Christmas fell on Thursday that year, and it had been arranged that
the trappers, by turning back on their trails the preceding Saturday
instead of waiting as was their custom until Monday, and by slighting
some of the less important sections of the trails on their return
trip, should gather at the river tilt on Wednesday evening, in order
to celebrate the holiday with a feast.
It was late on Christmas eve when Ungava Bob, returning from the
Indian camp, drew his toboggan into the clearing in the centre of
which stood the river tilt. Its roof was scarcely visible in the
moonlight above the high drifted snow. He had hoped that some of the
others might have arrived before him, but no smoke issued from the
pipe, and fresh drifted, untrodden snow around the door told him that
he was the first.
It was fearfully cold. Rime filled the air. The deerskin coat which
Manikawan had given him, and which he wore, was thick coated with
frost.
He paused before the door and stood for a moment to painfully pick
away the ice that had accumulated upon his eyelashes, partially
closing his eyelids, and discovered that his nose and cheeks were
frost-bitten. He drew his right hand from its mitten, and holding his
nose in the bare palm, covered the exposed hand with the mittened palm
of the other, quickly rubbing the frosted parts with the warm palm to
restore circulation.
Presently, satisfied that the frost had been removed from nose and
cheeks, he kicked off his snowshoes, shovelled the accumulated snow
from the doorway with one of them, set the snowshoes on end in the
snow at one side, and entering the tilt lighted a candle and kindled a
fire in the stove.
Taking the kettle from the stove and an axe from a corner, he passed
out of the tilt and down to the river, chopped open the water hole,
filled the kettle, and returning set it over to heat.
Unpacking his toboggan and stowing the things away, he leaned it end
up against the tilt, brought a bucket of water from the river for
culinary use, removed his deerskin coat, and settled down in the now
comfortable tilt to prepare supper and await his friends.
Presently he heard a movement outside, and a moment later Dick Blake
poked his head in at the door.
"Evenin', Bob," he greeted. "Glad t' see you. Th' tilt smells fine an'
warm! Where's Shad?" he asked, entering and rubbing his hands over the
stove.
"Stoppin' wi' th' Injuns. I were tryin' t' get he t' come back, but he
thinks he wants t' go huntin' deer with un, an' stays," explained Bob.
"Any fur?"
"Only one marten an' one otter, but they's good uns. No sign o' foxes.
But foxes won't stay when th' rabbits goes;" and Dick went out to
unpack.
Presently Bill Campbell arrived, and a little later Ed Matheson drew
his long form through the low doorway, his red beard laden with ice.
"Where's Shad?" he asked, after greetings were exchanged.
Bob explained Shad's absence.
"Well, now!" he exclaimed. "Shad must ha' been gettin' light-headed t'
do that. Well, he's welcome t' 'bide 'long with Injuns if he wants to,
but I'm thinkin' by about now he's wishin' he was where he ain't. An'
by t'morrer he'll have boiled goose an' fried pa'tridges on his mind,
an' wishin' harder 'n ever he were back here in th' river tilt."
"He were wantin' th' hunt, an' now he may not find un so bad," said
Bob.
"He won't be havin' no feather-bed time cruisin' about with Injuns,"
insisted Ed. "Shad's gettin' wonderful peevish an' sot in his way
lately. He's thinkin' o' th' fine grub an' good times he's been havin'
t' that college place he talks about, instead o' thinkin' o' how he
likes rabbit meat three times a day an' betwixt meals when you an' him
was 'bidin' a time on th' island over here because you wasn't havin'
wings t' fly off, an' they wa'n't no other way t' get off till th'
Injun lass takes you off."
"Shad weren't gettin' peeved," objected Bob, ready to defend his
absent friend. "He were just disappointed at findin' no huntin', an'
he 'bides with th' Injuns t' get some deer."
"Maybe so, but Shad'll be glad enough t' get back t' th' river tilt,
an' when he is gettin' back he'll be findin' it fine. He'll be
thinkin' o' th' tough cruisin' with th' Injuns instead o' th' grub at
his college place, an' that'll make he think 'tis fine in th' tilts.
That's the way it mostly is with folks. They always wants somethin'
they ain't got, an' when they gets un they wants somethin' else. An'
like's not then they wants what they was havin' first, because they
can't have un now."
Ed paused to pour a cup of tea and help himself to pork.
"Shad's a good mate, though," he continued magnanimously. "He ain't
gettin' used t' th' bush yet. That's all's th' matter with he. He'll
get used t' un after a bit, an' then he won't be gettin' peeved like
he is now."
"I'm wishin' he weren't stayin' back with th' Injuns now. I'm fearin'
he'll be havin' a hard time of un--an' I'm fearin' he may be gettin'
in trouble not knowin' how t' take un," Bob remarked solicitously.
"I'm wonderful sorry, now, he stays wi' th' Injuns. 'Twould be fine
t' have he here for Christmas," agreed Ed, as he drew a plug of black
tobacco from his pocket and began to shave some of it into the hollow
of his hand, preparatory to filling his pipe.
"Any fur this trip?" asked Bob.
"Two martens--both fine uns. Not so bad. How'd you make un, Dick?"
"I gets one marten an' shoots an otter," answered Dick.
"You gettin' any, Bill?" asked Ed, turning to Bill, who was reclining
in one of the bunks and smoking in luxurious contentment.
"Aye, one marten, an' I shoots a wolf last evenin'--a wonderful poor
wolf, an' his skin ain't much account. Three of un were after me on
th' trail all day, but I only gets one."
"Three wolves, now--an' poor uns," commented Dick. "Wolves ain't
follerin' a man all day unless they's hungry, an' they ain't like t'
be hungry where they's deer."
"No," agreed Ed, who had lighted his pipe, one moccasined heel drawn
up on the edge of the bunk upon which he lounged, the other long leg
stretched out. "Wolves follers th' deer, but when they ain't no deer
t' faller they don't faller un. Which means they ain't no deer in this
part o' th' country, an' so they just naturally fallers Bill as th'
next best meat."
"An' bein' poor means they's hungry, an' bein' hungry means they's
lickin' their chops for Bill," continued Dick.
"Were it night, now?" asked Ed.
"No, 'twere broad day," answered Bill, undisturbed.
"Now if 'twere night, I'd say they was follerin' you because your red
hair lights th' trail up for un."
"'Tain't no redder 'n your'n," retorted Bill.
"Never mind un, Bill," said Bob sympathetically. "Ed's jealous because
your hair's curly an' his 'n ain't."
"Now, how about gettin' grub?" suggested Ed, when the laugh had
subsided. "They ain't nothin' t' kill, an' we got t' haul grub in from
th' Bay. I'm thinkin' t' start down Friday, an' if one o' you wants t'
go along, we'll both haul up a load on our flatsleds. How'd you like
t' go, Bill? They's a moon, an' by travellin' some at night we'll make
th' Bay for th' New Year, goin' light, an' be back by th' first o'
February, whatever, with our loads."
"I'd like wonderful well t' go!" answered Bill, elated at the prospect
of a visit to the Bay, brief as it would be.
"What you think of un?" asked Ed, addressing Dick and Bob jointly.
"We got t' have grub if we stays on th' trails," agreed Dick, "an'
they's no sign o' killin' any meat."
"Aye, we'll all have t' leave th' trails by th' first o' March,
whatever, unless some of us goes for grub," said Bob.
"Bill an' me bein' away'll stretch th' grub we has, for Bill be a
wonderful eater--" Bill interjected a protest, but Ed, ignoring it,
continued: "An' what we hauls back on th' flatsleds'll carry us over
th' spring trappin'. We'll be startin' early on Friday. We'll go down
your trail an' spring your traps up on th' way out, Bill."
A late breakfast of fried ptarmigans, and a late afternoon dinner of
boiled goose, with an evening "snack" of ptarmigan before
retiring--the last of the game reserved from the fall
shooting--together with camp bread and tea, comprised the Christmas
menu.
Directly after breakfast Ed and Bill made ready for packing on their
toboggans the light outfit which they were to use on their outward
trip; and this done, the four held a service of song in which all
joined heartily, and spent the remainder of the day luxuriously
lounging in the tilt and telling stories.
Shad was sincerely missed. He had looked forward keenly to the
Christmas feast, and many hearty good wishes were expressed for
him--that even among the Indians he might pass a pleasant day--that he
would not find the hardships so great as his friends had feared--and
that he would soon return to them in safety and none the worse for his
experiences.
Then the thoughts turned to home, and speculations as to what the
far-off loved ones were doing at the moment.
"I'm thinkin' a wonderful lot of home now," said Bob. "Tell Mother an'
Father, Ed, I'm safe an' thinkin' of un every day, an' of Emily, away
off somewheres in St. Johns t' school. It's makin' me rare lonesome t'
think o' home without Emily there. An'--an'--tell Mother, Ed--I never
forgets my prayers."
"That I will, lad!" promised Ed heartily. "An' what you wantin' me t'
say t' Bessie, now? Tell she about th' Injun lass an' th' fine
deerskin coat she's givin' you?"
"Tell Bessie I always carries th' ca'tridge bag she gives me--an' I'm
thinkin' how 'tis she that makes un--an' I'll be glad t'--get home t'
th' Bay," directed Bob hesitatingly.
"Oh, aye. Glad t' get back t' see th' Bay, I'm thinkin'," laughed Ed.
As Bob and Dick returned to the tilt an hour before daybreak, after
watching Ed and Bill disappear down the trail in the still, bitter
cold of the starlit morning, Bob remarked:
"I'm feelin' wonderful strange--I'm not knowin' how. 'Tis a
lonesomeness--but different--like as if somethin' were goin' t'
happen."
"An' I has th' same sort o' feelin'," confessed Dick. "'Tis like th'
stillness before a big storm breaks at sea--'tis like as if some one
was dyin' clost by."