_FORT FUTURE._
Fort Future consisted of a solitary group of small buildings situated
near the mouth of Chesterfield Inlet, which is in the Barren Lands. It
seemed as if the buildings must have sprung up there of themselves, like
so many mushrooms; or must have been dropped from the heavens, or else
carried there by one of those raging, tearing windstorms that sweep over
that part of the country, so incongruous did they appear in that vast
northern wilderness.
Nevertheless, Fort Future was a comfortable place in its way—at least
so said Roy Thursby; for he, like most of the Company’s officers, was
acquainted with starvation, solitude and desolation, and knew there were
posts compared with which Fort Future, with its unfailing supply of
country provisions, was a veritable paradise. Broom called it “a rotten
hole,” “the last place that God Almighty made,” and by much worse names;
all of which Roy would laughingly refute by telling him that he was a
sailor, and therefore never satisfied; that for himself he had no
objections to banishment; and Broom would retaliate by asserting that
Roy was a Hudson’s Bay man, that the Company owned him body and soul,
and that he was there because he had been sent—which was true as to the
last part. The Hudson’s Bay Company had required a fearless and staunch
man to establish a post at Chesterfield Inlet, and after some
correspondence with his chief—Roy was then second in charge at York
Factory—Thursby had been chosen. His willingness to go, if ever thought
of at all, had been looked upon as a mere matter of course. The
Company’s interests had to be attended to, therefore go he must, willing
or unwilling. Luckily for him, and perhaps for the Company too, the
enterprise had appealed to the strong spirit of adventure in the young
officer, and he had entered into the scheme with eagerness and made his
arrangements with all enthusiasm, treating the prospective dangers with
total indifference. The wonderful Far North breeds men of this stamp:
men of courage, resourcefulness and self-reliance; men who fear nothing
and live hard.
That was more than a year ago, and in the interval he had established
the post and enthroned himself, so to speak, monarch of all he surveyed.
He held his kingdom and ruled his subjects—wandering bands of Eskimo,
who displayed a curious mixture of simplicity and fear and a disposition
to high-handed robbery with an indomitable will and daring courage. The
works of some Arctic voyagers describe the Eskimos as inveterate thieves
and of murderous dispositions, while others speak of them as honest,
good-natured fellows, which is perplexing. But the fact is, both
descriptions are true, even of people of the same tribe, which proves
the Eskimo character is a difficult problem to solve. At one time he may
be good and amiable, and at another all that is bad and treacherous.
Much depends upon conditions.
Besides himself, the resident population of Fort Future consisted of
five other human beings, to wit: the man Broom, Kasba, Delgezie,
Sahanderry, and a boy named David. The last four were Chipewyan Indians
from Churchill. In fact, save these and a few wandering bands of Eskimo,
there was not another human being to be found within a hundred miles of
this desolate spot in any direction, and then only a few transient
visitors such as came with American and other whalers.
Roy Thursby was a bachelor, though not indisposed to change his estate
under favorable conditions, as we shall see; Sahanderry cooked for him
and did the general housework, while Kasba washed and mended his
clothes.
The Fort stood on an old gravel beach about five miles from the coast.
The inlet or river widened immediately before it, and miles of ice
hummocks extended where once the restless wave had raised its angry
crest; countless masses thrown up into weird, fantastic shapes by the
peculiar workings of some mysterious submarine power, their formation
was constantly changing in these strange upheavals. The establishment
consisted of a few one-storey log buildings. The trading-store,
warehouse, and one or two minor stores were grouped together, while the
“master’s” house stood apart in the background. A small coast-boat,
hauled well above high-water mark, lay propped up in its winter
quarters; a flagstaff reared its head skywards; and a number of Eskimo
dogs ran about among the buildings or lay curled up in the snow, their
long hairy coats covered with rime.
Roy Thursby was worried. Broom’s assault on Kasba foreshadowed trouble,
and much of it, in the future. Also, Roy was greatly annoyed. At first
he was determined to make Broom “hit the track.” His presence at the
Fort would now be a constant menace to his peace of mind. Therefore the
fellow must go.
But as he became calmer, Roy’s better nature asserted itself. He
remembered that terms of familiarity prevailed among Broom’s late
associates, and he decided, after severely cautioning him, to let the
unpleasant incident drop.
Broom had lived two years among the Eskimos. A man of a different nature
and a higher moral tone might have improved the natives during this two
years. But the fellow had drifted with the current of popular custom and
had adopted tribal manners and usages. I do not think he would have
ill-treated a woman; but he looked upon them as being created solely for
the use and pleasure of man.
Then, too, Roy was distressed at discovering Kasba’s secret. The
knowledge that Kasba loved him surprised and pained him beyond measure.
For he was not a vain man. He had always admired the girl, she was so
quiet, and had such pretty, shy little ways and gestures; but beyond
thinking of her as a pleasant little thing to have about him, he had
never given her a thought. Under the new conditions he hardly knew what
to do. There was a deep tinge of pity for her in his thoughts. The
matter was still puzzling him when he arrived at the door of his
dwelling.
The dogs greeted him with suppressed growls of welcome. Jumping up, they
sniffed enquiringly at the bag on his back. With a “Down, Flyer, Mush,
Klondike!” he slipped his feet out of his snowshoe lines and crossed the
threshold.
The two-roomed house contained a kitchen and what served as a bed-room
and living-room; had only one door, and very few windows. There was
little of luxury. In the kitchen a large cookstove, on which several
kettles stood simmering and emitting little clouds of steam, was the
chief ornament. A very serviceable water-barrel stood in one corner,
while a large wood-box occupied another. Pots and pans hung from nails
in the walls and a heavy table of rough plank occupied a position near
the stove. The floor was of plank and well swept, for Roy was
fastidious. The walls of the other room were white-washed, the chairs
and table all country-made and unpainted. A large wooden clock ticked
solemnly on the wall, and there were pictures and photographs tacked up
or standing on shelves, with a conglomeration of other small articles
more or less useful.
Roy dropped the bag from his shoulders and emptied its contents on the
kitchen floor. There were three white foxes and a blue one. These he
hung up to thaw. Then he stepped into the inner room and there pulled
off his outdoor clothing.
Seated in a chair, with his feet resting on the lower of two bunks which
were fitted on one side of the room, was Broom. He was reading a book
with a paper cover brilliantly illuminated—one of those “Three-Fingered
Jack” series of stories so eagerly devoured by uncultured minds.
Broom shut the book as Roy entered the room. He nodded familiarly,
distorted his swollen lips into a smile and dropped his feet to the
floor. “Well, what luck?” he inquired with feigned interest.
“Three whites and a blue,” replied the trader. He tried to put some
heartiness into his words, but the irritation he still felt at the man
held him back. He went back to the kitchen to wash his hands, and Broom
returned to his book.
Pausing in his ablutions, Roy threw the man a searching glance. He now
had a great mistrust of him. And here I may perhaps best explain who
Broom was, as he is a gentleman with whom we shall have much concern in
these pages.
Broom was a runaway sailor. Deserting his ship at Cape Fullerton, he had
one day turned up at Fort Future. He might be one of those worthless
characters found in all occupations, but he was a white man, and that
had been enough for Roy Thursby. Besides he had shown considerable
courage in attempting a solitary journey down the coast to the Fort.
This appealed to Roy and he had allowed him to stay on, intending to
give him a passage in the coast-boat that went south in the spring. At
first the runaway had been very energetic. He had made himself useful
about the place and regularly attended the few traps he had put down, as
he laughingly remarked, to keep himself in tobacco, but latterly he had
slackened off and appeared discontented. He displayed fits of
irritability and moodiness. Roy had noticed this, and after Broom’s late
outbreak he seriously doubted his wisdom in having harbored him.
Debating the question, he went back to the inner room and sat down; then
in very plain language told the sailor what he thought of his conduct.
Broom looked at him through half-closed lids; his lips were still
parted, but the smile was gone. Then he exploded. “Hang it all!” he said
sulkily; “you needn’t be hard on a fellow.”
“Well, behave yourself, then,” said Roy, firmly, and having spoken his
mind he would have dropped the subject.
But the other did not seem disposed to allow him. “She’s a pretty little
baggage for an Indian,” he asserted, “and what’s more, she knows it.”
Roy directed a searching glance at the sneering face of the speaker, but
paid no attention to the remark except, perhaps, that he raised his
eyebrows a little. He naturally possessed more self-control than most
young men of five and twenty. He was high-spirited, and could not brook
an insult; but he was inclined to consider the source of a remark before
he retaliated. Besides, he wished to avoid another quarrel, for he knew
it would serve to widen the breach already broad enough between them.
“Wonder some Indian brave hasn’t snapped her up and carried her off to
his happy wigwam,” Broom went on. “But there!” he added, “I suppose
she’d turn up her pretty little nose at a native. She wants a white
man.” Then, with emphasis there was no misunderstanding, “and no
understrapper at that.”
Jumping to his feet, Roy stood before the fellow. A flush of manifest
vexation burned upon his cheek. His hands clenched involuntarily. His
eyes flashed, but restraining himself, he said: “Look here, Broom,
that’s enough! I’ll have no more of your veiled insinuations, or hear
any more disrespectful remarks about that girl.”
The sailor laughed quietly for a moment as if he had some mighty good
joke in his mind, then with a half-deprecative, half-protesting movement
of the hand, “All right,” he said, “don’t get on your ear. There’s no
need for us to quarrel over a native.”
“But I strongly object to the tone you adopt when speaking of the girl,”
persisted Roy, indignantly, “and while we are on the subject I may as
well tell you that I will not tolerate any more of it. You are my guest,
so to speak, but my patience has an end, and my hospitality its limits.”
Broom’s jaw dropped; he was evidently nonplussed.
There was a silence. Broom’s eyes were fixed upon the floor. He seemed
to be considering. Roy turned away to walk up and down.
“Oh, stow it!” exclaimed Broom at last, without raising his eyes. “You
Hudson’s Bay men are not so dashed good yourselves that you can afford
to lecture others.”
“That is as may be,” returned the trader sharply, “but you see, I’m
master here and——”
“The king can do no wrong,” finished the other sententiously. Then he
laughed and suddenly extended his hand. “Come, shake hands,” he cried.
“You’re not a bad chap in spite of your sanctimonious airs.”
This remark was evidently intended as an overture of reconciliation. Roy
stared hard at him for a moment, then glanced at the outstretched hand.
He hated quarrelling, but he was feeling too angry at the man to forgive
him thus easily. The other noticed Roy’s hesitation and look, and
quickly dropped his hand. Somewhat staggered, the fellow sat twisting
his moustache, pulling at his shaggy beard and scowling at the trader,
who had resumed his pacing. After spending a portion of his discomfiture
in this manner, Broom again essayed a remark.
“Guess I was in the wrong,” he said, as if by way of general retraction.
“You’ve been a good friend to me, in fact you saved my life. For when I
drifted in here, after deserting that blighted whaler, I was all in; the
winter was upon me, and, why! I hadn’t enough clothes to flag a train.”
At this he laughed heartily. “You took me in, clothed me, and killed the
fatted caribou. Hang it, shake!” and he thrust forth his hand again.
Roy stopped perambulating. “Perhaps I’ve been a little hasty,” he said,
and took the man’s hand, though he was still only half mollified, for
this sudden warmth of gratitude struck him as feigned. “She is a demure,
soft-hearted little thing, and I do not like to hear her spoken of in
that way,” he explained, dropping into a chair.
“Oh, of course not!” observed Broom with a suggestion of sarcasm in his
tone.
“Her father, Delgezie, works for me; he has worked for the Company all
his life,” continued Roy severely, his eyes beginning to flash again.
“He is a pure-blooded Indian, a faithful servant, a gentle, God-fearing
old man, and his daughter, who was orphaned at a very early age, is a
very remarkable girl. She was practically brought up by the missionary’s
wife at Churchill, you know, and her polite, civilized manner and
extraordinary intelligence have attracted great attention and remark
from people travelling through the country; and I now warn you: The man
who fools with that girl will have _me_ to reckon with.”
The sailor started and glanced at him for an instant under his brows;
the veins swelled at his temples, and a dull, angry light came into his
eyes. “Oh, he will, will he?” he sneered.
Almost as these words were uttered a dark face was thrust into the room
and a voice cried out in Chipewyan. Roy answered in the same language
and the face disappeared.
Broom looked enquiringly at the trader, who was pulling on a coat. The
angry light was still in Broom’s eyes, but his tone changed very much
when he spoke again. “What’s that he says?” he asked, suavely. “I don’t
understand that lingo.”
“He says there are Eskimo arriving,” replied Roy shortly; and he went
out to watch the approach of the natives.
Then Broom half closed his eyes and an expression of malignant and
devilish hatred came over his face. “So you threaten me, my Hudson’s Bay
rooster,” he murmured. “Well, you may crow in your own yard, curse you,
but don’t crow too loudly, for you don’t own the earth.” Then, gently
rubbing his wounded lips, he added, almost in a whisper, and there was a
low hiss in the words: “And you shall pay dearly for that blow.”
The wind was fair and the Eskimos came racing before it at a great
speed. Relieved of any effort by the wind and sails, the dogs ran beside
the flying _com-it-uks_ (Eskimo sleds) in apparent jubilation, while the
natives—with the exception of the two required to steer each of these
unwieldy, improvised ice-boats—were sitting on the loads with smiles of
satisfaction, feeling that all was as it should be. As they neared the
Fort the big parchment sails were dropped and the dogs brought into
action. The number of dogs attached to each _com-it-uk_ varied, not
according to the weight of the load, as one would imagine, but according
to the total number possessed by the Eskimos travelling with it. Where
dogs were lacking natives dropped into the vacant places and hauled on
the “bridles” (traces) as substitutes. The heavily-laden sleds[1] were
with difficulty dragged to the warehouse where Roy stood, with door wide
open, ready to receive them.
The odd commingling of tongues was confusing. Roy was giving occasional
sharp orders in Eskimo, and holding scraps of conversation in his own
tongue with Broom, whom he had suddenly found standing beside him, while
the voluble Sahanderry ran about loudly vociferating in Chipewyan. Added
to this was the hum occasioned by the Eskimos speaking among themselves
and the chorus of a few dozen dogs.
The new arrivals were all dressed alike in hairy deerskin clothing, and
scarcely anyone but a native could have distinguished male from female,
except for a band of brass which some of the women wore around their
foreheads. Yet the trader was able to greet each of the natives by name
without making a mistake, even when two brothers appeared.
“Well, Oulybuck,” he cried, shaking hands with a young Eskimo. “Where’s
Piglinick? Isn’t he here?”
“No. He’s dead,” returned the native.
“Dead!” echoed Roy, with a look of profound astonishment.
“Yes,” continued the native, dryly, “we hung him last moon.”
“Hung him last moon!” repeated the horrified trader, staring blankly at
the broad-smiling Eskimo for a few seconds, then bursting into a roar of
laughter.
“Beats cock-fighting,” observed Broom, sententiously.
“Yes,” said Roy, recovering himself somewhat. Then turning to Oulybuck,
“Why did you hang him?” he asked.
But Oulybuck ignored the question. “Hung Kinnicky, too,” he said,
smiling as if proud of this double achievement.
“Goodness me; why, he’s hung his father also!” cried the astonished Roy.
His face now changed its expression to one of consternation.
“A regular Jack Ketch,” asserted Broom.
“Tell us about it, Oulybuck. Why did you do it?” asked Roy, who had
become grave. He scarcely knew what to make of such summary proceedings.
The native, nothing loth, told his story in a few words, interspersed
with long pauses.
It appeared that his father, Kinnicky, and his brother, Piglinick, who
had accompanied him the last time he had come to the Fort, had been
taken ill shortly after starting on their return journey. As days passed
by and he got no better, Kinnicky decided to end his sufferings. He bade
Oulybuck build him an _iglo_ without the complete dome. This Oulybuck
dutifully did, and with the aid of a sled runner, which was placed
across the top of the structure reaching from wall to wall, and a piece
of clapmatch line, which hung from the runner and terminated in a noose,
Kinnicky was left dancing in the air. This somewhat unique cure seems to
have recommended itself to Piglinick also, for soon he was hanging
beside his father.
Oulybuck finished his story with a look of conscious pride at the part
he had played in the matter.
“I wonder where they got the idea of hanging,” said Broom, breaking the
silence that followed.
Roy shook his head. He was puzzled by the strange yarn of the Eskimo;
such proceedings appeared so very barbarous, even in that remote
country, far from all law and order. Yet he thoroughly understood, from
his knowledge of the Eskimo character, that the whole astounding
performance had been carried out by Oulybuck in perfect good faith. The
Eskimo had merely obeyed his father and elder brother’s commands in
assisting them to commit suicide, the same as he would have implicitly
obeyed any other order they might have given him.
While Oulybuck was engaged with his story the other Eskimos had chosen a
suitable spot on which to erect their _iglos_ (snow-houses) and had
started to make them. Working in three gangs, they labored on as many
_iglos_. Cutting large blocks of snow from an adjacent drift they
carried them to other Eskimos, who built them into walls around
themselves. Dexterously they trimmed the blocks with the _pin-uks_
(snow-knives), fitting them into place with great exactness. Speedily
the walls went up, and as they grew in height so they decreased in
circumference, till at last only the heads of the builders could be
seen. Snow blocks were then neatly fitted to the remaining spaces, and
the men were immured in prisons of their own construction; but they were
quickly released by their friends on the outside, who cut holes through
the walls near the base of the _iglos_ to serve as entrances. In front
of these holes blocks of snow were placed to act as doors; and the
cracks in the walls were sealed with loose snow. This completed these
primitive but serviceable snow houses and they were quickly tenanted. In
fact the whole performance was marked by the expeditious way in which it
was accomplished.
Meanwhile the trader and his companion had returned to the house and
were now blowing clouds of blue smoke. Broom sat in his favorite
position with feet resting on the bottom bunk, while Roy lounged
comfortably back with one leg dangling over the arm of his chair.
Jumping up suddenly, Roy put a box of cigars and two enamelled mugs upon
the table, then produced a bottle of whiskey from a locked box. He had
resolved to spend the evening as pleasantly as possible. Pushing the
cigars toward the sailor, he said, “Have a cigar? Help yourself.”
Broom grinned appreciatively and complied with ready acquiescence.
“Don’t care if I do,” he answered, taking one and brightening.
The trader drew the cork and passed the bottle to his companion, who
took it with sundry little chuckles of satisfaction, and after several
long approving sniffs, poured out a goodly potation, which he tossed off
with a whimsical wink and a curt nod. Then his hand went quickly to his
mouth, and for a fleeting second his face assumed a most unpleasant
expression, for the raw spirits stung his lips, which were cut and
bruised by contact with the trader’s fist.
The look, however, passed unobserved by Roy, who had taken the bottle
and was helping himself moderately.
“Good stuff,” sighed Broom, presently, gazing affectionately into his
empty mug.
“Yes, and very precious in these parts,” said Roy. “I got only one case
last fall; but I’ve managed to make it hold out pretty well.”
“You certainly have,” returned Broom, putting up his mug with apparent
reluctance.
Then the two men settled themselves in their chairs and blew more clouds
of smoke. Broom made free with the box of cigars and sprawled himself
out comfortably, his face wearing an expression which indicated that he
was highly satisfied with himself.
Suddenly he started chuckling to himself.
“What’s the joke,” inquired Roy.
“Oh, I was thinking of a fellow on the whaler,” replied Broom, removing
the cigar from his mouth and gazing meditatively at the burning tip. “He
was hammering a dog one day when the skipper interposed. ‘You seem to
have a spite against that dog,’ said the skipper. ‘No, I ain’t got no
grudge against the dog,’ said the fellow, ‘I’m just showing my
author-_i_-ity.’”
After this the sailor fairly surpassed himself in wit and good humor,
and Roy was in constant bursts of laughter at his stories and metaphors.
Curious to know the cause of this unusual mirth, Sahanderry hastily
finished his work in the kitchen, and stood in the doorway listening to
the conversation. The Indian’s presence seemed to irritate Broom, who
frequently threw him a contemptuous glance and seemed impatient to order
him away.
“Come, Sahanderry,” said the trader, at length; “you’re a hunter; give
us a yarn.”
The moment the Indian’s name was mentioned Broom’s face assumed a sneer
and his eyes flashed spitefully, for even in the short time he had been
at the Fort he and the Indian had for some reason become bitter enemies.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and appeared about to make some
scornful remark, but changed his mind and sat twisting his moustache
instead. Sahanderry’s face was immediately suffused with smiles. He
wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. Then the smiles vanished and his
countenance took a solemn, mournful expression.
“I’ll tell you about a _na-ra-yah_ (wolverine),” he said, moistening his
lips with a thick tongue.
“Fire away, then!” cried Roy.
The Indian stood and preened himself a moment, then started off in a
stentorian voice, moving his arms in unison. He told how a wolverine had
been caught in a trap that he had set for a fox, and how in its
struggles to get free it had broken the chain and gone off with the trap
attached to its foot. Gesticulating wildly, the man got more and more
excited as he progressed with his story. A graphic description of a
_na-ra-yah_ in _rigor mortis_ was given. The Indian’s uncouth antics and
profound gravity in the portrayal created great amusement.
“Upon my word, Sahanderry,” said Broom, when the Indian had finished,
“you are a most delightful liar.”
Sahanderry’s eyes flashed at this doubtful comment. He appeared about to
spring at his tormentor, who was still twisting the ends of his
moustache. There was a moment of silence. The sailor sat looking at the
Indian with exasperating calmness. The Indian breathed heavily, glaring
at the sailor.
“What right has Broom to call me a liar?” he demanded, turning to Roy.
“Broom! you black scoundrel, Broom!” cried the man of the sea, “I’ll
have you remember that I’ve a handle to my name.”
“Well, Broom-handle, then,” retorted Sahanderry sharply.
The sailor half rose from his chair in a gust of passion as if he would
make for Sahanderry, but evidently changed his mind, for he dropped
slowly back to his seat. At a wave of the hand from the trader,
Sahanderry retired in a sulky mood to the kitchen.
After a time Broom forced a smile to his face.
“Not bad for an Indian!” he admitted with dubious praise, and with an
attempt at a laugh.
“No,” returned Roy shortly. Then he spoke of the destructive habits of
the wolverine.
At this juncture there was a slight shuffling noise in the kitchen,
accompanied by a sound of heavy breathing. The noise drew nearer, and
presently with a long “Phew!” an Eskimo ushered himself into the room.
He paused for a moment as if to make sure of his welcome, then at a nod
from the _A-hoo-mit-uk_ (master) he squatted down where he stood. It was
Ocpic the Murderer, a sobriquet he had earned, it was said by killing
seven other Eskimos.
Seating himself on his haunches in the doorway, he divested himself of
his _tko-ti-tok_ (coat) by pulling it over his head, and sat in his
_at-ti-yi_ (shirt), smiling blandly, his little black, oblique eyes
alertly watching.
While the two white men were engaged in conversation, the Eskimo’s eyes
wandered about the room and eventually fixed themselves on a large key
which hung on a nail at the head of one of the bunks.
The little black eyes flashed and twinkled, for their owner was aware
that this key opened the trading store—that little paradise which
contained everything dear to the Eskimo heart. Ocpic knew where a new
net hung, a fine new salmon net, made and just ready to drop in the
water; and he would be badly in need of a net in the spring. There was
nothing to prevent his obtaining the net, nothing but that key. He gave
it a long earnest look, then suddenly dropped his gaze and a crafty
expression came on his face.
Neither Roy nor Broom noticed Ocpic’s prolonged gaze at the key, nor
observed the stealthy gleam which came to Ocpic’s eye. They were
speaking of the manners and mode of life of these strange, littoral
people, who inhabit nearly five thousand miles of seaboard from East
Greenland to the Peninsula of Alaska, and who throughout all that vast
range speak essentially the same language.
“They certainly are a peculiar race,” remarked Roy in conclusion. “I
have read somewhere that they are an intermediate species between man
and the sea-cow.”
Both men looked across at the Eskimo. He was sitting in the same
position and smiled it them as they looked his way.
Then there was a voice at the door crying, “_Delgezie yu-cuzz-ie,
Bekothrie_” (Delgezie is coming, master).
Roy jumped excitedly to his feet. He had heard the voice, but had not
distinguished the words, and thought for a moment that the anxiously
awaited “packet” had been sighted.
“Delgezie,” said Sahanderry, shortly, putting his head into the room.
“Oh,” and the trader’s face lengthened visibly. He paused irresolutely,
then reached down his “hairy-coat” and fur cap and strode out of the
house.
Yawning prodigiously, Broom slowly rose to his feet. Then he
deliberately filled and lit his pipe, pulled on a coat and stuck a cap
on his head and leisurely followed Roy, leaving Ocpic alone with the
key.
-----
[1] These sleds, generally known as Eskimo sleds, are made of two
runners some thirty feet long, four inches deep and two inches thick,
and are mostly shod with whalebone, but in its absence mud is used. This
latter is put on hot and allowed to freeze, then planed smooth and
“iced” by quickly drawing a streaming-wet piece of white bearskin or
blanket over it. This process of icing takes place every night.
Whalebone does not require icing, so has this advantage over mud and is
used altogether by the most Northern Eskimo. Wooden bars are fastened
across these long runners at intervals of six inches, and a
ground-lashing of clapmatch line, or rope, run fore and aft on either
side. The load is lashed down to this. Very heavy loads can be hauled on
this kind of sled; in fact, ten hundred pounds’ weight on an Eskimo sled
is merely equivalent to four hundred on a flat sled (toboggan). The
serious disadvantage of mud is felt in the spring, when the mud thaws
out and drops off in chunks.