CHAPTER V.

_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.