_AN ESKIMO CONJURER AND A PUGILISTIC ENCOUNTER._
Early next morning Roy was in the inner room making a protracted search
for the store key, which had mysteriously disappeared from the nail on
which it had hung the night before. Suddenly discontinuing his efforts,
he strode into the kitchen.
Sahanderry was standing near the door in earnest conversation with
Kasba, who had apparently just arrived with a message from her father.
Squatted beside the stove was the Eskimo, Ocpic.
Roy nodded to the girl, who discreetly drew aside, then questioned
Sahanderry, who instantly assured him of his total ignorance of the
matter.
Still pondering over the disappearance of the key, Roy suddenly raised
his eyes and encountered those of Ocpic, who was watching him keenly. In
a flash Roy perceived the culprit.
He glanced searchingly at the Eskimo, who returned the look with an
inscrutable face.
Roy smiled and flashed a glance at Sahanderry, who was standing with a
puzzled expression, gazing from one to the other of them. The
Chipewyan’s brain worked slowly, ponderously. It was some little time
before a suspicion of what was in the other’s mind dawned upon him.
Roy beckoned him with a slight movement of the head and then went
outside. The Indian lingered for a few moments before following with an
awkward attempt at careless ease.
“It was Ocpic,” declared Roy, vehemently, without preamble, as
Sahanderry joined him. “Of course it was he! I left him in the room with
the sailor when I went out to Delgezie, and the sailor followed. But
you,” he demanded quickly with a wrathful look, “what were you thinking
of that you allowed the Eskimo to stay alone in the room?”
The delinquent dropped his head guiltily, expecting a storm.
“Now go in,” continued the speaker peremptorily. “Try to keep Ocpic in
the kitchen while I fix up a plan to get the key away from him.”
The servant acquiesced gladly, and quickly disappeared into the house.
Roy followed more leisurely. He spoke jocosely to Kasba as he passed
through the kitchen.
On reaching the inner room he threw himself into a chair to form his
plans to outwit the Eskimo. In the dilemma his knowledge of the native
character stood him in good stead.
A feasible way presenting itself, he called the Eskimo forward.
Ocpic entered with a solemn face. There was a menacing gleam in his eye.
Roy knew at a glance that the native’s suspicions were aroused; that he
was prepared to deny any knowledge of the key with mule-like obstinacy.
It had been mislaid by himself, Roy explained, or it had dropped from
his pocket, as the case might be. Ocpic had often boasted of his feats
as a conjurer. Let him find the key and the trader would consider him as
clever as he made himself out to be.
The Eskimo hesitated. The trader twitted him with his incapability as a
conjurer, laughing at his hesitation to comply with such a simple
request. However, if Ocpic refused to find the key, he had only to
change the lock on the store door and the key would be of no use to
anyone.
Ocpic glanced searchingly at Roy, but his face had assumed such a bland,
innocent expression that any suspicion Ocpic might have had was
instantly allayed.
The Eskimo was now on his mettle. He felt his reputation as a conjurer
at stake. He hesitated a moment longer while the thought of the change
of locks sank into his brain. He had instantly perceived that the stolen
key would then be of no use to him, and so, his face assuming his old
simple, ingratiating smile, he gave a ready assent.
He would bring his conjuring belt, he said, and left the room.
The trader laughed inwardly.
After a short absence Ocpic again presented himself. He held a large
_kaip-puk_ (deerskin robe) in his hand and wore around his waist a belt
of string, to which rags of different material and color and sundry tiny
parchment ornaments had been attached. This belt was the insignia of his
office.[2]
Entering the room, Ocpic made arrangements for the coming performance
with the profoundest gravity, while the trader watched him with a
twinkle of amusement in his eye.
The native seemed to have some difficulty in finding a suitable spot on
the floor, but at length chose a place near the door, where he squatted
down, drawing the _kaip-puk_ over his head and completely enveloping
himself therewith. When this was accomplished to his own satisfaction,
he began a mumbled incantation, interspersed with much scratching on the
floor.
The conjurer’s voice swelled into a loud song as the ceremony
progressed. The _kaip-puk_ heaved, while the figure beneath seemed to be
engaged in a violent struggle, presumably with some turbulent spirit.
Meanwhile the noise made by Ocpic had gradually stirred Broom’s senses.
He slowly awoke, raised himself on one elbow, and gazed at the heaving
_kaip-puk_ as if fascinated. He brushed his hand across his eyes sharply
as if to make sure he was thoroughly awake, then threw another hasty,
startled glance in the same direction. Presently he smiled grimly as the
import of the scene grew clear to him. After watching the Eskimo’s
struggles for some moments longer, Broom dropped his legs over the side
of the bunk and sat in a stooping position. He was occupying the lower
bunk and the limited space above would not allow him to sit upright. He
then noticed Roy’s presence for the first time.
“What’s the bally performance?” he inquired, catching a glance from the
trader.
“Oh, I’ve lost the key of the trading store, and Ocpic’s finding it for
me,” responded Roy. The conjurer was still enveloped in the _kaip-puk_,
and, taking advantage of this, the speaker closed an eye.
Broom’s eye twinkled. “Ah,” he said significantly with a smile and a
meaning glance at the struggling bulk, which was now undergoing
astounding evolutions.
A moment later a tremendous upheaval occurred and the Eskimo’s head
appeared. He sat blinking at Roy, his overheated countenance perspiring
profusely.
“The spirit wants to know what kind of key it is,” he said breathlessly.
“A big key,” returned the trader, illustrating its length with his two
index fingers.
Ocpic nodded comprehendingly, gazed seriously around the room for a
moment, then, taking a long breath, again disappeared.
The two white men glanced at each other and smiled.
“That fellow’s _some_ conjurer,” asserted Broom, whose voice seemed to
betray a considerable appreciation of the ludicrous element in the
incident.
“He sure is,” said Roy, with a broad grin; “the best in the land.”
Broom started to laugh, but a sharp look from Roy turned it to a
prolonged yawn.
The conjurer’s previous herculean efforts were mere child’s play
compared to the superhuman display that followed. The intervals of
scratching became continuous, the incantations swelled into a roar and
the twisting figure beneath the _kaip-puk_ worked itself into a frenzy.
Then suddenly all was still and a closed hand pushed itself out through
the covering. The grimy fingers and the thumb slowly opened, disclosing
the wards of a large key.
“Is that the key?” asked a muffled voice from beneath the _kaip-puk_.
“Yes,” replied Roy without moving from his seat to examine the thing in
the extended hand.
The fingers and thumb closed back on the object and the hand again
disappeared. Ocpic’s voice was then heard in conversation. After a time
the attendant spirits were, apparently, dismissed, for the figure arose.
The _kaip-puk_ fell to the floor in a heap and the Eskimo stood
revealed, smiling and perspiring. With a proud look he held a large key
extended on his open palm. The trader slowly took it, then, like a
flash, his expression of careless indifference disappeared and his face
took on a look of implacable wrath. Reaching for the fallen _kaip-puk_
he hurled it into the kitchen as far as he could throw it; then turning
to the Eskimo, he grasped him firmly by the shoulder.
“You’re a thief,” he cried. “You stole the key.” With this he gave the
astonished Ocpic a shake which nearly sent him off his feet. “If ever I
find you in this room again I will shoot you,” he added sternly. “Now
go.” Ocpic breathed heavily, his face worked passionately, then suddenly
he gave a loud shout. Hatred, the implacable hatred of a coward, flashed
from his eyes as he did so.
As if by magic the doorway was filled with angry faces. A number of
Eskimos shuffled in and made an effort to draw near to Ocpic.
Quietly Broom dropped from the bunk to the floor. Deliberately he
reached for a chair. Then he took his place beside Roy, balancing the
chair in his hand.
Then a slight figure pressed itself through the group at the door. It
was Kasba. Roy looked at her surprised, and smiled. Straightening
herself, she faced Ocpic’s allies with outstretched hand and eyes aflame
and stood as if warning them back, a veritable little fury. For a moment
the Eskimos wavered, then they murmured together and moved as if to push
past the girl.
Roy smiled grimly. He was conscious of feeling a slight exultation at
the prospect of a conflict with the natives, for the old race antagonism
was strong in him. He knew the moment of his life had come, that to show
the least fear now was to lose command over these people forever. All
depended upon a bold front.
Abruptly he motioned Broom back. Then he gently brushed Kasba aside.
Stern and fearless he strode up to Ocpic, who never moved a muscle. With
blazing eyes Roy pointed to the door. He looked particularly big in his
wrath.
“_Hilimee!_” (Go!), he barked. The command was not one to be ignored. He
seemed with his stern visage and flashing eyes to be very earnest
indeed.
There was a tense silence. The two men gazed fixedly into each other’s
eyes; then, as invariably happens, the native quailed before an
unflinching outward manifestation of the stronger will. Ocpic’s eyes
dropped sullenly. He turned and shuffled out. The group at the door had
already melted away, as silently as it had appeared.
Roy turned to speak to Kasba, but found her gone. The danger past, she
had vanished. The two white men silently gripped hands.
A few minutes later Sahanderry appeared with a trembling, scared face;
so terrified was he at what had just transpired that he quaked with
terror. He kept muttering to himself while he laid the table for
breakfast. Evidently he expected Ocpic to take summary vengeance by a
murderous act similar to one of which he was already declared guilty.
Having recovered the key, Roy decided to go alone to the trading-store
to ascertain the extent of Ocpic’s peculations, and with this intention
struggled into his hairy-coat and was about to leave the room when an
enamelled plate fell with a loud clatter from Sahanderry’s trembling
fingers to the floor. This drew Roy’s attention to the Indian’s state of
extreme nervousness. He looked fixedly at him for a moment and then
spoke.
“Sahanderry,” he said in a voice that made the man addressed spin round
as if shot.
“Bekothrie!” gasped the Indian.
The trader quietly held his gaze until the other had somewhat mastered
his agitation, then:
“Don’t be a fool,” he added sharply.
These peremptory words, coupled with the speaker’s perfect coolness, had
the desired effect. Assuming courage borrowed from Roy’s composure,
Sahanderry continued his labors with less nervousness, but heavily and
with scant interest.
Broom, who was feeling “as fresh as a daisy,” returned to his seat on
the edge of the bunk, where he sat warbling scraps of songs of
questionable morality in a harsh, grating voice, like the rasping of
dull metal, beating a tattoo meanwhile with the heels of his naked feet
and throwing Sahanderry an occasional glance to see how he was
appreciating these efforts.
Strange to say, Sahanderry was far from being offended at the levity of
the singer, and hovered about the table with an approving smile on his
dark face long after he had completed his duties. Perceiving his
apparent interest, Broom threw himself into the attitude of a preacher
and with inscrutable face severely lectured the Indian on his
indiscretion in listening.
“You are a hardened sinner, my man,” he declared sharply. “Mind what you
are about, or you will come to a bad end.”
This admonition discomfited Sahanderry for the moment, then he threw the
incorrigible Broom a look of infinite scorn and abruptly walked out with
his head in the air.
Left alone, the other delivered himself of a rattling chorus as a grand
finale, then, dropping on his feet, he pulled on his clothes with a
dexterity almost incredible. In a few moments Mr. Broom was dressed and
out of doors.
After breakfast the trader rose from the table and paced the room
restlessly. “That packet!” he murmured, sighing a little. “How I wish it
would turn up. For some unaccountable reason my fiancée’s letters missed
connection last mail; I haven’t heard from her for a year.”
“What, a whole twelve months!” cried his companion with a theatrical
start of horror. “A year without a ‘billy-doo.’ What a calamity!”
Roy made a playful lunge, which the other skilfully avoided, then,
laughing good-naturedly at Broom’s banter, he attired himself and went
out, but he did not remain out of doors long, quickly returning and
wandering listlessly about the place during the rest of the morning. He
was too anxious about the “packet” to attend his traps or settle himself
to anything about the Fort.
Broom made himself comfortable and began to read the book he had laid
aside on the previous day. But as time went on he put it down and
endeavored to attract the trader’s attention by making significant signs
and gestures, such as filling an invisible vessel from an imaginary
bottle, lifting his hand to his mouth and going through the motions of
drinking with evident gusto, and swallowing an indefinite quantity of
something with an appreciative smack of the lips. These pantomimic
efforts failing, he coughed spasmodically, then uttered sundry vague
half sentences, among which “An eye-opener,” “Throat as dry as a
lime-kiln,” “A hair of the dog that bites you,” could be plainly
distinguished, and all these attempts at effecting a “liquor up” being
abortive, he came abruptly to the point with a hint there was no
mistaking.
“What about a drink?” he asked with an ingratiating smile.
But the trader was gazing out through the window, his thoughts far away,
and Broom was obliged to repeat his words with emphasis before Thursby
became aware that he was speaking.
Then, “Eh!” he ejaculated, turning sharply and collecting his errant
thoughts with an effort. “I beg pardon, Broom. I was thinking, and your
words passed over me.”
“Oh, I was merely inquiring whether there was a ‘shot left in the
locker,’” grumbled Broom.
The other laughed, paused irresolutely, then set a bottle and enamelled
mug on the table. Broom eyed these proceedings with manifest
satisfaction. But perceiving there was but one mug he raised his
eyebrows and glanced significantly from the mug to Roy and back to the
mug again.
Roy shook his head and smiled. “No,” he said, “it’s too early.” He
waited until Broom had helped himself, then again placed the bottle
under lock and key.
Broom shrugged his shoulders at this caution. He screwed his face into
an extravagant expression of dismay, then, changing his expression
suddenly, he emptied the mug at a gulp.
Buttoning his coat and drawing his cap well down, Roy went out to take
another look for the packet. Broom followed Roy to the door with his
eyes, then took up the mug and looked into it as if to see whether by
any possible chance a drop had been left in the bottom. Raising it to
his lips, he drained the few remaining drops, then finding he could
squeeze no more out of it, replaced the mug and settled himself to read.
Meanwhile, Sahanderry, trying to appear at ease, was in the kitchen
preparing dinner. He broke off short in a song to glance at Ocpic who
was squatting in a corner, watching him from beneath lowered brows.
Mustering courage, Sahanderry again burst forth, but only managed two
lines before his courage again failed him. His song stopped abruptly; he
wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a hand that trembled; his
eyes rolled in their sockets, and his hair stood on end more than usual.
Then he laughed the short mirthless laugh of a man who was afraid.
At this juncture the door opened and Delgezie appeared, accompanied by
Minnihak, and Sahanderry’s face brightened instantly. He greeted the
newcomers with effusion. Feeling that he had a sympathetic confidant in
Delgezie, he related the story of the stolen key. But the old man
evidently was made of “sterner stuff.” He listened to the tale with the
keenest attention and at first looked puzzled, then astonished, then
fierce and wrathful.
The story was no sooner finished than Delgezie called Minnihak to him
and, despite Sahanderry’s protests, and his own limited knowledge of the
Eskimo language, he acquainted him with what had occurred.
Minnihak nodded twice after the old man had finished speaking, as if to
let him know that he perfectly understood, then, walking across the
kitchen, he squatted down a few feet in front of Ocpic and sat gazing
fixedly at him.
Ocpic, no whit abashed, returned the look.
After some moments of silence, “You’re a thief!” said Minnihak sharply,
and there was a prolonged wait. The two Eskimo glared fiercely at each
other, Ocpic’s breath came quickly, and his eyes glittered evilly. At
length he got slowly to his feet.
The other did likewise and, standing silently, the two men continued
their fixed stare.
Presently Ocpic deliberately threw off his coat and shirt and again
Minnihak leisurely followed suit. Then, still in perfect silence, they
straightened themselves, and, standing naked to the waist, prepared for
a pugilistic encounter.
Stationing themselves at arm’s length the belligerents stood firm, and
Ocpic, considering himself the better man, allowed his opponent the
first blow and placed himself in the required position to receive it.
With left arm drawn tight against his side and the shoulder pushed well
forward, he stood offering the other a fair opportunity to strike his
exposed biceps.
Minnihak paused a moment, as if mustering his strength, then, with a
swinging blow, he struck. The blow was received with a grim smile, and
the arm fell into its natural position, proclaiming the recipient ready
to take his revenge.
Drawing himself up, Minnihak then offered the muscles of his arm for
sacrifice. Ocpic brought his fist round with a wicked swing and struck a
mighty blow. Minnihak winced visibly. Ocpic smiled grimly and drew back
into position again.
There was now a few minutes interval of quiet, during which Broom
entered the kitchen.
“Hullo! You giddy gamecocks,” he cried, “What’s the row?”
Delgezie hastened to explain and the sailor seated himself to enjoy the
fight.
It was a novel scene. The daylight straggled through the frosted windows
and lit the room dimly. The combatants breathed heavily. Delgezie leaned
against the table with an anxious look on his bronzed face. He was
feeling a little apprehensive for Minnihak’s safety. Sahanderry clung to
the old man in abject terror. He was viewing an Eskimo fight for the
first time and the heavy, resounding blows appeared fearfully
blood-thirsty compared to the milder hair-pulling battles of his own
race. Broom sat smiling and contemptuous.
The pugilists again took positions and more hard blows were given and
received. These proceedings were repeated several times. Ocpic accepted
his punishment carelessly, but Minnihak was showing signs of fatigue. He
was clearly getting the worst of it. After a few more exchanges upon the
arms, Ocpic threw his head to one side, offering his cheek for a mark,
and the other drew himself together and made laudable efforts to gain
the victory, but his blow lacked force, and all felt that the fight was
over when it became Ocpic’s turn to strike. Their fears were well
grounded. Ocpic struck his opponent low down upon the jaw. The blow had
a touch of the uppercut, and Minnihak staggered and fell to the floor,
where he lay for a few moments blinking confusedly. Then he slowly got
to his feet. Ocpic stood watching him closely, but Minnihak had
evidently had enough. He crossed over to where his clothes were lying
and started to pull on his shirt. This was the act of a vanquished man.
Ocpic smiled exultantly at each of the spectators in turn, then followed
the example of his opponent. Their toilets completed, the two Eskimos
squatted on the floor close together and filled their pipes from the
victor’s fire-bag as if nothing unusual had happened.
-----
[2] In order to become a conjurer an Eskimo isolates himself in a tent
and neither eats nor drinks for fifteen days, when a spirit comes and
shakes him by the hand. This handshaking once performed he is a
conjurer. Henceforth he is supposed to hold an army of attendant spirits
at his beck and call: he can cause a lost article to be found; a person
to recover from an illness or the reverse; and a hundred and one things
equally astounding to happen.