bounding up to Wilfred in extravagant
delight, and now lay rolling over and over before the fire, giving
sharp, short barks of delight at the unexpected pleasure.
It was bliss, it was ecstasy, it was paradise, that sudden change from
the bleak, dark, shivering night to the invigorating warmth and the
cheery glow.
The Cree sat back in dreamy silence, sending great whiffs of smoke from
the carved red-stone bowl of his long pipe, and watching the dog and the
boy at play. Their presence in noways detracted from his Indian comfort,
for the puppy and the pappoose are the Cree's delight by his wigwam
fire.
Hunger and thirst were almost forgotten, until Wilfred remembered his
potato, and began to busy himself with roasting it in the ashes. But
the dog, mistaking his purpose, and considering it a most inappropriate
gift to the fire, rolled it out again before it was half roasted, and
munched it up with great gusto.
"There's a shame! you bad old greedy boy," exclaimed Wilfred, when he
found out what the dog was eating. "Well," he philosophised, determined
to make the best of what could not now be helped, "I had a breakfast,
and you--why, you look as if you had had neither breakfast, dinner, nor
supper for many a long day. How have you existed?"
But this question was answered before the night was out. The potato was
hot, and the impatient dog burned his lips. After sundry shakings and
rubbings of his nose in the earth, the sagacious old fellow jumped up
the bank and ran off. When he returned, his tongue touched damp and
cool, and there were great drops of water hanging in his hair. Up
sprang the thirsty Wilfred to search for the spring. The Cree was
nodding; but the boy had no fear of losing himself, with that glorious
fire-shine shedding its radiance far and wide through the lonely night.
He called the dog to follow him, and groped along the edge of the
dried-up watercourse, sometimes on all fours, sometimes trying to take a
step. Painful as it was, he was satisfied his foot was none the worse
for a little movement. His effort was rewarded. He caught the echo of a
trickling sound from a corner of rock jutting out of the stunted bushes.
The dog, which seemed now to guess the object of his search, led him up
to a breakage in the lichen-covered stone, through which a bubbling
spring dashed its warm spray into their faces. Yes, it was warm; and
when Wilfred stooped to catch the longed-for water in his hands, it was
warm to his lips, with a strong disagreeable taste. No matter, it was
water; it was life. It was more than simple water; he had lighted on a
sulphur spring. Wilfred drank eagerly as he felt its tonic effects
fortifying him against the benumbing cold. For the wind seemed cutting
the skin from his face, and the snowflakes driving before the blast were
changing the dog from black to white.
Much elated with his discovery, Wilfred returned to the fire, where the
Cree still sat in statue-like repose.