When the four poles had been obtained, old Joe erected them in the snow
to windward of the excavation. Then from his sled he got an oblong of
canvas which he stretched over them.
“Boosh! So now we get firewood and start a blaze and den everyteeng is
fine,” he exclaimed, briskly stepping back to admire his handiwork.
Although the boys did not know it, this camp which Joe had just erected
is a favorite form of temporary resting place in the frozen North. The
canvas stretched above the poles serves a double purpose, to keep out
the wind and to act as a reflector to the fire in front so that those
down in the pit are kept delightfully snug and warm.
The boys next set about getting wood for the fire. This did not take
long. Then branches stripped from the balsam boughs were thrown into the
snow pit to a depth of several inches, to form a soft, springy mattress
for their blankets. The fire was lighted and plenty of wood heaped near
by to keep it going.
Finally the kettle was filled with snow, which was set by the fire to
melt. From the sled old Joe got some deer meat, by this time frozen
hard, which he had obtained from Pegic. While the meat was thawing the
boys helped spread their beds in the warm, fire-lighted pit, and then
old Joe cooked supper.
The boys were certainly learning woodcraft from the old French Canadian.
They would hardly have thought it possible, an hour before, that such a
cozy camp could have been made in the snow with such simple means. But
the wilderness traveler has had to learn by many hard experiences how to
make the best of things, and the experiments of successive travelers
have resulted in a score or more of makeshift devices for comfort and
safety.
While the party of adventurers ate their supper with hearty appetites,
washing it down with big drafts of scalding tea, the dogs outside made
their own camp in their peculiar fashion. The mamelukes make themselves
comfortable very easily. Having gorged themselves on fish, they burrowed
into the snow and slept the sleep of the faithful sled dog.
In their improvised camp the travelers slept till daylight, which to the
boys, at least, seemed to be an interval of not more than five minutes.
Breakfast, consisting of the remains of supper and more tea, having been
consumed, the dogs, which had been routed out and fed, were harnessed up
once more. Then, trail sore and stiff after their sleep, the boys
resumed their travels.
They followed the river and, of course, the track of the runners of the
thief’s sled, which still lay clear and sharp on the snow. About two
hours after the start they came upon another of his camps. Clearly he
had allowed his dogs to sleep, for there were the marks of their
burrowings to be observed in the snow.
“Aha, dey are tiring, mes enfants!” cried old Joe. “Not veree long now.
Courage! Boosh!”
At the expiration of another period of travel, and not long before noon,
on rounding a bend in the river they sighted another party coming toward
them. There were three figures and a dog sled. The figures speedily
resolved themselves into a Black River Indian and two squaws.
“Bien! Now we get news, maybe!” chuckled old Joe.
Then, as they neared the other party, which had come to a halt awaiting
them, old Joe breathed a caution.
“Let me do zee talking. Boosh! Indians are hard to talk unless you know
dem, and den—not always easy. Tiens!”
Old Joe did not drive right up to the Indians, who were squatting down
on their sled. Instead, he halted at some little distance. There
followed an exchange of greetings in the Black River dialect, and then
pipes were produced and both sides, squaws and all, smoked gravely for a
time. The boys looked on, much amused at all this ceremony, which,
however, as old Joe knew, was necessary. To quote an old proverb, “The
longest way round is the shortest way home,” with an Indian.
The Indian was a short, squat fellow with straight black hair. He was
very dirty, but otherwise very like Pegic in appearance. One of the
squaws was old and very hideous. The other was a younger woman and not
uncomely in a way. She was evidently considered a belle, for she was
hung lavishly with beadwork, while the homely old squaw did not display
any ornaments.
Old Joe was the first to speak, addressing the man in his own dialect.
We will translate the conversation that followed into “the King’s
English.”
“It is very fine weather. The traveling is very pleasant and the wind
gods sleep.”
The Indian nodded gravely.
“It is even so, my white friend,” said he. “The sky is soft as the cheek
of a baby and the storm slumbers like an old man by the fire. But there
will come a change before long. Early to-day the river smoked, the frost
was low on the trees and the wind stirred in its dreams. Before long we
shall get much snow and the wind, too, will awake and set out upon the
trail.”
“What you say may well be true,” rejoined old Joe. “The same signs have
I noticed. But who are we that we should control the winds or the
snows?”
Old Joe paused. The Indian did not reply, and for some moments they both
smoked on in silence. Blue wreaths rose almost straight from their pipes
in the still air. The cracking of the ice on the river alone broke the
silence.
Then the Indian removed his pipe and spoke once more in his slow,
measured tones.
“The owl was abroad in the night and at daybreak my squaw’s mother, the
ill-favored one yonder, did see one with a weasel in its claws. What
think you is the meaning of that sign, my white brother?”
Old Joe shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“No man can read the owl, my friend,” he replied. “Tell me, how do you
interpret the sign?”
“That ere long a white man—the weasel that my squaw’s ill-favored
mother did see—shall be caught by the bearded white man and the two
unbearded boys that do travel with him.”
This was a typically Indian way of stating a conclusion, and old Joe
appeared to feel highly flattered at the comparison of himself to an
owl. He smiled and said:
“It is even so. The owl that is Joe Picquet does pursue the weasel that
is a thieving white man, a robber of trappers, a despoiler of cabins in
the woods.”
“Then ere long you will catch him,” the Indian assured him gravely, “for
so do the signs read and no man may gainsay them.”
The moment in these roundabout negotiations had now arrived when old Joe
deemed he could diplomatically ask a direct question.