Chapter 6

A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt. They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there, but the shack was empty.

"We'll be havin' th' tilt snug an' warm for th' lads when they comes," said Dick, as he went briskly to work to build a fire in the stove "You get some ice t' melt for th' tea, Ed. Th' lads'll be handy t' gettin' in now, an' when they comes supper'll be pipin' hot for un."

Ed took an axe and a pail to the river where he chopped out pieces of fine, clear ice with which to fill the kettle. When he came back Dick had a roaring fire and was busy preparing partridges to boil.

Pretty soon Bill arrived, and they gave him an uproarious greeting. It was the first time Bill and Ed had met since they came to their trails in the fall, and the two friends were as glad to see each other as though they had been separated for years.

"An' how be un now, Bill, an' how's th' fur?" asked Ed when they were seated.

"Fine," replied Bill. "Fur's been fine th' year. I has more by now 'an I gets all o' last season, an' one silver too."

"A silver? An' be he a good un?"

"Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un much."

"Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too--about th' best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets a rare lot o' fur that year--a rare lot--but I'm not catchin' all of un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns."

"An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill.

"Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in Dick. "Sure Bill's heard un--leastways he must 'a' heard un."

"No, I never heard un," said Bill.

"An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no truth in un."

"'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns. Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o' Injuns comes this way these days."

"What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill.

"I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," asserted Ed, assuming a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th' mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now, an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I finds a whole barrel o' flour missin' an' comes out at un. They owns up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t' _one_ meal--now ye mind, _one_ meal. When un eats a _barrel_ o' flour t' _one_ meal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like, an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like I scares un--scares un bad. I were _one_ man alone, an' wi' a bold face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I has a flat sled load o' martens from un--handy t' a hundred an' fifty--an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none. Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it."

Bill laughed and remarked,

"'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare folk?"

"A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn," asserted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation.

"Bob's late comin'," remarked Dick. "'Tis gettin' dark."

"He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th' night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange."

They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that Bob was not coming that night.

"'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length. "An' he brought down his fur last trip--a fine lot."

"Where be un?" asked Dick.

Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine too!"

"Gone!" Dick and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?"

"Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis gone now!"

The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for awhile in silence. Finally Dick spoke:

"'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin' somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un."

"We must find un an' run that devil Injun down," exclaimed Ed, reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un, neither."

"'Twill be no use goin' now," said Dick, with better judgment. "Th' moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi' daylight we must be goin'."

Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down. We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he assented. Then he gritted his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi' Bob."

The remainder of the evening was spent in putting forth conjectures as to what had possibly befallen Bob. They were much concerned but tried to reassure themselves with the thought that he might have been delayed one tilt back for the night, and that Micmac John had done nothing worse than steal the fur. Nevertheless their evening was spoiled--the evening they had looked forward to with so much pleasure and their minds were filled with anxious thoughts when finally they rolled into their blankets for the night.

Christmas morning came with a dead, searching cold that made the three men shiver as they stepped out of the warm tilt long before dawn and strode off in single file into the silent, dark forest. After a while daylight came, and then the sun, beautiful but cheerless, appeared above the eastern hills to reveal the white splendour of the world and make the frost-hung fir trees and bushes scintillate and sparkle like a gem-hung fairy-land. But the three men saw none of this. Before them lay a black, unknown horror that they dreaded, yet hurried on to meet. The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts were weighted with a nameless dread.

Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when Dick said laconically:

"No smoke. He's not here."

"An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed.

"No footin' t' mark un at all," assented Dick. "What's happened has happened before th' last snow."

"Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened."

Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the remainder of that day and all the next day kept up their tireless, silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy they dreaded.

At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead, and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!" Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur in it.

"Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun been doin'? Now why did he _leave_ th' fur? 'Tis strange--wonderful strange."

Dick noted the evidences of an open fire having been kindled upon the earthen floor. "That fire were made since th' stove were taken," he said. "Micmac John left th' fur an' made th' fire. He's been stoppin' here a night after Bob left wi' th' stove. But why were Bob leavin' wi' th' stove? An' where has he gone? An' why has th' Injun been leavin' th' fur here an' not comin' for un again? We'll have t' be findin' out."

They started immediately to search for some clue of the missing lad, each taking a different direction and agreeing to meet at night in the tilt. Everywhere they looked, but nothing was discovered, and, weary and disheartened, they turned back with dusk. Dick returned across the first lake above the tilt. As he strode along one of his snow-shoes pressed upon something hard, and he stopped to kick the snow away from it. It was a deer's antler. He uncovered it farther and found a chain, which he pulled up, disclosing a trap and in it a silver fox, dead and frozen stiff. He straightened up and looked at it.

"A Christmas present for Bob an' he never got un," he said aloud. "Th' lad's sure perished not t' be findin' his silver."

Here was a discovery that meant something. Bob had been setting traps in that direction, and might have a string of traps farther on. Possibly he had gone to put them in order when the storm came, and had been caught in it farther up, and perished. Anyway it was worth investigation. When Dick returned with the fox and the trap to the tilt he told the others of his theory and it was decided to concentrate their efforts in that direction in the morning.

Accordingly the next day they pushed farther to the westward across the second lake, and at a point where a dead tree hung out over the ice found fresh axe cuttings. A little farther on they saw one or two sapling tops chopped off. These were in a line to the northward, and they took that direction. Finally they came upon a marsh, and heading in the same northerly course across it, came upon the tracks of a pack of wolves. Looking in the direction from which these led, Dick stopped and pointed towards a high boulder half a mile to the eastward.

"Now what be that black on th' snow handy t' th' rock?" he asked.

"'Tis lookin' t' me like a flat sled," said Ed.

"We'll have a look at un," suggested Dick, who hurried forward with the others at his heels. Suddenly he stopped, and pointed at the beaten snow and scattered bones and torn clothing, where Micmac John had fought so desperately for his life. The three men stood horror stricken, their faces drawn and tense. This, then, was the solution of the mystery! This was what had happened to Bob! Pretty soon Dick spoke:

"Th' poor lad! Th' poor lad! An' th' wolves got un!"

"An' his poor mother," said Ed, choking. "'Twill break her heart, she were countin' so on Bob. An' th' little maid as is sick--'twill kill she."

"Yes," said Bill, "Emily'll be mournin' herself t' death wi'out Bob."

These big, soft-hearted trappers were all crying now like women. No other thought occurred to them than that these ghastly remains were Bob's, for the toboggan and things on it were his.

After a while they tenderly gathered up the human remains and placed them upon the toboggan. Then they picked up the gun and blood spattered axe.

"Now here be another axe on th' flat sled," said Dick. "What were Bob havin' two axes for?"

"'Tis strange," said Ed.

"He must ha' had one cached in here, an' were bringin' un back," suggested Bill, and this seemed a satisfactory explanation.

"I'll take some pieces o' th' clothes. His mother'll be wantin' somethin' that he wore when it happened," said Dick, as he gathered some of the larger fragments of cloth from the snow.

Then with bowed heads and heavy hearts they silently retraced their steps to the tilt, hauling the toboggan after them.

At the tilt they halted to arrange their future course of action.

"Now," said Dick, "what's t' be done? 'Twill only give pain th' sooner t' th' family t' go out an' tell un, an' 'twill do no good. I'm thinkin' 'tis best t' take th' remains t' th' river tilt an' not go out with un till we goes home wi' open water."

"No, I'm not thinkin' that way," dissented Ed. "Bob's mother 'll be wantin' t' know right off. 'Tis not right t' keep it from she, an' she'll never be forgivin' us if we're doin' it."

"They's trouble enough down there that they _knows_ of," argued Dick. "They'll be thinkin' Bob safe 'an not expectin' he till th' open water an' we don't tell un, an' between now an' then have so much less t' worry un, and be so much happier 'an if they were knowin'. Folks lives only so long anyways an' troubles they has an' don't know about is troubles they don't have, or th' same as not havin' un, an' their lives is that much happier."

"I'm still thinkin' they'll be wantin' t' know," insisted Ed. "They'll be plannin' th' whole winter for Bob's comin' an' when they's expectin' him an' hears he's dead, 'twill be worse'n hearin' before they expects un. Leastways, they'll be gettin' over un th' sooner they hears, for trouble always wears off some wi' passin' time. 'Tis our duty t' go an' tell un _now_, I'm thinkin'."

"What's un think, Bill?" asked Dick.

"I'm thinkin with Ed, 'tis best t' go," said Bill, positively.

"Well, maybe 'tis--maybe 'tis," Dick finally assented. "Now, who'll be goin'? 'Twill be a wonderful hard task t' break th' news. I'm thinkin' my heart'd be failin' me when I gets there. Ed, would un _mind_ goin'?"

Ed hesitated a moment, then he said:

"I'm fearin' t' tell th' mother, but 'tis for some one t' do. 'Tis my duty t' do un--an' I'll be goin'."

It was finally arranged that Ed should begin his journey the following morning, drawing the remains on a toboggan, and taking otherwise only the tent, a tent stove, and enough food to see him through, leaving the remainder of Bob's things to be carried out in the boat in the spring. Dick undertook the charge of them as well as Bob's fur. Ed was to take the short cut to the river tilt and thence follow the river ice while Dick and Bill sprang Bob's traps on the upper end of his path.

"But," said Bill, after this arrangement was made, "Bob's folks be in sore need o' th' fur he'd be gettin' an' when Ed comes back, I'm thinkin' 'twould be fine for us not t' be takin' rest o' Saturdays but turnin' right back in th' trails. Ed can be doin' one tilt o' your trail, Dick, an' so shortenin' your trail one tilt so you can do two o' mine an' I'll shorten Ed two tilts an' do _three_ o' Bob's. I'd be willin' t' work _Sundays_ an' I'm thinkin' th' Lard wouldn't be findin' fault o' me for doin' un seem' Emily's needin' th' fur t' go t' th' doctor. 'Tis sure th' Lard wouldn't be gettin' angry wi' me for _that_, for He knows how bad off Emily is."

This generous proposal met with the approval of all, and details were arranged accordingly that evening as to just what each was to do until the furring season closed in the spring.

This was Saturday, December the twenty-eighth. On Sunday morning Ed bade good-bye to his companions and began the long and lonely journey to Wolf Bight with his ghastly charge in tow.

XII

IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES

Late on the afternoon of the day that Bob fell asleep in the snow, he awoke to new and strange surroundings. His first conscious moments brought with them a sense of comfortable security. His mind had thrown off every feeling of responsibility and he knew only that he was warm and snugly tucked into bed and that the odour of spruce forest and wood smoke that he breathed was very pleasant. He lay quiet for a time, with his eyes closed, in a state of blissful, half consciousness, vaguely realizing these things, but not possessing sufficient energy to open his eyes and investigate them or question where he was.

Slowly his mind awoke from its lethargy and then he began to remember as a dim, uncertain dream, his experience of the night before. Gradually it became more real but he recalled his failure to find the tent, the fearful groping in the snow, and his struggle for life against the storm as something that had happened in the long distant past.

"But how could all this ha' been happenin' t' me now?" he asked himself, for here he was snug in the tent--or perhaps he had reached the tilt and did not remember.

He opened his eyes now for the first time to see and satisfy himself as to whether it was the tent or the tilt he was in, and what he saw astonished and brought him to his senses very quickly.

He recognized at once the interior of an Indian wigwam. In the centre a fire was burning and an Indian woman was leaning over it stirring the contents of a kettle. On the opposite side of the fire from her sat a young Indian maiden of about Bob's own age netting the babiche in a snow-shoe, her fingers plying deftly in and out. The woman and girl wore deerskin garments of peculiar design. The former was fat and ugly, the latter slender, and very comely, he thought, from her sleek black hair to her feet encased in daintily worked little moccasins. At that moment she glanced towards him and said something to her companion, who turned in his direction also.

"Where am I?" he asked wonderingly and with some alarm.

They both laughed and jabbered then in their Indian tongue but he could not understand a word they said. The girl lay aside the snow-shoe and babiche and, taking up a tin cup, dipped some hot broth from the kettle and offered it to him. He accepted it gladly for he was thirsty and felt unaccountably weak. The broth contained no salt or flavouring of any kind, but was very refreshing. When he had finished it he put the cup down and attempted to rise but this movement brought forth a flood of Indian expostulations and he was forced to lie quiet again.

It was very evident that he was either considered an invalid too ill to move or was held in bondage. He had never heard that Indian captives were tucked into soft deerskin robes and fed broth by comely Indian maidens, however, and if he were a prisoner it did not promise to be so very disagreeable a captivity.

On the whole it was very pleasant and restful lying there on the soft skins of which his bed was composed, for he still felt tired and weak. He took in every detail of his surroundings. The wigwam was circular in form and of good size. It was made of reindeer skins stretched over poles very dingy and black, with an opening at the top to permit the smoke from the fire in the centre to escape. Flat stones raised slightly above the ground served as a fireplace, and around it were thickly laid spruce boughs. Some strips of jerked venison hung from the poles above, and near his feet he glimpsed his own gun and powder horn.

Bob could see at once that these Indians were much more primitive than those he knew at the Bay and, unfamiliar as he was with the Indian language, he noticed a marked difference in the intonation and inflection when the woman spoke.

"Now," said Bob to himself, "th' Nascaupees must ha' found me an' these be Nascaupees. But Mountaineers an' every one says Nascaupees be savage an' cruel, an' I'm not knowin' what un be. 'Tis queer--most wonderful queer."

He had no recollection of lying down in the snow. The last he could definitely recall was his fearful battling with the storm. There was a sort of hazy remembrance of something that he could not quite grasp--of having gone to sleep somewhere in a snug, warm bed spread with white sheets. Try as he would he could not explain his presence in this Indian wigwam, nor could he tell how long he had been here. It seemed to him years since the morning he left the tilt to go on the caribou hunt.

So he lay for a good while trying to account for his strange surroundings until at last he became drowsy and was on the point of going to sleep when suddenly the entrance flap of the wigwam opened and two Indians entered--the most savage looking men Bob had ever seen--and he felt a thrill of fear as he beheld them. They were very tall, slender, sinewy fellows, dressed in snug fitting deerskin coats reaching half way to the knees and decorated with elaborately painted designs in many colours. Their heads were covered with hairy hoods, and the ears of the animal from which they were made gave a grotesque and savage appearance to the wearers. Light fitting buckskin leggings, fringed on the outer side, encased their legs, and a pair of deerskin mittens dangled from the ends of a string which was slung around the neck. One of the men was past middle age, the other a young fellow of perhaps twenty.

The older woman said something to them and they began to jabber in so high a tone of voice that Bob would have thought they were quarrelling but for the fact that they laughed good-naturedly all the time and came right over to where he lay to shake his hand. They had a good deal to say to him, but he could not understand one word of their language. After greeting him both men removed their outer coats and hoods, and Bob could not but admire the graceful, muscular forms that the buckskin undergarments displayed. Their hair was long, black and straight and around their foreheads was tied a thong of buckskin to keep it from falling over their faces.

They laughed at Bob's inability to understand them, and were much amused when he tried to talk with them. Every effort was made to put him at ease.

When the men were finally seated, the girl dipped out a cup of broth and a dish of venison stew from the kettle which she handed to Bob; then the others helped themselves from what remained. There was no bread nor tea, and nothing to eat but the unflavoured meat.

It was quite dark now and the fire cast weird, uncanny shadows on the dimly-lighted interior walls of the wigwam. The Indians sitting around it in their peculiar dress seemed like unreal inhabitants of some spirit world. Bob's coming to himself in this place and amongst these people appealed to him as miraculous--supernatural. He could not understand it at all. He began to plan an escape. When they were all asleep he could steal quietly out and make his way back to the tilt. But, then, he reasoned, if they wished to detain him they could easily track him in the snow in the morning; and, besides, he did not know where his snow-shoes were and without them he could not go far. Neither did he know how far he was from the tilt. After the Indians had found him they may have carried him several days' journey to their camp and whether they had gone west or north he had no way of finding out.

It was, therefore, he realized, an unquestionably hopeless undertaking for him to attempt to reach his tilt alone, and he finally dismissed the idea as impracticable. Perhaps in the morning he could induce them to take him there. That, he concluded, was the only plan for him to follow. So far they had been very kind and he could see no reason why they should wish to detain him against his will.

The Indians were indeed Nascaupee Indians, but instead of being the ruthless cut-throats that the Mountaineers and the legends of the coast had painted them, they were human and hospitable, as all our eastern Indians were before white men taught them to be thieves and drove and goaded them--by the white man's own treachery--to acts of reprisal and revenge.

These Nascaupees, living as they did in a country inaccessible to the white ravishers, had none but kindly motives in their treatment of Bob and had no desire to do him harm. On the morning that Bob fell in the snow Shish-e-tá-ku-shin--Loud-voice--and his son Moó-koo-mahn--Big Knife--had left their wigwam early to hunt. Not far away they crossed Bob's trail. Their practiced eye told them that the traveller was not an Indian, for the snow-shoes he wore were not of Indian make, and also, from the uncertain, wobbly trail, they decided that he was far spent. So they followed the tracks and within a few minutes after Bob had fallen found him. They carried him to the wigwam and rubbed his frosted limbs and face until it was quite safe to wrap him in the deerskins in the warm wigwam.

They did not know who he was nor where he came from, but they did know that he needed care and several days of quiet. He was a stranger and they took him in. These poor heathens had never heard of Christ or His teachings, but their hearts were human. And so it was that Bob found himself amongst friends and was rescued from what seemed certain death.