Chapter IX.

Produced by Bruce Miller; Courtesy of Kevin McCarthy Director of Perrot

Memorial Library.

The Arctic Prairies

A Canoe-Journey

OF 2,000 MILES IN SEARCH OF THE CARIBOU

BEING THE ACCOUNT OF A VOYAGE TO THE REGION NORTH OF AYLMER LAKE

By Ernest Thompson Seton

Author of "Wild Animals I Have Known", "Life Histories", Etc.

DEDICATED

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

SIR WILFRID LAURIER, G. C. M. G.

PREMIER OF CANADA

PREFACE

What young man of our race would not gladly give a year of his life

to roll backward the scroll of time for five decades and live that

year in the romantic bygone-days of the Wild West; to see the great

Missouri while the Buffalo pastured on its banks, while big game

teemed in sight and the red man roamed and hunted, unchecked by

fence or hint of white man's rule; or, when that rule was represented

only by scattered trading-posts, hundreds of miles apart, and

at best the traders could exchange the news by horse or canoe and

months of lonely travel?

I for one, would have rejoiced in tenfold payment for the privilege

of this backward look in our age, and had reached the middle life

before I realised that, at a much less heavy cost, the miracle was

possible today.

For the uncivilised Indian still roams the far reaches of absolutely

unchanged, unbroken forest and prairie leagues, and has knowledge

of white men only in bartering furs at the scattered trading-posts,

where locomotive and telegraph are unknown; still the wild Buffalo

elude the hunters, fight the Wolves, wallow, wander, and breed;

and still there is hoofed game by the million to be found where the

Saxon is as seldom seen as on the Missouri in the times of Lewis

and Clarke. Only we must seek it all, not in the West, but in the

far North-west; and for "Missouri and Mississippi" read "Peace and

Mackenzie Rivers," those noble streams that northward roll their

mile-wide turbid floods a thousand leagues to the silent Arctic

Sea.

This was the thought which spurred me to a six months' journey

by canoe. And I found what I went in search of, but found, also,

abundant and better rewards that were not in mind, even as Saul,

the son of Kish, went seeking asses and found for himself a crown

and a great kingdom.

Four years have gone by since I lived through these experiences.

Such a lapse of time may have made my news grow stale, but it has

also given the opportunity for the working up of specimens and

scientific records. The results, for the most part, will be found

in the Appendices, and three of these, as indicated--namely, the

sections on Plants, Mammals, and Birds--are the joint work of my

assistant, Mr. Edward A. Preble, and myself.

My thanks are due here to the Right Honourable Lord Strathcona, G.

C. M. G., Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, for giving me access

to the records of the Company whenever I needed them for historical

purposes; to the Honourable Frank Oliver, Minister of the Interior,

Canada, for the necessary papers and permits to facilitate scientific

collection, and also to Clarence C. Chipman, Esq., of Winnipeg,

the Hudson's Bay Company's Commissioner, for practical help in

preparing my outfit, and for letters of introduction to the many

officers of the Company, whose kind help was so often a Godsend.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.

CHAPTER I

DEPARTURE FOR THE NORTH

In 1907 I set out to journey by canoe down the Athabaska and adjoining

waters to the sole remaining forest wilds--the far north-west of

Canada--and the yet more desert Arctic Plains, where still, it was

said, were to be seen the Caribou in their primitive condition.

My only companion was Edward A. Preble, of Washington, D. C., a

trained naturalist,--an expert canoeist and traveller, and a man

of three seasons' experience in the Hudson's Bay Territory and the

Mackenzie Valley. While my chief object was to see the Caribou,

and prove their continued abundance, I was prepared incidentally

to gather natural-history material of all kinds, and to complete

the shore line of the ambiguous lake called "Aylmer," as well as

explore its sister, the better-known Clinton-Colden.

I went for my own pleasure at my own expense, and yet I could not

persuade my Hudson's Bay Company friends that I was not sent by

some government, museum or society for some secret purpose.

On the night of May 5 we left Winnipeg, and our observations began

with the day at Brandon.

From that point westward to Regina we saw abundant evidence that

last year had been a "rabbit year," that is, a year in which the

ever-fluctuating population of Northern Hares (Snowshoe-rabbits

or White-rabbits) had reached its maximum, for nine-tenths of the

bushes in sight from the train had been barked at the snow level.

But the fact that we saw not one Rabbit shows that "the plague" had

appeared, had run its usual drastic course, and nearly exterminated

the species in this particular region.

Early next morning at Kininvie (40 miles west of Medicine Hat,

Alberta) we saw a band of 4 Antelope south of the track; later

we saw others all along as far as Gleichen. All were south of the

track. The bands contained as follows: 4, 14, 18, 8, 12, 8, 4, 1,

4, 5, 4, 6, 4, 18, 2, 6, 34, 6, 3, 1, 10, 25, 16, 3, 7, 9 (almost

never 2, probably because this species does not pair), or 232

Antelope in 26 bands along 70 miles of track; but all were on the

south side; not one was noted on the north.

The case is simple. During the past winter, while the Antelope were

gone southward, the Canadian Pacific Railway Company had fenced its

track. In spring the migrants, returning, found themselves cut off

from their summer feeding-grounds by those impassable barb-wires, and

so were gathered against the barrier. One band of 8, at a stopping

place, ran off when they saw passengers alighting, but at half a

mile they turned, and again came up against the fence, showing how

strong is the northward impulse.

Unless they learn some way of mastering the difficulty, it means

extermination for the Antelope of the north Saskatchewan.

From Calgary we went by train to Edmonton. This is the point

of leaving the railway, the beginning of hard travel, and here we

waited a few days to gather together our various shipments of food

and equipment, and to await notice that the river was open.

In the north the grand event of the year is the opening of the

rivers. The day when the ice goes out is the official first day

of spring, the beginning of the season; and is eagerly looked for,

as every day's delay means serious loss to the traders, whose men

are idle, but drawing pay as though at work.

On May 11, having learned that the Athabaska was open, we left

Edmonton in a livery rig, and drove 94 miles northward though a most

promising, half-settled country, and late the next day arrived at

Athabaska Landing, on the great east tributary of the Mackenzie,

whose waters were to bear us onward for so many weeks.

Athabaska Landing is a typical frontier town. These are hard words,

but justified. We put up at the principal hotel; the other lodgers

told me it was considered the worst hotel in the world. I thought

I knew of two worse, but next morning accepted the prevailing view.

Our canoe and provisions arrived, but the great convoy of scows

that were to take the annual supplies of trade stuff for the far

north was not ready, and we needed the help and guidance of its

men, so must needs wait for four days.

This gave us the opportunity to study the local natural history

and do a little collecting, the results of which appear later.

The great size of the timber here impressed me. I measured a typical

black poplar (P. balsamifera), 100 feet to the top, 8 feet 2 inches

in circumference, at 18 inches from the ground, and I saw many

thicker, but none taller.

At the hotel, also awaiting the scows, was a body of four

(dis-)Mounted Police, bound like ourselves for the far north. The

officer in charge turned out to be an old friend from Toronto, Major

A. M. Jarvis. I also met John Schott, the gigantic half-breed, who

went to the Barren Grounds with Caspar Whitney in 1895. He seemed

to have great respect for Whitney as a tramper, and talked much of

the trip, evidently having forgotten his own shortcomings of the

time. While I sketched his portrait, he regaled me with memories

of his early days on Red River, where he was born in 1841. 1 did

not fail to make what notes I could of those now historic times.

His accounts of the Antelope on White Horse Plain, in 1855, and

Buffalo about the site of Carberry, Manitoba, in 1852, were new

and valuable light on the ancient ranges of these passing creatures.

All travellers who had preceded me into the Barren Grounds had

relied on the abundant game, and in consequence suffered dreadful

hardships; in some cases even starved to death. I proposed to rely

on no game, but to take plenty of groceries, the best I could buy

in Winnipeg, which means the best in the world; and, as will be

seen later, the game, because I was not relying on it, walked into

camp every day.

But one canoe could not carry all these provisions, so most of it

I shipped on the Hudson's Bay Company scows, taking with us, in

the canoe, food for not more than a week, which with camp outfit

was just enough for ballast.

Of course I was in close touch with the Hudson's Bay people. Although

nominally that great trading company parted with its autocratic

power and exclusive franchise in 1870, it is still the sovereign

of the north. And here let me correct an error that is sometimes

found even in respectable print--the Company has at all times been

ready to assist scientists to the utmost of its very ample power.

Although jealous of its trading rights, every one is free to enter

the territory without taking count of the Company, but there has

not yet been a successful scientific expedition into the region

without its active co-operation.

The Hudson's Bay Company has always been the guardian angel of the

north.

I suppose that there never yet was another purely commercial concern

that so fully realized the moral obligations of its great power,

or that has so uniformly done its best for the people it ruled.

At all times it has stood for peace, and one hears over and over

again that such and such tribes were deadly enemies, but the Company

insisted on their smoking the peace pipe. The Sioux and Ojibway,

Black-Foot and Assiniboine., Dog-Rib and Copper-Knife, Beaver and

Chipewyan, all offer historic illustrations in point, and many

others could be found for the list.

The name Peace River itself is the monument of a successful effort

on the part of the Company to bring about a better understanding

between the Crees and the Beavers.

Besides human foes, the Company has saved the Indian from famine and

plague. Many a hunger-stricken tribe owes its continued existence

to the fatherly care of the Company, not simply general and

indiscriminate, but minute and personal, carried into the details

of their lives. For instance, when bots so pestered the Caribou of

one region as to render their hides useless to the natives, the

Company brought in hides from a district where they still were

good.

The Chipewyans were each spring the victims of snow-blindness until

the Company brought and succeeded in popularizing their present

ugly but effectual and universal peaked hats. When their train-dogs

were running down in physique, the Company brought in a strain of

pure Huskies or Eskimo. When the Albany River Indians were starving

and unable to hunt, the Company gave the order for 5,000 lodge poles.

Then, not knowing how else to turn them to account, commissioned

the Indians to work them into a picket garden-fence. At all times

the native found a father in the Company, and it was the worst thing

that ever happened the region when the irresponsible free-traders

with their demoralizing methods were allowed to enter and traffic

where or how they pleased.

CHAPTER II

DOWN THE NOISY RIVER WITH THE VOYAGEURS

At Athabaska Landing, on May 18, 1907, 10.15 A. M., we boarded the

superb Peterborough canoe that I had christened the Ann Seton. The

Athabaska River was a-flood and clear of ice; 13 scows of freight,

with 60 half-breeds and Indians to man them, left at the same time,

and in spite of a strong headwind we drifted northward fully 31

miles an hour.

The leading scow, where I spent some time, was in charge of John

MacDonald himself, and his passengers comprised the Hudson's Bay

Company officials, going to their posts or on tours of inspection.

They were a jolly crowd, like a lot of rollicking schoolboys,

full of fun and good-humour, chaffing and joking all day; but when

a question of business came up, the serious businessman appeared

in each, and the Company's interest was cared for with their best

powers. The bottle was not entirely absent in these scow fraternities,

but I saw no one the worse for liquor on the trip.

The men of mixed blood jabbered in French, Cree, and Chipewyan

chiefly, but when they wanted to swear, they felt the inadequacy

of these mellifluous or lisping tongues, and fell back on virile

Saxon, whose tang, projectivity, and wealth of vile epithet

evidently supplied a long-felt want in the Great Lone Land of the

Dog and Canoe.

In the afternoon Preble and I pushed on in our boat, far in advance

of the brigade. As we made early supper I received for the twentieth

time a lesson in photography. A cock Partridge or Ruffed Grouse

came and drummed on a log in open view, full sunlight, fifty feet

away. I went quietly to the place. He walked off, but little alarmed.

I set the camera eight feet from the log, with twenty-five feet of

tubing, and retired to a good hiding-place. But alas! I put the

tube on the left-hand pump, not knowing that that was a dummy.

The Grouse came back in three minutes, drumming in a superb pose

squarely in front of the camera. I used the pump, but saw that it

failed to operate; on going forward the Grouse skimmed away and

returned no more. Preble said, "Never mind; there will be another

every hundred yards all the way down the river, later on." I could

only reply, "The chance never comes but once," and so it proved.

We heard Grouse drumming many times afterward, but the sun was low,

or the places densely shaded, or the mosquitoes made conditions

impossible for silent watching; the perfect chance came but once,

as it always does, and I lost it.

About twenty miles below the Landing we found the abandoned winter

hut of a trapper; on the roof were the dried up bodies of 1 Skunk,

2 Foxes, and 30 Lynxes, besides the bones of 2 Moose, showing the

nature of the wild life about.

That night, as the river was brimming and safe, we tied up to the

scows and drifted, making 30 more miles, or 60 since embarking.

In the early morning, I was much struck by the lifelessness of the

scene. The great river stretched away northward, the hills rose

abruptly from the water's edge, everywhere extended the superb

spruce forest, here fortunately unburnt; but there seemed no sign of

living creature outside of our own numerous, noisy, and picturesque

party. River, hills, and woods were calm and silent. It was

impressive, if disappointing; and, when at last the fir stillness

was broken by a succession of trumpet notes from the Great Pileated

Woodpecker, the sound went rolling on and on, in reverberating

echoes that might well have alarmed the bird himself.

The white spruce forest along the banks is most inspiring, magnificent

here. Down the terraced slopes and right to the water's edge on the

alluvial soil it stands in ranks. Each year, of course, the floods

undercut the banks, and more trees fall, to become at last the

flotsam of the shore a thousand miles away.

There is something sad about these stately trees, densely packed,

all a-row, unflinching, hopelessly awaiting the onset of the

inexorable, invincible river. One group, somewhat isolated and

formal, was a forest life parallel to Lady Butler's famous "Roll

Call of the Grenadiers."

At night we reached the Indian village of Pelican Portage, and

landed by climbing over huge blocks of ice that were piled along

the shore. The adult male inhabitants came down to our camp, so

that the village was deserted, except for the children and a few

women.

As I walked down the crooked trail along which straggle the cabins,

I saw something white in a tree at the far end. Supposing it to be

a White-rabbit in a snare, I went near and found, to my surprise,

first that it was a dead house-cat, a rare species here; second,

under it, eyeing it and me alternately, was a hungry-looking Lynx.

I had a camera, for it was near sundown, and in the woods, so I

went back to the boat and returned with a gun. There was the Lynx

still prowling, but now farther from the village. I do not believe

he would have harmed the children, but a Lynx is game. I fired,

and he fell without a quiver or a sound. This was the first time

I had used a gun in many years, and was the only time on the trip.

I felt rather guilty, but the carcass was a godsend to two old

Indians who were sickening on a long diet of salt pork, and that

Lynx furnished them tender meat for three days afterward; while

its skin and skull went to the American Museum.

On the night of May 20, we camped just above Grand Rapids--Preble

and I alone, for the first time, under canvas, and glad indeed

to get away from the noisy rabble of the boatmen, though now they

were but a quarter mile off. At first I had found them amusing

and picturesque, but their many unpleasant habits, their distinct

aversion to strangers, their greediness to get all they could out

of one, and do nothing in return, combined finally with their habit

of gambling all night to the loud beating of a tin pan, made me

thankful to quit their company for a time.

At Grand Rapids the scows were unloaded, the goods shipped over

a quarter-mile hand tramway, on an island, the scows taken down a

side channel, one by one, and reloaded. This meant a delay of three

or four days, during which we camped on the island and gathered

specimens.

Being the organizer, equipper, geographer, artist, head, and tail of

the expedition, I was, perforce, also its doctor. Equipped with a

"pill-kit," an abundance of blisters and bandages and some "potent

purgatives," I had prepared myself to render first and last aid to

the hurt in my own party. In taking instructions from our family

physician, I had learned the value of a profound air of great

gravity, a noble reticence, and a total absence of doubt, when I

did speak. I compressed his creed into a single phrase: "In case of

doubt, look wise and work on his 'bowels.'" This simple equipment

soon gave me a surprisingly high standing among the men. I was

a medicine man of repute, and soon had a larger practice than I

desired, as it was entirely gratuitous.

The various boatmen, Indians and half-breeds, came with their

troubles, and, thanks chiefly to their faith, were cured. But one

day John MacDonald, the chief pilot and a mighty man on the river,

came to my tent on Grand Island. John complained that he couldn't

hold anything on his stomach; he was a total peristaltic wreck indeed

(my words; his were more simple and more vivid, but less sonorous

and professional). He said he had been going down hill for two

weeks, and was so bad now that he was "no better than a couple of

ordinary men."

"Exactly so," I said. "Now you take these pills and you'll be all

right in the morning." Next morning John was back, and complained

that my pills had no effect; he wanted to feel something take hold

of him. Hadn't 1 any pepper-juice or brandy?

I do not take liquor on an expedition, but at the last moment

a Winnipeg friend had given me a pint flask of pure brandy--"for

emergencies." An emergency had come.

"John! you shall have some extra fine brandy, nicely thinned with

pepper-juice." I poured half an inch of brandy into a tin cup, then

added half an inch of "pain-killer."

"Here, take this, and if you don't feel it, it means your insides

are dead, and you may as well order your coffin."

John took it at a gulp. His insides were not dead; but I might have

been, had I been one of his boatmen.

He doubled up, rolled around, and danced for five minutes. He did

not squeal--John never squeals--but he suffered some, and an hour

later announced that he was about cured.

Next day he came to say he was all right, and would soon again be

as good as half a dozen men.

At this same camp in Grand Rapids another cure on a much larger

scale was added to my list. An Indian had "the bones of his foot

broken," crushed by a heavy weight, and was badly crippled. He

came leaning on a friend's shoulder. His foot was blackened and much

swollen, but I soon satisfied myself that no bones were broken,

because he could wriggle all the toes and move the foot in any

direction.

"You'll be better in three days and all right in a week," I said,

with calm assurance. Then I began with massage. It seemed necessary

in the Indian environment to hum some tune, and I found that the

"Koochy-Koochy" lent itself best to the motion, so it became my

medicine song.

With many "Koochy-Koochy"-ings and much ice-cold water he was

nearly cured in three days, and sound again in a week. But in the

north folk have a habit (not known elsewhere) of improving the

incident. Very soon it was known all along the river that the Indian's

leg was broken, and I had set and healed it in three days. In a

year or two, I doubt not, it will be his neck that was broken, not

once, but in several places.

Grand Island yielded a great many Deermice of the arctic form, a

few Red-backed Voles, and any number of small birds migrant.

As we floated down the river the eye was continually held by tall

and prominent spruce trees that had been cut into peculiar forms

as below. These were known as "lob-sticks," or "lop-sticks," and

are usually the monuments of some distinguished visitor in the

country or records of some heroic achievement. Thus, one would be

pointed out as Commissioner Wrigley's lob-stick, another as John

MacDonald's the time he saved the scow.

The inauguration of a lob-stick is quite a ceremony. Some person

in camp has impressed all with his importance or other claim to

notice. The men, having talked it over, announce that they have

decided on giving him a lob-stick. "Will he make choice of some

prominent tree in view?" The visitor usually selects one back from

the water's edge, often on some far hilltop, the more prominent the

better; then an active young fellow is sent up with an axe to trim

the tree. The more embellishment the higher the honor. On the trunk

they then inscribe the name of the stranger, and he is supposed

to give each of the men a plug of tobacco and a drink of whiskey.

Thus they celebrate the man and his monument, and ever afterwards

it is pointed out as "So-and-so's lob-stick."

It was two months before my men judged that I was entitled to a

lob-stick. We were then on Great Slave Lake where the timber was

small, but the best they could get on a small island was chosen

and trimmed into a monument. They were disappointed however, to

find that I would by no means give whiskey to natives, and my treat

had to take a wholly different form.

Grand Rapids, with its multiplicity of perfectly round pot-hole

boulders, was passed in four days, and then, again in company with

the boats, we entered the real canyon of the river.

Down Athabaska's boiling flood

Of seething, leaping, coiling mud.

CHAPTER III

HUMAN NATURE ON THE RIVER

Sunday morning, 26th of May, there was something like a strike

among the sixty half-breeds and Indians that composed the crews.

They were strict Sabbatarians (when it suited them); they believed

that they should do no work, but give up the day to gambling and

drinking. Old John, the chief pilot, wished to take advantage of the

fine flood on the changing river, and drift down at least to the

head of the Boiler Rapids, twenty miles away, The breeds maintained,

with many white swear words, for lack of strong talk in Indian, that

they never yet knew Sunday work to end in anything but disaster,

and they sullenly scattered among the trees, produced their cards,

and proceeded to gamble away their property, next year's pay,

clothes, families, anything, and otherwise show their respect for

the Lord's Day and defiance of old John MacDonald. John made no

reply to their arguments; he merely boarded the cook's boat, and

pushed off into the swift stream with the cooks and all the grub.

In five minutes the strikers were on the twelve big boats doing

their best to live up to orders. John said nothing, and grinned at

me only with his eyes.

The breeds took their defeat in good part after the first minute,

and their commander rose higher in their respect.

At noon we camped above the Boiler Rapids. In the evening I climbed

the 400- or 500-foot hill behind camp and sketched the canyon

looking northward. The spring birds were now beginning to arrive,

but were said to be a month late this year. The ground was everywhere

marked with moose sign; prospects, were brightening.

The mania for killing that is seen in many white men is evidently

a relic of savagery, for all of these Indians and half-breeds

are full of it. Each carries a rifle, and every living thing that

appears on the banks or on the water is fusilladed with Winchesters

until it is dead or out of sight. This explains why we see so

little from the scows. One should be at least a day ahead of them

to meet with wild life on the river.

This morning two Bears appeared on the high bank--and there was the

usual uproar and fusillading; so far as could be learned without

any effect, except the expenditure of thirty or forty cartridges

at five cents each.

On the 27th we came to the Cascade Rapids. The first or Little

Cascade has about two feet fall, the second or Grand Cascade, a

mile farther, is about a six foot sheer drop. These are considered

very difficult to run, and the manner of doing it changes with

every change in season or water level.

We therefore went through an important ceremony, always carried

out in the same way. All 13 boats were beached, the 13 pilots went

ahead on the bank to study the problem, they decided on the one

safe place and manner, then returned, and each of the 13 boats was

run over in 13 different places and manners. They always do this.

You are supposed to have run the Cascades successfully if you cross

them alive, but to have failed if you drown.. In this case all were

successful.

Below the Cascades I had a sample of Indian gratitude that set me

thinking. My success with John MacDonald and others had added the

whole community to my medical practice, for those who were not

sick thought they were. I cheerfully did my best for all, and was

supposed to be persona grata. Just below the Cascade Rapids was

a famous sucker pool, and after we had camped three Indians came,

saying that the pool was full of suckers--would I lend them my

canoe to get some?

Away they went, and from afar I was horrified to see them clubbing

the fish with my beautiful thin-bladed maple paddles. They returned

with a boat load of 3- and 4-pound Suckers (Catostomus) and 2

paddles broken. Each of their friends came and received one or two

fine fish, for there were plenty. I, presumably part owner of the

catch, since I owned the boat, selected one small one for myself,

whereupon the Indian insolently demanded 25 cents for it; and

these were the men I had been freely doctoring for two weeks! Not

to speak of the loaned canoe and broken paddles! Then did I say a

few things to all and sundry--stinging, biting things, ungainsayable

and forcible things--and took possession of all the fish that were

left, so the Indians slunk off in sullen silence.

Gratitude seems an unknown feeling among these folk; you may give

presents and help and feed them all you like, the moment you want

a slight favour of them they demand the uttermost cent. In attempting

to analyse this I was confronted by the fact that among themselves

they are kind and hospitable, and at length discovered that their

attitude toward us is founded on the ideas that all white men are

very rich, that the Indian has made them so by allowing them to

come into this country, that the Indian is very poor because he

never was properly compensated, and that therefore all he can get

out of said white man is much less than the white man owes him.

As we rounded a point one day a Lynx appeared statuesque on a stranded

cake of ice, a hundred yards off, and gazed at the approaching

boats. True to their religion, the half-breeds seized their rifles,

the bullets whistled harmlessly about the "Peeshoo"--whereupon he

turned and walked calmly up the slope, stopping to look at each

fresh volley, but finally waved his stumpy tail and walked unharmed

over the ridge. Distance fifty yards.

On May 28 we reached Fort MacMurray.

Here I saw several interesting persons: Miss Christine Gordon, the

postmaster; Joe Bird, a half-breed with all the advanced ideas of

a progressive white man; and an American ex-patriot, G------, a

tall, raw-boned Yank from Illinois. He was a typical American of

the kind, that knows little of America and nothing of Europe; but

shrewd and successful in spite of these limitations. In appearance

he was not unlike Abraham Lincoln. He was a rabid American, and

why he stayed here was a question.

He had had no detailed tidings from home for years, and I never saw

a man more keen for the news. On the banks of the river we sat for

an hour while he plied me with questions, which I answered so far

as I could. He hung on my lips; he interrupted only when there seemed

a halt in the stream; he revelled in, all the details of wrecks

by rail and sea. Roosevelt and the trusts--insurance scandals--the

South the burnings in the West--massacres--murders--horrors--risings--these

were his special gloats, and yet he kept me going with "Yes--yes--and

then?" or "Yes, by golly--that's the way we're a-doing it. Go on."

Then, after I had robbed New York of $100,000,000 a year, burnt 10

large towns and 45 small ones, wrecked 200 express trains, lynched

96 negroes in the South and murdered many men every night for 7

years in Chicago--he broke out:

"By golly, we are a-doing it. We are the people. We are a-moving

things now; and I tell you I give the worst of them there European

countries, the very worst of 'em, just 100 years to become

Americanised."

Think of that, ye polished Frenchmen; ye refined, courteous Swedes;

ye civilised Danes; you have 100 years to become truly Americanised!

All down the river route we came on relics of another class of

wanderers--the Klondikers of 1898. Sometimes these were empty winter

cabins; sometimes curious tools left at Hudson's Bay Posts, and in

some cases expensive provisions; in all cases we heard weird tales

of their madness.

There is, I am told, a shanty on the Mackenzie above Simpson, where

four of them made a strange record. Cooped up for months in tight

winter quarters, they soon quarrelled, and at length their partnership

was dissolved. Each took the articles he had contributed, and those

of common purchase they divided in four equal parts. The stove, the

canoe, the lamp, the spade, were broken relentlessly and savagely

into four parts--four piles of useless rubbish. The shanty was

divided in four. One man had some candles of his own bringing.

These he kept and carefully screened off his corner of the room so

no chance rays might reach the others to comfort them; they spent

the winter in darkness. None spoke to the other, and they parted,

singly and silently, hatefully as ever, as soon as the springtime

opened the way.

CHAPTER IV

DOWN THE SILENT RIVER WITH THE MOUNTED POLICE

At Fort MacMurray we learned that there was no telling when the

steamer might arrive; Major Jarvis was under orders to proceed

without delay to Smith Landing; so to solve all our difficulties

I bought a 30-foot boat (sturgeon-head) of Joe Bird, and arranged

to join forces with the police for the next part of the journey.

I had made several unsuccessful attempts to get an experienced native

boatman to go northward with me. All seemed to fear the intending

plunge into the unknown; so was agreeably surprised when a sturdy

young fellow of Scottish and Cree parentage came and volunteered

for the trip. A few inquiries proved him to bear a good reputation

as a river-man and worker, so William C. Loutit was added to my

expedition and served me faithfully throughout.

In time I learned that Billy was a famous traveller. Some years

ago, when the flood had severed all communication between Athabaska

Landing and Edmonton, Billy volunteered to carry some important

despatches, and covered the 96 miles on foot in one and a half days,

although much of the road was under water. On another occasion he

went alone and afoot from House River up the Athabaska to Calling

River, and across the Point to the Athabaska again, then up to the

Landing-150 rough miles in four days. These exploits I had to find

out for myself later on, but much more important to me at the time

was the fact that he was a first-class cook, a steady, cheerful

worker, and a capable guide as far as Great Slave Lake.

The Athabaska below Fort MacMurray is a noble stream, one-third

of a mile wide, deep, steady, unmarred; the banks are covered with

unbroken virginal forests of tall white poplar, balsam poplar,

spruce, and birch. The fire has done no damage here as yet, the

axe has left no trace, there are no houses, no sign of man except

occasional teepee poles. I could fancy myself floating down the

Ohio two hundred years ago.

These were bright days to be remembered, as we drifted down

its placid tide in our ample and comfortable boat, with abundance

of good things. Calm, lovely, spring weather; ducks all along the

river; plenty of food, which is the northerner's idea of bliss;

plenty of water, which is the river-man's notion of joy; plenty

of leisure, which is an element in most men's heaven, for we had

merely to float with the stream, three miles an hour, except when

we landed to eat or sleep.

The woods were donning their vernal green and resounded with the

calls of birds now. The mosquito plague of the region had not yet

appeared, and there was little lacking to crown with a halo the

memory of those days on the Missouri of the North.

Native quadrupeds seemed scarce, and we were all agog when one of

the men saw a black fox trotting along the opposite bank. However,

it turned out to be one of the many stray dogs of the country. He

followed us a mile or more, stopping at times to leap at fish that

showed near the shore. When we landed for lunch he swam the broad

stream and hung about at a distance. As this was twenty miles from

any settlement, he was doubtless hungry, so I left a bountiful

lunch for him, and when we moved away, he claimed his own.

At Fort McKay I saw a little half-breed boy shooting with a bow

and displaying extraordinary marksmanship. At sixty feet he could

hit the bottom of a tomato tin nearly every time; and even more

surprising was the fact that he held the arrow with what is known

as the Mediterranean hold. When, months later, I again stopped at

this place, I saw another boy doing the very same. Some residents

assured me that this was the style of all the Chipewyans as well

as the Crees.

That night we camped far down the river and on the side opposite

the Fort, for experience soon teaches one to give the dogs no

chance of entering camp on marauding expeditions while you rest.

About ten, as I was going to sleep, Preble put his head in and

said: "Come out here if you want a new sensation."

In a moment I was standing with him under the tall spruce trees,

looking over the river to the dark forest, a quarter mile away,

and listening intently to a new and wonderful sound. Like the

slow tolling of a soft but high-pitched bell, it came. Ting, ting,

ting, ting, and on, rising and falling with the breeze, but still

keeping on about two "tings" to the second; and on, dulling as

with distance, but rising again and again.

It was unlike anything I had ever heard, but Preble knew it of old.

"That", says he, "is the love-song of the Richardson Owl. She is

sitting demurely in some spruce top while he sails around, singing

on the wing, and when the sound seems distant, he is on the far

side of the tree."

Ting, ting, ting, ting, it went on and on, this soft belling

of his love, this amorous music of our northern bell-bird. .

Ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, ting, TING,

ting--oh, how could any lady owl resist such strains?--and on, with

its ting, ting, ting, TING, ting, ting, ting, TING, the whole night

air was vibrant. Then, as though by plan, a different note--the

deep booming "Oho-oh-who-oh who hoo" of the Great Homed Owl--was

heard singing a most appropriate bass.

But the little Owl went on and on; 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 20 minutes

at last had elapsed before I turned in again and left him. More

than once that night I awoke to hear his "tinging" serenade upon

the consecrated air of the piney woods.

Yet Preble said this one was an indifferent performer. On the

Mackenzie he had heard far better singers of the kind; some that

introduce many variations of the pitch and modulation. I thought

it one of the most charming bird voices I had ever listened to--and

felt that this was one of the things that make the journey worth

while.

On June 1 the weather was so blustering and wet that we did not

break camp. I put in the day examining the superb timber of this

bottom-land. White spruce is the prevailing conifer and is here

seen in perfection. A representative specimen was 118 feet high, 11

feet 2 inches in circumference, or 3 feet 6 1/2 inches in diameter

1 foot from the ground, i.e., above any root spread. There was

plenty of timber of similar height. Black spruce, a smaller kind,

and tamarack are found farther up and back in the bog country.

jackpine of fair size abounds on the sandy and gravelly parts.

Balsam poplar is the largest deciduous tree; its superb legions

in upright ranks are crowded along all the river banks and on the

islands not occupied by the spruce. The large trees of this kind

often have deep holes; these are the nesting sites of the Whistler

Duck, which is found in numbers here and as far north as this tree,

but not farther. White poplar is plentiful also; the hillsides are

beautifully clad with its purplish masses of twigs, through which

its white stem gleam like marble columns. White birch is common

and large enough for canoes. Two or three species of willow in

impenetrable thickets make up the rest of the forest stretches.

At this camp I had the unique experience of showing all these seasoned

Westerners that it was possible to make a fire by the friction of

two sticks. This has long been a specialty of mine; I use a thong

and a bow as the simplest way. Ordinarily I prefer balsam-fir or

tamarack; in this case I used a balsam block and a spruce drill,

and, although each kind failed when used with drill and block the

same, I got the fire in half a minute.

On June 3 we left this camp of tall timber. As we floated down we

sighted a Lynx on the bank looking contemplatively into the flood. One

of the police boys seized a gun and with a charge of No. 6 killed

the Lynx. Poor thing, it was in a starving condition, as indeed

are most meat-eaters this year in the north. Though it was fully

grown, it weighed but 15 pounds.

In its stomach was part of a sparrow (white-throat?) and a piece

of rawhide an inch wide and 4 feet long, evidently a portion of a

dog-harness picked up somewhere along the river. I wonder what he

did with the bells.

That night we decided to drift, leaving one man on guard. Next day,

as we neared Lake Athabaska, the shores got lower, and the spruce

disappeared, giving way to dense thickets of low willow. Here

the long expected steamer, Graham, passed, going upstream. We now

began to get occasional glimpses of Lake Athabaska across uncertain

marshes and sand bars. It was very necessary to make Fort Chipewyan

while there was a calm, so we pushed on. After four hours' groping

among blind channels and mud banks, we reached the lake at

midnight--though of course there was no night, but a sort of gloaming

even at the darkest--and it took us four hours' hard rowing to

cover the ten miles that separated us from Chipewyan.

It sounds very easy and commonplace when one says "hard rowing,"

but it takes on more significance when one is reminded that those

oars were 18 feet long, 5 inches through, and weighed about 20 pounds

each; the boat was 30 feet long, a demasted schooner indeed, and

rowing her through shallow muddy water, where the ground suction

was excessive, made labour so heavy that 15 minute spells were all

any one could do. We formed four relays, and all worked in turn

all night through, arriving at Chipewyan. 4 A.M., blistered, sore,

and completely tired out.

Fort Chipewyan (pronounced Chip-we-yan') was Billy Loutit's home,

and here we met his father, mother, and numerous as well as interesting

sisters. Meanwhile I called at the Roman Catholic Mission, under

Bishop Gruard, and the rival establishment, under Reverend Roberts,

good men all, and devoted to the cause, but loving not each other.

The Hudson's Bay Company, however, was here, as everywhere in the

north, the really important thing.

There was a long stretch of dead water before we could resume our

downward drift, and, worse than that, there was such a flood on the

Peace River that it was backing the Athabaska, that is, the tide

of the latter was reversed on the Rocher River, which extends

twenty-five miles between here and Peace mouth. To meet this, I

hired Colin Fraser's steamer. We left Chipewyan at 6.15; at 11.15

camped below the Peace on Great Slave River, and bade farewell to

the steamer.

The reader may well be puzzled by these numerous names; the fact

is the Mackenzie, the Slave, the Peace, the Rocher, and the Unchaga

are all one and the same river, but, unfortunately, the early

explorers thought proper to give it a new name each time it did

something, such as expand into a lake. By rights it should be the

Unchaga or Unjiza, from the Rockies to the Arctic, with the Athabaska

as its principal southern tributary.

The next day another Lynx was collected. In its stomach were

remains of a Redsquirrel, a Chipmunk, and a Bog-lemming. The last

was important as it made a new record.

The Athabaska is a great river, the Peace is a greater, and the

Slave, formed by their union, is worthy of its parents. Its placid

flood is here nearly a mile wide, and its banks are covered with

a great continuous forest of spruce trees of the largest size. How

far back this extends I do not know, but the natives say the best

timber is along the river.

More than once a Lynx was seen trotting by or staring at us from

the bank, but no other large animal.

On the night of June 7 we reached Smith Landing.

CHAPTER V

A CONFERENCE WITH THE CHIEFS

A few bands of Buffalo are said to exist in the country east of

Great Slave River. Among other matters, Major Jarvis had to report

on these, find out how many were left, and exactly where they were.

When he invited me to join his expedition, with these questions in

view, I needed no pressing.

Our first business was to get guides, and now our troubles began.

Through the traders we found four natives who knew the Buffalo

range--they were Kiya, Sousi, Kirma, and Peter Squirrel. However,

they seemed in no way desirous of guiding any one into that

country. They dodged and delayed and secured many postponements,

but the Royal Mounted Police and the Hudson's Bay Company are the

two mighty powers of the land, so, urged by an officer of each,

these worthies sullenly assembled to meet us in Sousi's cabin.

Sousi, by the way, is Chipewyan for Joseph, and this man's name

was Joseph Beaulieu. Other northern travellers have warned all that

came after them to beware of the tribe of Beaulieu, so we were on

guard.

Sullen silence greeted us as we entered; we could feel their

covert antagonism. Jarvis is one of those affable, good-tempered

individuals that most persons take for "easy." In some ways he may

be so, but I soon realised that he was a keen judge of men and their

ways, and he whispered to me: "They mean to block us if possible."

Sousi understood French and had some English, but the others professed

ignorance of everything but Chipewyan. So it was necessary to call

in an interpreter. How admirably he served us may be judged from

the following sample secured later.

Q. Are the Buffalo near?

A. Wah-hay-was-ki busquow Kai-ah taw nip-ee-wat-chow-es-kee

nee-moy-ah. Kee-as-o-win sugee-meesh i-mush-wa mus-tat-e-muck

ne-mow-ah pe-muk-te-ok nemoy-ah dane-tay-tay-ah.

Interpreter. He say "no."

Q. How long would it take to get them?

A. Ne-moy-ah mis-chay-to-ok Way-hay-o ay-ow-ok-iman-kah-mus-to-ok.

Mis-ta-hay cha-gowos-ki wah-hay-o musk-ee-see-seepi. Mas-kootch

e-goot-ah-i-ow mas-kootch ne-moy-ah muk-eboy sak-te-muk mas-kootch

gahk-sin-now ne-moy-ah gehk-kee-win-tay dam-foole-Inglis.

Interpreter. He say "don't know."

Q. Can you go with us as guide?

A. Kee-ya-wah-lee nas-bah a-lash-tay wah-lee-lee lan-day. (Answer

literally) "Yes, I could go if I could leave the transport."

Interpreter's answer, "Mebby."

After a couple of hours of this bootless sort of thing we had

made no headway toward getting a guide, nor could we get definite

information about the Buffaloes or the Wolves. Finally the meeting

suffered a sort of natural disintegration.

Next day we tried again, but again there were technical difficulties,

grown up like mushrooms over night.

Kiya could not go or lend his horses, because it was mostly

Squirrel's country, and he was afraid Squirrel would not like it.

Squirrel could not go because it would be indelicate of him to

butt in after negotiations had been opened with Kiya. Kirma was not

well. Sousi could not go because his wife was sick, and it preyed

on his mind so that he dare not trust himself away from the

settlement; at least, not without much medicine to fortify him

against rheumatism, home-sickness, and sadness.

Next day Kiya sent word that he had business of great moment, and

could not meet us, but would see that early in the morning Squirrel

was notified to come and do whatever we wished. In the morning Squirrel

also had disappeared, leaving word that he had quite overlooked a

most important engagement to "portage some flour across the rapids,"

not that he loved the tump line, but he had "promised," and to keep

his word was very precious to him.

Jarvis and I talked it over and reviewed the information we had.

At Ottawa it was reported that the Wolves were killing the calves,

so the Buffalo did not increase. At Winnipeg the Wolves were so

bad that they killed yearlings; at Edmonton the cows were not safe.

At Chipewyan the Wolves, reinforced by large bands from the Barren

Grounds, were killing the young Buffalo, and later the cows and

young bulls. At Smith's Landing the Wolves had even tackled an old

bull whose head was found with the large bones. Horses and dogs

were now being devoured. Terrible battles were taking place between

the dark Wolves of Peace River and the White Wolves of the Barrens

for possession of the Buffalo grounds. Of course the Buffalo were

disappearing; about a hundred were all that were left.

But no one ever sees any of these terrible Wolves, the few men who

know that country have plenty of pemmican, that is neither Moose

nor Caribou, and the Major briefly summed up the situation: "The

Wolves are indeed playing havoc with the Buffalo, and the ravenous

leaders of the pack are called Sousi, Kiya, Kirma, and Squirrel."

Now of all the four, Sousi, being a Beaulieu and a half-breed, had

the worst reputation, but of all the four he was the only one that

had admitted a possibility of guiding us, and was to be found on the

fifth morning. So his views were met, a substitute found to watch

his fishing nets, groceries to keep his wife from pining during his

absence, a present for himself, the regular rate of wages doubled,

his horses hired, his rheumatism, home-sickness, and sadness provided

against, a present of tobacco, some more presents, a promise of

reward for every Buffalo shown, then another present, and we set

out.

CHAPTER VI

OUT WITH SOUSI BEAULIEU

It's a, fine thing to get started, however late in the day, and

though it was 3.20 P. M. before everything was ready, we gladly

set out--Sousi, Major Jarvis, and myself--all mounted, the native

leading a packhorse with provisions.

And now we had a chance to study our guide. A man's real history

begins, of course, about twenty years before he is born. In

the middle of the last century was a notorious old ruffian named

Beaulieu. Montreal was too slow for him, so he invaded the north-west

with a chosen crew of congenial spirits. His history can be got from

any old resident of the north-west. I should not like to write it

as it was told to me.

His alleged offspring are everywhere in the country, and most

travellers on their return from this region, sound a note of warning:

"Look out for every one of the name of Beaulieu. They are a queer

lot." And now we had committed ourselves and our fortunes into the

hands of Beaulieu's second or twenty-second son--I could not make

sure which. He is a typical half-breed, of medium height, thin,

swarthy, and very active, although he must be far past 60. Just how

far is not known, whether 59 69 or 79, he himself seemed uncertain,

but he knows there is a 9 in it. The women of Smith's Landing say

59, the men say 79 or 89.

He is clad in what might be the cast-off garments of a white tramp,

except for his beaded moccasins. However sordid these people may be

in other parts of their attire, I note that they always have some

redeeming touch of color and beauty about the moccasins which

cover their truly shapely feet. Sousi's rifle, a Winchester, also

was clad in a native mode. An embroidered cover of moose leather

protected it night and day, except when actually in use; of

his weapons he took most scrupulous care. Unlike the founder of

the family, Sousi has no children of his own. But he has reared a

dozen waifs under prompting of his own kind heart. He is quite a

character--does not drink or smoke, and I never heard him swear.

This is not because he does not know how, for he is conversant with

the vigor of all the five languages of the country, and the garment

of his thought is like Joseph's coat--Ethnologically speaking, its

breadth and substance are French, but it bears patches of English,

with flowers and frills, strophes, and classical allusions of Cree

and Chipewyan--the last being the language of his present "home

circle."

There was one more peculiarity of our guide that struck me forcibly.

He was forever considering his horse. Whenever the trail was very

bad, and half of it was, Sousi dismounted and walked--the horse

usually following freely, for the pair were close friends.

This, then, was the dark villain against whom we had been warned.

How he lived up to his reputation will be seen later.

After four hours' march through a level, swampy country, forested

with black and white spruce, black and white poplar, birch, willow,

and tamarack, we came to Salt River, a clear, beautiful stream,

but of weak, salty brine.

Not far away in the woods was a sweet spring, and here we camped

for the night. Close by, on a place recently burnt over, I found

the nest of a Green-winged Teal. All cover was gone and the nest

much singed, but the down had protected the 10 eggs. The old one

fluttered off, played lame, and tried to lead me away. I covered

up the eggs and an hour later found she had returned and resumed

her post.

That night, as I sat by the fire musing, I went over my life when

I was a boy in Manitoba, just too late to see the Buffalo, recalling

how I used to lie in some old Buffalo wallow and peer out over the

prairie through the fringe of spring anemones and long to see the

big brown forms on the plains. Once in those days I got a sensation,

for I did see them. They turned out to be a herd of common cattle,

but still I got the thrill.

Now I was on a real Buffalo hunt, some twenty-five years too late.

Will it come? Am I really to see the Wild Buffalo on its native

plains? It is too good to be true; too much like tipping back the

sands of time.

CHAPTER VII

THE BUFFALO HUNT

We left camp on Salt River at 7.45 in the morning and travelled

till 11 o'clock, covering six miles. It was all through the same

level country, in which willow swamps alternated with poplar and

spruce ridges. At 11 it began to rain, so we camped on a slope under

some fine, big white spruces till it cleared, and then continued

westward. The country now undulated somewhat and was varied with

openings.

Sousi says that when first he saw this region, 30 years ago, it

was all open prairie, with timber only in hollows and about water.

This is borne out by the facts that all the large trees are in such

places, and that all the level open stretches are covered with

sapling growths of aspen and fir. This will make a glorious settlement

some day. In plants, trees, birds, soil, climate, and apparently

all conditions, it is like Manitoba.

We found the skeleton of a cow Buffalo, apparently devoured

by Wolves years ago, because all the big bones were there and the

skull unbroken.

About two in the afternoon we came up a 200-foot rise to a beautiful

upland country, in which the forests were diversified with open

glades, and which everywhere showed a most singular feature. The

ground is pitted all over with funnel-shaped holes, from 6 to 40

feet deep, and of equal width across the rim; none of them contained

water. I saw one 100 feet across and about 50 feet deep; some expose

limestone; in one place we saw granite.

At first I took these for extinct geysers, but later I learned that

the whole plateau called Salt Mountain is pitted over with them.

Brine is running out of the mountain in great quantities, which

means that the upper strata are being undermined as the salt washes

out, and, as these crack, the funnels are formed no doubt by the

loose deposits settling.

In the dry woods Bear tracks became extremely numerous; the whole

country, indeed, was marked with the various signs. Practically

every big tree has bearclaw markings on it, and every few yards

there is evidence that the diet of the bears just now is chiefly

berries of Uva ursi.

As we rode along Sousi prattled cheerfully in his various tongues;

but his steady flow of conversation abruptly ended when, about 2

P. M., we came suddenly on some Buffalo tracks, days old, but still

Buffalo tracks. All at once and completely he was the hunter. He

leaped from his horse and led away like a hound.

Ere long, of course, the trail was crossed by two fresher ones;

then we found some dry wallows and several very fresh tracks. We

tied up the horses in an old funnel pit and set about an elaborate

hunt. Jarvis minded the stock, I set out with Sousi, after he had

tried the wind by tossing up some grass. But he stopped, drew a

finger-nail sharply across my canvas coat, so that it gave a little

shriek, and said "Va pa," which is "Cela ne va pas" reduced to its

bony framework. I doffed the offending coat and we went forward as

shown on the map. The horses were left at A; the wind was east. First

we circled a little to eastward, tossing grass at intervals, but,

finding plenty of new sign, went northerly and westward till most

of the new sign was east of us. Sousi then led for C, telling me to

step in his tracks and make no noise. I did so for long, but at

length a stick cracked under my foot; he turned and looked reproachfully

at me. Then a stick cracked under his foot; I gave him a poke in the

ribs. When we got to the land between the lake at D, Sousi pointed

and said, "They are here." We sneaked with the utmost caution that

way--it was impossible to follow any one trail--and in 200 yards Sousi

sank to the ground gasping out, "La! la! maintenon faites son portrait

au taut que vous voudrez." I crawled forward and saw, not one, but

half a dozen Buffalo. "I must be nearer," I said, and, lying flat

on my breast, crawled, toes and elbows, up to a bush within 75

yards, where I made shot No. 1, and saw here that there were 8 or

9 Buffalo, one an immense bull.

Sousi now cocked his rifle-I said emphatically: "Stop! you must not

fire." "No?" he said in astonished tones that were full of story

and comment. "What did we come for?" Now I saw that by backing

out and crawling to another bunch of herbage I could get within 50

yards.

"It is not possible," he gasped.

"Watch me and see," I replied. Gathering all the near vines

and twisting them around my neck, I covered my head with leaves

and creeping plants, then proceeded to show that it was possible,

while Sousi followed. I reached the cover and found it was a bed

of spring anemones on the far side of an old Buffalo wallow, and

there in that wallow I lay for a moment revelling in the sight. All

at once it came to me: Now, indeed, was fulfilled the long-deferred

dream of my youth, for in shelter of those flowers of my youth, I

was gazing on a herd of wild Buffalo. Then slowly I rose above the

cover and took my second picture.

But the watchful creatures, more shy than Moose here, saw the

rising mass of herbage, or may have caught the wind, rose lightly

and went off. I noticed now, for the first time, a little red calf;

ten Buffalo in all I counted. Sousi, standing up, counted 13. At

the edge of the woods they stopped and looked around, but gave no

third shot for the camera.

I shook Sousi's hand with all my heart, and he, good old fellow,

said: "Ah! it was for this I prayed last night; without doubt it

was in answer to my prayer that the Good God has sent me this great

happiness."

Then back at camp, 200 yards away, the old man's tongue was loosed,

and he told me how the chiefs in conference, and every one at the

Fort, had ridiculed him and his Englishmen--"who thought they

could walk up to Buffalo and take their pictures."

We had not been long in camp when Sousi went off to get some water,

but at once came running back, shouting excitedly, "My rifle,

my rifle!" Jarvis handed it to him; he rushed off to the woods. I

followed in time to see him shoot an old Bear and two cubs out of

a tree. She fell, sobbing like a human being, "Oh! Oh! Oh-h-h-h!"

It was too late to stop him, and he finished her as she lay helpless.

The little ones were too small to live alone, so shared her fate.

It seems, as Sousi went to the water hole, he came on an old Bear

and her two cubs. She gave a warning "koff, koff." The only enemies

they knew about and feared, were Buffalo, Moose, and Wolves; from

these a tree was a safe haven. The cubs scrambled up a tall poplar,

then the mother followed. Sousi came shouting in apparent fear; I

rushed to the place, thinking he was attacked by something, perhaps

a Buffalo bull, but too late to stop the tragedy that followed.

That night he roasted one of the cubs, and as I watched the old

cannibal chewing the hands off that little baby Bear it gave me a

feeling of disgust for all flesh-eating that lasted for days. Major

Jarvis felt much as I did, and old Sousi had exclusive joy in all

his bear meat.

Next morning I was left at camp while Jarvis and Sousi went off to

seek for more Buffalo. I had a presentiment that they would find

none, so kept the camera and went off to the Lake a mile west, and

there made drawings of some tracks, took photos, etc., and on the

lake saw about twenty-five pairs of ducks, identified Whitewinged

Scoter, Pintail, Green-winged Teal, and Loon. I also watched the

manoeuvres of a courting Peetweet. He approached the only lady with

his feathers up and his wings raised; she paid no heed (apparently),

but I noticed that when he flew away she followed. I saw a large

garter snake striped black and green, and with 2 rows of red

spots, one on each side. It was very fat and sluggish. I took it

for a female about to lay. Later I learned from Sousi and others

that this snake is quite common here, and the only kind found,

but in the mountains that lie not far away in the west is another

kind, much thicker, fatter, and more sluggish. Its bite is fearfully

poisonous, often fatal; "but the Good God has marked the beast by

putting a cloche (bell) in its tail."

About 10 I turned campward, but after tramping for nearly an

hour I was not only not at home, I was in a totally strange kind

of country, covered with a continuous poplar woods. I changed my

course and tried a different direction, but soon was forced to the

conclusion that (for the sixth or seventh time in my life) I was

lost.

"Dear me," I said, "this is an interesting opportunity. It comes

to me now that I once wrote an essay on 'What To Do and What Not

To Do When Lost In the Woods.' Now what in the world did I say in

it, and which were the things not to do. Yes, I remember now, these

were the pieces of advice:

"1st. 'Don't get frightened.' Well, I'm not; I am simply amused.

"2d. 'Wait for your friends to come.' Can't do that; I'm too busy;

they wouldn't appear till night.

"3d. 'If you must travel, go back to a place where you were sure

of the way.' That means back to the lake, which I know is due west

of the camp and must be west of me now."

So back I went, carefully watching the sun for guidance, and soon

realised that whenever I did not, I swung to the left. After nearly

an hour's diligent travel I did get back to the lake, and followed

my own track in the margin to the point of leaving it; then, with

a careful corrected bearing, made for camp and arrived in 40 minutes,

there to learn that on the first attempt I had swung so far to the

left that I had missed camp by half a mile, and was half a mile

beyond it before I knew I was wrong. (See map on p. 46.)

At noon Jarvis and Sousi came back jubilant; they had seen countless

Buffalo trails, had followed a large bull and cow, but had left

them to take the trail of a considerable Band; these they discovered

in a lake. There were 4 big bulls, 4 little calves, 1 yearling, 3

2-year-olds, 8 cows. These allowed them to come openly within 60

yards. Then took alarm and galloped off. They also saw a Moose and

a Marten--and 2 Buffalo skeletons. How I did curse my presentiment

that prevented them having the camera and securing a really fine

photograph!

At 2 P. M. Sousi prepared to break camp. He thought that by going

back on our trail he might strike the trail of another herd off

to the south-east of the mountain. Jarvis shrewdly suspected that

our guide wanted to go home, having kept his promise, won the

reward, and got a load of Bear meat. However, the native was the

guide, we set out in a shower which continued more or less all day

and into the night, so we camped in the rain.

Next day it was obvious, and Sousi no longer concealed the fact,

that he was making for home as fast as he could go.

At Salt River I found the little Teal back on her eggs in the

burnt ground. At 3.30 we reached Smith Landing, having been absent

exactly 3 days, and having seen in that time 33 Buffalo, 4 of them

calves of this year, 3 old Buffalo skeletons of ancient date, but

not a track or sign of a Wolf, not a howl by night, or any evidence

of their recent presence, for the buffalo skeletons found were

obviously very old.

And our guide--the wicked one of evil ancestry and fame--he was

kind, cheerful, and courteous through out; he did exactly as he

promised, did it on time, and was well pleased with the pay we gave

him. Speak as you find. If ever I revisit that country I shall be

glad indeed to secure the services of good old Sousi, even if he

is a Beaulieu.

CHAPTER VIII

THOMAS ANDERSON

We were now back at Smith Landing, and fired with a desire to make

another Buffalo expedition on which we should have ampler time and

cover more than a mere corner of the range. We aimed, indeed, to

strike straight into the heart of the Buffalo country. The same

trouble about guides arose. In this case it was less acute, because

Sousi's account had inspired considerably more respect. Still it

meant days of delay which, however, I aimed to make profitable by

investigations near at hand.

After all, the most interesting of creatures is the two-legged one

with the loose and changeable skin, and there was a goodly colony

of the kind to choose from. Most prominent of them all was Thomas

Anderson, the genial Hudson's Bay Company officer in charge of

the Mackenzie River District. His headquarters are at Fort Smith,

16 miles down the river, but his present abode was Smith Landing,

where all goods are landed for overland transport to avoid the long

and dangerous navigation on the next 16 miles of the broad stream.

Like most of his official brethren, he is a Scotchman; he was born

in Nairn, Scotland, in 1848. At 19 he came to the north-west in

service of the company, and his long and adventurous life, as he

climbed to his present responsible position, may be thus skeletonised:

He spent six months at Fort Temiscamingue,

1 year at Grand Lac,

3 years at Kakabonga,

5 years at Hunter's Lodge, Chippeway,

10 years at Abitibi,

3 years at Dunvegan, Peace River,

1 year at Lesser Slave Lake,

2 months at Savanne, Fort William,

10 years at Nipigon House,

3 years at Isle a la Crosse,

4 years on the Mackenzie River, chiefly at Fort Simpson,

6 months at Fort Smith.

Which tells little to the ears of the big world, but if we say that

he spent 5 years in Berlin, then was moved for 3 years to Gibraltar,

2 years to various posts on the Rhine, whence he went for 4 years

to St. Petersburg; thence to relieve the officer in charge of

Constantinople, and made several flying visits to Bombay and Pekin,

we shall have some idea of his travels, for all were afoot, on

dogsled, or by canoe.

What wonderful opportunities he had to learn new facts about the

wood folk--man and beast--and how little he knew the value of the

glimpses that he got! I made it my business to gather all I could

of his memories, so far as they dwelt with the things of my world,

and offer now a resume of his more interesting observations on

hunter and hunted of the North. [Since these notes were made, Thomas

Anderson has "crossed the long portage."]

The following are among the interesting animal notes:

Cougar. Ogushen, the Indian trapper at Lac des Quinze, found tracks

of a large cat at that place in the fall of 1879 (?). He saw them

all winter on South Bay of that Lake. One day he came on the place

where it had killed a Caribou. When he came back about March he saw

it. It came toward him. It was evidently a cat longer than a Lynx

and it had a very long tail, which swayed from side to side as

it walked. He shot it dead, but feared to go near it believing it

to be a Wendigo. It had a very bad smell. Anderson took it to be

a Puma. It was unknown to the Indian. Ogushen was a first-class

hunter and Anderson firmly believes he was telling the truth. Lac

des Quinze is 15 miles north of Lake Temiscamingue.

Seals. In old days, he says, small seals were found in Lake Ashkeek.

This is 50 miles north-east from Temiscamingue. It empties into

Kippewa River, which empties into Temiscamingue. He never saw one,

but the Indians of the vicinity told of it as a thing which commonly

happened 50 or 60 years ago. Ashkeek is Ojibwa for seal. It is

supposed that they wintered in the open water about the Rapids.

White Foxes, he says, were often taken at Cree Lake. Indeed one or

two were captured each year. Cree Lake is 190 miles south-east of

Fort Chipewyan. They are also taken at Fort Chipewyan from time to

time. One was taken at Fondulac, east end of Lake Athabaska, and

was traded at Smith Landing in 1906. They are found regularly at

Fondulac, the east end of Great Slave Lake, each year.

In the winter of 1885-6 he was to be in charge of Nipigon House,

but got orders beforehand to visit the posts on Albany River. He

set out from Fort William on Lake Superior on his 1,200-mile trip

through the snow with an Indian whose name was Joe Eskimo, from

Manitoulin Island, 400 miles away. At Nipigon House he got another

guide, but this one was in bad shape, spitting blood. After three

days' travel the guide said: "I will go to the end if it kills me,

because I have promised, unless I can get you a better guide. At

Wayabimika (Lake Savanne) is an old man named Omeegi; he knows the

road better than I do." When they got there, Omeegi, although very

old and half-blind, was willing to go on condition that they should

not walk too fast. Then they started for Osnaburgh House on Lake

St. Joseph, 150 miles away. The old man led off well, evidently knew

the way, but sometimes would stop, cover his eyes with his hands,

look at the ground and then at the sky, and turn on a sharp angle.

He proved a fine guide and brought the expedition there in good

time.

Next winter at Wayabimika (where Charley de la Ronde [Count de la

Ronde.] was in charge, but was leaving on a trip of 10 days) Omeegi

came in and asked for a present--"a new shirt and a pair of pants."

This is the usual outfit for a corpse. He explained that he was to

die before Charley came back; that he would die "when the sun rose

at that island" (a week ahead). He got the clothes, though every

one laughed at him. A week later he put on the new garments and

said: "To-day I die when the sun is over that island!" He went

out, looking at the sun from time to time, placidly smoking. When

the sun got to the right place he came in, lay down by the fire,

and in a few minutes was dead.

We buried him in the ground, to his brother's great indignation

when he heard of it. He said: "You white men live on things that

come out of the ground, and are buried in the ground, and properly,

but we Indians live on things that run above ground, and want to

take our last sleep in the trees."

Another case of Indian clairvoyance ran thus: About 1879, when

Anderson was at Abitibi, the winter packet used to leave Montreal,

January 2, each year, and arrive at Abitibi January 19. This year

it did not come. The men were much bothered as all plans were upset.

After waiting about two weeks, some of the Indians and half-breeds

advised Anderson to consult the conjuring woman, Mash-kou-tay

Ish-quay (Prairie woman) a Flathead from Stuart Lake, B. C. He

went and paid her some tobacco. She drummed and conjured all night.

She came in the morning and told him: "The packet is at the foot

of a rapid now, where there is open water; the snow is deep and

the travelling heavy, but it will be here to-morrow when the sun

is at that point."

Sure enough, it all fell out as she had told. This woman married

a Hudson's Bay man named MacDonald, and he brought her to Lachine,

where she bore him 3 sons; then he died of small-pox, and Sir

George Simpson gave orders that she should be sent up to Abitibi

and there pensioned for as long as she lived. She was about 75 at

the time of the incident. She many times gave evidence of clairvoyant

power. The priest said he "knew about it, and that she was helped

by the devil."

A gruesome picture of Indian life is given in the following incident.

One winter, 40 or 50 years ago, a band of Algonquin Indians at

Wayabimika all starved to death except one squaw and her baby; she

fled from the camp, carrying the child, thinking to find friends

and help at Nipigon House. She got as far as a small lake near

Deer Lake, and there discovered a cache, probably in a tree. This

contained one small bone fish-hook. She rigged up a line, but had

no bait. The wailing of the baby spurred her to action. No bait,

but she had a knife; a strip of flesh was quickly cut from her

own leg, a hole made through the ice, and a fine jack-fish was the

food that was sent to this devoted mother. She divided it with the

child, saving only enough for bait. She stayed there living on fish

until spring, then safely rejoined her people.

The boy grew up to be a strong man, but was cruel to his mother,

leaving her finally to die of starvation. Anderson knew the woman;

she showed him the sear where she cut the bait.

A piece of yet, more ancient history was supplied him in Northern

Ontario, and related to me thus:

Anderson was going to Kakabonga in June, 1879, and camped one

night on the east side of Birch Lake on the Ottawa, about 50 miles

north-east of Grand Lake Post.

He and his outfit of two canoes met Pah-pah-tay, chief of the Grand

Lake Indians, travelling with his family. He called Anderson's

attention to the shape of the point which had one good landing-place,

a little sandy bay, and told him the story he heard from his people

of a battle that was fought there with the Iroquois long, long ago.

Four or five Iroquois war-canoes, filled with warriors, came to

this place on a foray for scalps. Their canoes were drawn up on

the beach at night. They lighted fires and had a war-dance. Three

Grand Lake Algonquins, forefathers of Pah-pah-tay, saw the dance

from, hiding. They cached their canoe, one of them took a sharp

flint--"we had no knives or axes then"--swam across to the canoes,

and cut a great hole in the bottom of each.

The three then posted themselves at three different points in the

bushes, and began whooping in as many different ways as possible.

The Iroquois, thinking it a great war-party, rushed to their canoes

and pushed off quickly. When they were in deep water the canoes

sank and, as the warriors swam back ashore, the Algonquins killed

them one by one, saving alive only one, whom they maltreated, and

then let go with a supply of food, as a messenger to his people, and

to carry the warning that this would be the fate of every Iroquois

that entered the Algonquin country.

CHAPTER IX

MOSQUITOES

Reference to my Smith Landing Journal for June 17 shows the following:

"The Spring is now on in full flood, the grass is high, the trees

are fully leaved, flowers are blooming, birds are nesting, and the

mosquitoes are a terror to man and beast."

If I were to repeat all the entries in that last key, it would make

dreary and painful reading; I shall rather say the worst right now,

and henceforth avoid the subject.

Every traveller in the country agrees that the mosquitoes are

a frightful curse. Captain Back, in 1833 (Journal, p. 117), said

that the sand-flies and mosquitoes are the worst of the hardships

to which the northern traveller is exposed.

T. Hutchins, over a hundred years ago, said that no one enters the

Barren Grounds in the summer, because no man can stand the stinging

insects. I had read these various statements, but did not grasp the

idea until I was among them. At Smith Landing, June 7, mosquitoes

began to be troublesome, quite as numerous as in the worst part of

the New Jersey marshes. An estimate of those on the mosquito bar

over my bed, showed 900 to 1,000 trying to get at me; day and night,

without change, the air was ringing with their hum.

This was early in the season. On July 9, on Nyarling River, they

were much worse, and my entry was as follows:

"'On the back of Billy's coat, as he sat paddling before me, I

counted a round 400 mosquitoes boring away; about as many were on

the garments of his head and neck, a much less number on his arms

and legs. The air about was thick with them; at least as many

more, fully 1,000, singing and stinging and filling the air with

a droning hum. The rest of us were equally pestered.

"'The Major, fresh, ruddy, full-blooded, far over 200 pounds in

plumpness, is the best feeding ground for mosquitoes I (or they,

probably) ever saw; he must be a great improvement on the smoke-dried

Indians. No matter where they land on him they strike it rich,

and at all times a dozen or more bloated bloodsuckers may be seen

hanging like red currants on his face and neck. He maintains that

they do not bother him, and scoffs at me for wearing a net. They

certainly do not impair his health, good looks, or his perennial good

humour, and I, for one, am thankful that his superior food-quality

gives us a corresponding measure of immunity."

At Salt River one could kill 100 with a stroke of the palm and

at times they obscured the colour of the horses. A little later

they were much worse. On 6 square inches of my tent I counted 30

mosquitoes, and the whole surface was similarly supplied; that is,

there were 24,000 on the tent and apparently as many more flying

about the door. Most of those that bite us are killed but that

makes not the slightest perceptible difference in their manners

or numbers. They reminded me of the Klondike gold-seekers. Thousands

go; great numbers must die a miserable death; not more than one in

10,000 can get away with a load of the coveted stuff, and yet each

believes that he is to be that one, and pushes on.

Dr. L. 0. Howard tells us that the mosquito rarely goes far from

its birthplace. That must refer to the miserable degenerates they

have in New Jersey, for these of the north offer endless evidence

of power to travel, as well as to resist cold and wind.

On July 21, 1907, we camped on a small island on Great Slave Lake.

It was about one-quarter mile long, several miles from mainland,

at least half a mile from any other island, apparently all rock,

and yet it was swarming with mosquitoes. Here, as elsewhere, they

were mad for our blood; those we knocked off and maimed, would

crawl up with sprained wings and twisted legs to sting as fiercely

as ever, as long as the beak would work.

We thought the stinging pests of the Buffalo country as bad as

possible, but they proved mild and scarce compared with those we

yet had to meet on the Arctic Barrens of our ultimate goal.

Each day they got worse; soon it became clear that mere adjectives

could not convey any idea of their terrors. Therefore I devised a

mosquito gauge. I held up a bare hand for 5 seconds by the watch,

then counted the number of borers on the back; there were 5 to 10.

Each day added to the number, and when we got out to the Buffalo

country, there were 15 to 25 on the one side of the hand and

elsewhere in proportion. On the Nyarling, in early July, the number

was increased, being now 20 to 40. On Great Slave Lake, later that

month, there were 50 to 60. But when we reached the Barren Grounds,

the land of open breezy plains and cold water lakes, the pests

were so bad that the hand held up for 5 seconds often showed from

100 to 125 long-billed mosquitoes boring away into the flesh. It

was possible to number them only by killing them and counting the

corpses. What wonder that all men should avoid the open plains,

that are the kingdom of such a scourge.

Yet it must not be thought that the whole country is similarly and

evenly filled. There can be no doubt that they flock and fly to

the big moving creatures they see or smell. Maybe we had gathered

the whole mosquito product of many acres. This is shown by the

facts that if one rushes through thick bushes for a distance, into

a clear space, the mosquitoes seem absent at first. One must wait

a minute or so to gather up another legion. When landing from a

boat on the Northern Lakes there are comparatively few, but even

in a high wind, a walk to the nearest hilltop results in one again

moving in a cloud of tormentors. Does not this readiness to assemble

at a bait suggest a possible means of destroying them?

Every one, even the seasoned natives, agree that they are a terror

to man and beast; but, thanks to our flyproof tents, we sleep immune.

During the day I wear my net and gloves, uncomfortably hot, but a

blessed relief from the torment. It is easy to get used to those

coverings; it is impossible to get used to the mosquitoes.

For July 10 I find this note: "The Mosquitoes are worse now than

ever before; even Jarvis, Preble, and the Indians are wearing face

protectors of some kind. The Major has borrowed Preble's closed net,

much to the latter's discomfiture, as he himself would be glad to

wear it."

This country has, for 6 months, the finest climate in the world,

but 2 1/2 of these are ruined by the malignancy of the fly plague.

Yet it is certain that knowledge will confer on man the power to

wipe them out.

No doubt the first step in this direction is a thorough understanding

of the creature's life-history. This understanding many able mien

are working for. But there is another line of thought that should

not be forgotten, though it is negative--many animals are immune.

Which are they? Our first business is to list them if we would

learn the why of immunity.

Frogs are among the happy ones. One day early in June I took a

wood-frog in my hand. The mosquitoes swarmed about. In a few seconds

30 were on my hand digging away; 10 were on my forefinger, 8 on my

thumb; between these was the frog, a creature with many resemblances

to man--red blood, a smooth, naked, soft skin, etc.--and yet not a

mosquito attacked it. Scores had bled my hand before one alighted

on the frog, and it leaped off again as though the creature were

red hot. The experiment repeated with another frog gave the same

result. Why? It can hardly be because the frog is cold-blooded,

for many birds also seem, to be immune, and their blood is warmer

than man's.

Next, I took a live frog and rubbed it on my hand over an area

marked out with lead pencil; at first the place was wet, but in a

few seconds dry and rather shiny. I held up my hand till 50 mosquitoes

had alighted on it and begun to bore; of these, 4 alighted on the

froggy place, 3 at once tumbled off in haste, but one, No. 32, did

sting me there. I put my tongue to the frog's back; it was slightly

bitter.

I took a black-gilled fungus from a manure pile to-day, rubbed a

small area, and held my hand bare till 50 mosquitoes had settled

and begun to sting; 7 of these alighted on the fungus juice, but

moved off at once, except the last; it stung, but at that time the

juice was dry.

Many other creatures, including some birds, enjoy immunity, but

I note that mosquitoes did attack a dead crane; also they swarmed

onto a widgeon plucked while yet warm, and bored in deep; but I

did not see any filling with blood.

There is another kind of immunity that is equally important and

obscure. In the summer of 1904, Dr. Clinton L. Bagg, of New York,

went to Newfoundland for a fishing trip. The Codroy country was,

as usual, plagued with mosquitoes, but as soon as the party crossed

into the Garnish River Valley, a land of woods and swamps like the

other, the mosquitoes had disappeared. Dr. Bagg spent the month of

August there, and found no use for nets, dopes, or other means of

fighting winged pests; there were none. What the secret was no one

at present knows, but it would be a priceless thing to find.

Now, lest I should do injustice to the Northland that will some

day be an empire peopled with white men, let me say that there are

three belts of mosquito country the Barren Grounds, where they are

worst and endure for 2 1/2 months; the spruce forest, where they

are bad and continue for 2 months, and the great arable region of

wheat, that takes in Athabaska and Saskatchewan, where the flies

are a nuisance for 6 or 7 weeks, but no more so than they were in

Ontario, Michigan, Manitoba, and formerly England; and where the

cultivation of the land will soon reduce them to insignificance,

as it has invariably done in other similar regions. It is quite

remarkable in the north-west that such plagues are most numerous

in the more remote regions, and they disappear in proportion as

the country is opened up and settled.

Finally, it is a relief to know that these mosquitoes convey no

disease--even the far-spread malaria is unknown in the region.

Why did I not take a "dope" or "fly repellent," ask many of my

friends.

In answer I can only say I have never before been where mosquitoes

were bad enough to need one. I had had no experience with fly-dope.

I had heard that they are not very effectual, and so did not add

one to the outfit. I can say now it was a mistake to leave any means

untried. Next time I carry "dope." The following recipe is highly

recommended:

Pennyroyal, one part,

Oil of Tar, " "

Spirits of Camphor, " "

Sweet Oil, or else vaseline, three parts.

Their natural enemies are numerous; most small birds prey on them;

dragon-flies also, and the latter alone inspire fear in the pests.

When a dragon-fly comes buzzing about one's head the mosquitoes

move away to the other side, but it makes no considerable difference.

On Buffalo River I saw a boatman or water-spider seize, and devour

a mosquito that fell within reach; which is encouraging, because,

as a rule, the smaller the foe, the deadlier, and the only creature

that really affects the whole mosquito nation is apparently a small

red parasite that became more and more numerous as the season wore

on. It appeared in red lumps on the bill and various parts of the

stinger's body, and the victim became very sluggish. Specimens

sent to Dr. L. 0. Howard, the authority on mosquitoes, elicited

the information that it was a fungus, probably new to science.

But evidently it is deadly to the Culex. More power to it, and the

cause it represents; we cannot pray too much for its increase.

Now to sum up: after considering the vastness of the region

affected--three-quarters of the globe--and the number of diseases

these insects communicate, one is inclined to say that it might be

a greater boon to mankind to extirpate the mosquito than to stamp

out tuberculosis. The latter means death to a considerable proportion

of our race, the former means hopeless suffering to all mankind;

one takes off each year its toll of the weaklings the other spares

none, and in the far north at least has made a hell on earth of

the land that for six months of each year might be a human Paradise.

CHAPTER X

A BAD CASE

My unsought fame as a medicine man continued to grow. One morning

I heard a white voice outside asking, "Is the doctor in?" Billy

replied: "Mr. Seton is inside." On going forth I met a young American

who thus introduced himself: "My name is Y------, from Michigan.

I was a student at Ann Arbor when you lectured there in 1903. 1

don't suppose you remember me; I was one of the reception committee;

but I'm mighty glad to meet you out here."

After cordial greetings he held up his arm to explain the call and

said: "I'm in a pretty bad way."

"Let's see."

He unwound the bandage and showed a hand and arm swollen out of all

shape, twice the natural size, and of a singular dropsical pallor.

"Have you any pain?"

"I can't sleep from the torture of it."

"Where does it hurt now?"

"In the hand."

"How did you get it?"

"It seemed to come on after a hard crossing of Lake Athabaska. We

had to row all night."

I asked one or two more questions, really to hide my puzzlement.

"What in the world is it?" I said to myself; "all so fat and puffy."

I cudgelled my brain for a clue. As I examined the hand in silence

to play for time and conceal my ignorance, he went on:

"What I'm afraid of is blood-poisoning. I couldn't get out to a

doctor before a month, and by that time I'll be one-armed or dead.

I know which I'd prefer."

Knowing, at all events, that nothing but evil could come of fear,

I said: "Now see here. You can put that clean out of your mind.

You never saw blood-poisoning that colour, did you?"

"That's so," and he seemed intensely relieved.

While I was thus keeping up an air of omniscience by saying nothing,

Major Jarvis came up.

"Look at this, Jarvis," said I; "isn't it a bad one?

"Phew," said the Major, "that's the worst felon I ever saw."

Like a gleam from heaven came the word felon. That's what it was,

a felon or whitlow, and again I breathed freely. Turning to the

patient with my most cock-sure professional air, I said:

"Now see, Y., you needn't worry; you've hurt your finger in

rowing, and the injury was deep and has set up a felon. It is not

yet headed up enough; as soon as it is I'll lance it, unless it

bursts of itself (and inwardly I prayed it might burst). Can you

get any linseed meal or bran?"

"Afraid not."

"Well, then, get some clean rags and keep the place covered with

them dipped in water as hot as you can stand it, and we'll head

it up in twenty-four hours; then in three days I'll have you in

good shape to travel." The last sentence, delivered with the calm

certainty of a man who knows all about it and never made a mistake,

did so much good to the patient that I caught a reflex of it myself.

He gave me his good hand and said with emotion: "You don't know

how much good you have done me. I don't mind being killed, but I

don't want to go through life a cripple."

"You say you haven't slept?" I asked.

"Not for three nights; I've suffered too much."

"Then take these pills. Go to bed at ten o'clock and take a pill;

if this does not put you to sleep, take another at 10.30. If you are

still awake at 11, take the third; then you will certainly sleep."

He went off almost cheerfully.

Next morning he was back, looking brighter. "Well," I said, "you

slept last night, all right."

"No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't

there?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out

in my sober senses, without any drugs."

"Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian

fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills,

he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real

American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have

you sound as a dollar."

Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make

some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock,"

I said, thinking how very professional it sounded.

The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more

important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's

brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution.

He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy."

"I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my

mettle."

"'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to

take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances.

"Are you ready?"

He laid his pudding-y hand on the table.

"You better have your Indian friend hold that hand."

"I'll never budge," he replied, with set teeth, and motioned the

Indian away. And I knew he would not flinch. He will never know

(till he reads this, perhaps) what an effort it cost me. I knew only

I must cut deep enough to reach the pus, not so deep as to touch

the artery, and not across the tendons, and must do it firmly, at

one clean stroke. I did.

It was a horrid success. He never quivered, but said: "Is that all?

That's a pin-prick to what I've been through every minute for the

last week."

I felt faint, went out behind the cabin, and--shall I confess

it?--took a long swig of brandy. But I was as good as my promise:

in three days he was well enough to travel, and soon as strong as

ever.

I wonder if real doctors ever conceal, under an air of professional

calm, just such doubts and fears as worried me.

CHAPTER XI

THE SECOND BUFFALO HUNT

Though so trifling, the success of our first Buffalo hunt gave us

quite a social lift. The chiefs were equally surprised with the

whites, and when we prepared for a second expedition, Kiya sent

word that though he could not act as guide, I should ride his own

trained hunter, a horse that could run a trail like a hound, and

was without guile.

I am, always suspicious of a horse (or man) without guile.

I wondered what was the particular weakness of this exceptionally

trained, noble, and guileless creature. I have only one prejudice

in horseflesh--I do not like a white one. So, of course, when

the hunter arrived he was, white as marble, from mane to tail and

hoofs; his very eyes were of a cheap china colour, suggestive of

cataractine blindness. The only relief was a morbid tinge of faded

shrimp pink in his nostrils and ears. But he proved better than he

looked. He certainly did run tracks by nose like a hound, provided I

let him choose the track. He was a lively walker and easy trotter,

and would stay where the bridle was dropped, So I came to the

conclusion that Kiya was not playing a joke on me, but really had

lent me his best hunter, whose sepulchral whiteness I could see would

be of great advantage in snow time when chiefly one is supposed to

hunt.

Not only Kiya, but Pierre Squirrel, the head chief, seemed to harbour

a more kindly spirit. He now suddenly acquired a smattering of

English and a fair knowledge of French. He even agreed to lead us

through his own hunting grounds to the big Buffalo range, stipulating

that we be back by July 1, as that was Treaty Day, when all the

tribe assembled to receive their treaty money, and his presence as

head chief was absolutely necessary.

We were advised to start from Fort Smith, as the trail thence was

through a dryer country; so on the morning of June 24, at 6.50, we

left the Fort on our second Buffalo hunt.

Major A. M. Jarvis, Mr. E. A. Preble, Corporal Selig, Chief Pierre

Squirrel, and myself, all mounted, plus two pack-horses, prepared

for a week's campaign. Riding ahead in his yellow caftan and black

burnoose was Pierre Squirrel on his spirited charger, looking most

picturesque. But remembering that his yellow caftan was a mosquito

net, his black burnoose a Hudson's Bay coat, and his charger an

ornery Indian Cayuse, robbed the picture of most of its poetry.

We marched westerly 7 miles through fine, dry, jack-pine wood,

then, 3 miles through mixed poplar, pine, and spruce, And came to

the Slave River opposite Point Gravois. Thence we went a mile or

so into similar woods, and after another stretch of muskegs. We

camped for lunch at 11.45, having covered 12 miles.

At two we set out, and reached Salt River at three, but did not

cross there. It is a magnificent stream, 200 feet wide, with hard

banks and fine timber on each side; but its waters are brackish.

We travelled north-westerly, or northerly, along the east banks

for an hour, but at length away from it on a wide prairie, a mile

or more across here, but evidently extending much farther behind

interruptions of willow clumps. Probably these prairies join, with

those we saw on the Beaulieu trip. They are wet now, though a horse

can go anywhere, and the grass is good. We camped about six on a dry

place back from the river. At night I was much interested to hear

at intervals the familiar Kick-kick-kick-kick of the Yellow Rail

in the adjoining swamps. This must be its northmost range; we did

not actually see it.

Here I caught a garter-snake. Preble says it is the same form as

that at Edmonton. Our guide was as much surprised to see me take

it in my hands, as he was to see me let it go unharmed.

Next morning, after a short hour's travel, we came again to Salt

River and proceeded to cross. Evidently Squirrel had selected the

wrong place, for the sticky mud seemed bottomless, and we came near

losing two of the horses.

After two hours we all got across and went on, but most of the horses

had shown up poorly, as spiritless creatures, not yet recovered

from the effects of a hard winter.

Our road now lay over the high upland of the Salt Mountain, among

its dry and beautiful woods. The trip would have been glorious but

for the awful things that I am not allowed to mention outside of

Chapter IX.

Pierre proved a pleasant and intelligent companion; he did his

best, but more than once shook his head and said: "Chevaux no good."

We covered 15 miles before night, and all day we got glimpses of

some animal on our track, 300 yards behind in the woods. It might

easily have been a Wolf, but at night he sneaked into camp a forlorn

and starving Indian dog. Next day we reached the long looked-for

Little Buffalo River. Several times of late Pierre had commented on

the slowness of our horses and enlarged on the awful Muskega that

covered the country west of the Little Buffalo. Now he spoke out

frankly and said we had been 21 days coming 40 miles when the road

was good; we were now coming to very bad roads and had to go as

far again. These horses could not do it, and get him back to Fort

Smith for July 1--and back at any price he must be.

He was willing to take the whole outfit half a day farther westward,

or, if we preferred it, he would go afoot or on horseback with the

pick of the men and horses for a hasty dash forward; but to take

the whole outfit on to the Buffalo country and get back on time

was not possible.

This was a bad shake. We held a council of war, and the things that

were said of that Indian should have riled him if he understood.

He preserved his calm demeanour; probably this was one of the

convenient times when all his English forsook him. We were simply

raging: to be half-way to our goal, with abundance of provisions,

fine weather, good health and everything promising well, and then

to be balked because our guide wanted to go back. I felt as savage

as the others, but on calmer reflection pointed out that Pierre

told us before starting that he must be back for Treaty Day, and

even now he was ready to do his best.

Then in a calm of the storm (which he continued to ignore) Pierre

turned to me and said: "Why don't you go back and try the canoe

route? You can go down the Great River to Grand Detour, then portage

8 miles over to the Buffalo, go down this to the Nyarling, then up

the Nyarling into the heart of the Buffalo country; 21 days will

do it, and it will be easy, for there is plenty of water and no

rapids," and he drew a fairly exact map which showed that he knew

the country thoroughly.

There was nothing to be gained by going half a day farther.

To break up our party did not fit in at all with our plans, so, after

another brief stormy debate in which the guide took no part, we

turned without crossing the Little Buffalo, and silently, savagely,

began the homeward journey; as also did the little Indian dog.

Next morning we crossed the Salt River at a lower place where was

a fine, hard bottom. That afternoon we travelled for 6 miles through

a beautiful and level country, covered with a forest of large poplars,

not very thick; it will some day be an ideal cattle-range, for it

had rank grass everywhere, and was varied by occasional belts of

jack-pine. In one of these Preble found a nest with six eggs that

proved to be those of the Bohemian Chatterer. These he secured,

with photograph of the nest and old bird. It was the best find of

the journey.

The eggs proved of different incubation--at least a week's

difference--showing that the cool nights necessitated immediate

setting.

We camped at Salt River mouth, and next afternoon were back at Fort

Smith, having been out five days and seen nothing, though there

were tracks of Moose and Bear in abundance.

Here our guide said good-bye to us, and so did the Indian dog.