V
UNCLE BEN GIVES WARNING
IN the beginning Thomas had a decided feeling of uncertainty concerning Indian Jake, because of Indian Jake’s record of two years before. The debt that he had left unpaid was for provisions and clothing which had been advanced him by the Hudson’s Bay Company that he might subsist during the hunting season, and with the understanding that he would pay the indebtedness by trading in at the Company’s store the furs he trapped.
It was a debt of honor, thought Thomas and the other Bay folk, and the furs, to their way of thinking, belonged rightfully to the Company; and therefore, in taking them away with him, Indian Jake had actually been guilty of dishonesty. Indian Jake agreed with Thomas, who stated his opinion plainly to the half-breed.
“I know the furs were the Company’s,” said Indian Jake, “but I had reasons for goin’. Now I’ve come back t’ straighten up what I owe. All I want is a chance, and I can’t pay what I owe if nobody gives me the chance, and down t’ th’ tradin’ posts they won’t trust me, and nobody else wants to, unless you do.”
“Well,” said Thomas, after a little consideration, “I’ll do it. ’Tis a fine place for fur where I traps, and you’ll make a fine hunt.
“But you’ll be huntin’ one trail, and if I let Davy go he’ll be huntin’ another, and Davy’ll only see you once a week, whatever. ’Twill be a wonderful lonely time for Davy between times alone, and he might have a mishap, for ’tisn’t natural for a young lad t’ be over careful. I’m not thinkin’ I’ll let he go, Jake. You’ll have t’ hunt alone. Davy’s too young yet for th’ work.”
“It’s all the same t’ me,” said Indian Jake, “huntin’ alone or with company.”
“Oh, but, Pop,” pleaded David in deep disappointment. “I’ll be wonderful careful. I’ll ’bide in th’ tilts when th’ weather’s too nasty t’ be out. I wants t’ go. I’ll get some fur, whatever, and we needs un all to pay for th’ cure t’ Jamie’s eyes.”
Jamie’s eyes! Thomas looked at Jamie, who was standing at the window, vainly trying to peer through the ever-present mist, and as he saw Jamie raise his hand to brush the mist away a great lump came into his throat.
“Davy,” said he, after a little silence, “you’re a brave lad, and careful, but ’tis a wonderful lonely place up there, trampin’ th’ trails. The storms come sudden and awful sometimes, and it takes a man’s strength to face un. ’Tis frostier there, too, than here. There’s none o’ th’ comfort o’ th’ home you’ve always been used to. I’d never rest easy if I let you go and you never came back.”
“But,” insisted David, “I’ll be careful and come back—and Jamie mustn’t be let t’ go blind. ’Twould be worse for he than bein’ dead. Let me go, Pop!”
“I’ll think about un—I’ll think about un,” said Thomas, and he closed his eyes to think.
At the end of ten minutes, when Thomas opened his eyes again, he had decided, and turning to Indian Jake, he said:
“I’m thinkin’, now, I’ll let Davy go, and I’ll let Andy go along t’ keep Davy company and help he. The two will be company for each other, and doin’ th’ work together they’ll get over th’ trail faster than ever Davy could alone, and if they’s a mishap, one can help the other. But you’ll have t’ keep an eye to un, Jake!”
“It’s all the same to me, whether one or both of ’em go,” said Indian Jake. “I’ll keep an eye on ’em, so they won’t get in trouble.”
“Thank you, Pop! I’ll be wonderful careful,” said David, with vast relief and satisfaction.
“Are you meanin’ I’m t’ go t’ th’ trails, too?” asked Andy, who had been standing with David and Indian Jake by the bedside.
“Aye, Andy, lad,” said Thomas, “you’ll go along and help Davy.”
“Oh—Pop!” exclaimed Andy, which was all his emotions and excitement would permit him to say.
“Is you glad, now?” asked Thomas with a smile, for he knew very well how glad Andy was. It is the greatest wish of every lad on The Labrador to go to the trails and hunt, as his father does, and eagerly he waits for the time when he may go. It is a brave life, that, living in the midst of the great wilderness, surrounded by its ever-present mysteries, and what boy is there who does not wish to do brave deeds? ’Tis a man’s work, following the trails, and the trapper plays a man’s game, and what boy does not wish to play a man’s game?
“Oh, I’m wonderful glad!” exclaimed Andy.
“’Twill be fine t’ have Andy along!” broke in David, “and we’ll hunt fine together.”
“We’ll hunt un the best ever we can,” asserted Andy.
And thus it had been decided, and the plan seemed a good one to Doctor Joe, for it was the only solution of the problem of how to get the money that would be so necessary the following summer.
Nevertheless, neither Doctor Joe nor Thomas could quite rid himself of a feeling of anxiety and uncertainty as to the wisdom of permitting the boys to enter the wilderness with Indian Jake. They could not forget his record, in spite of his fair promises, and try as they would they could not feel complete confidence in him.
The days that followed were busy ones at The Jug. It was the middle of the first week in September, and Indian Jake was eager to be away to the trapping grounds the following Monday, for it would be a three weeks’ journey, and with the coming of October the lakes might be expected to freeze at any time. They would travel by boat and therefore it was essential that they arrive at their destination on Seal Lake before the freeze-up came.
And so there was great hustle and bustle, assembling the outfit and getting all in readiness. And Margaret, too, was no less busy than the others, working early and late preparing the warm clothing that the boys would need.
Each was to be supplied with two adikys, one of heavy kersey cloth and one of moleskin. The latter, with its close-woven, smooth surface, would be an excellent protection from the wind, and snow would not readily cling to it, and it was made large enough to wear over the former. Both garments were fitted with hoods, and the hood on the kersey adiky was trimmed with fur around the face to add to its warmth and comfort. These garments were to be drawn on over the head like a sweater, but were loose and roomy. There were no buttons, and no openings where snow could sift in, and a drawstring around the face permitted them to be adjusted snugly to the cheeks, though there was no attempt to have them cover nose or mouth, for were that done the moisture from the breath would freeze upon the face and cause painful frostbite.
Then in each outfit there were a half dozen pairs of slippers, or socks, made of heavy woolen blanket duffle, to wear inside the buckskin moccasins, and two pairs of mittens of the same material to wear inside buckskin mittens, and each had a pair of moleskin cloth leggins.
Some of these things the boys already possessed, as they did round, peakless muskrat skin caps that could be drawn down over the ears and worn inside the adiky hood, but Margaret went carefully over all, to be quite sure everything was in the best of order.
Other clothing and equipment consisted of moleskin trousers, several pairs of buckskin moccasins for winter wear, and kneehigh sealskin boots for the milder weather of autumn and spring; buckskin mittens, underwear, heavy outer shirts, ordinary knit socks, a sleeping bag for each lined with Hudson’s Bay Company blankets, cooking utensils, axes, files for sharpening axes, and a mending kit containing needles and thread for making repairs. And each was supplied with a 44-40 carbine, and a quantity of ammunition. These were their especial pride. David had been presented with his rifle the previous winter by Thomas, and Andy was to have an old one which his father had used before he purchased one of a later model.
Indian Jake assembled the general camp equipment and the provisions, the latter consisting chiefly of flour, pork, tea, a small keg of molasses, and salt, packing everything into snug, convenient packages, that could be handled easily.
Jamie was vastly interested in the preparations. He did little things to help the boys, and Indian Jake permitted him to hold open the mouths of the bags as he packed them, to Jamie’s delight, and made the lad feel that he was really of much assistance, and the two became the best of friends.
Doctor Joe had gone home to Break Cove on the evening that the boys had returned from the post with Indian Jake, and was not expected back until Sunday. They were surprised, therefore, to see his boat coming up the bight on Saturday morning, and astonished when Doctor Joe announced upon his arrival that he had decided not to go to his old trapping grounds that winter.
“I’ve been thinking matters over,” he explained, “and if you’ll let me, I’ll make The Jug my home this winter. I’ll hunt up here, Thomas, where you used to hunt before you took the Seal Lake trail, when the children were small, and you had to be home o’ nights. My old trail is pretty well hunted out, anyhow, and I’ll do better here where there hasn’t been any trapping since you quit.”
“’Tis wonderful good of you,” said Thomas.
“I know well enough,” continued Doctor Joe, “that unless you’re watched pretty closely, and I see you every day you’ll be trying to use that leg some day before you should, and perhaps break it again. With this arrangement I’ll be here every night and keep track of you, and look after Jamie’s eyes, if they need it. Once a week isn’t often enough. I can feed the dogs, too, and do the other rough work that’s too hard for Margaret, and that she shouldn’t try to do.”
“I were thinkin’ o’ Margaret feedin’ th’ dogs,” said Thomas, “and I don’t like to have her do it. They knows a lass can’t master un, and they’d be like t’ turn on her some time.”
And thus it was arranged, to the vast satisfaction of Thomas and Margaret, as well as Doctor Joe, that The Jug was to be his home while the boys were away. And Jamie was mightily pleased, for Doctor Joe would be jolly company of evenings, singing in his fine voice, as no other in the Bay could sing, and telling him stories such as no one else could tell.
Everything was in readiness on Saturday night, in order that Sunday might be observed as a day of rest. Thomas would permit no work to be done about his home on Sunday that could as well be done another day. Like most of the Bay folk, his faith was simple and literal.
“’Tis wrong t’ work and ’tis wrong t’ shoot on a Sunday,” said he, “and anything that ’tis wrong t’ do brings bad luck in th’ end if you does un. ’Tis goin’ contrary t’ th’ Almighty.”
And so the day was spent in quietude and rest indoors, which pleased Jamie greatly, for he was no less excited than David and Andy, and he was glad to have them near. They had suddenly become heroes in his sight, and indeed they were heroes, aye, and soldiers, too, going into the deep wilderness to battle with death-dealing blizzards and bitter, changeless cold for the sake of those they loved.
“And you and Andy makes a good hunt, and gets th’ fur t’ pay for havin’ th’ mist took out o’ my eyes,” said Jamie, passing his hand before his eyes in a pitiful little attempt to brush the mist away that he might see David’s features more plainly, “and th’ great doctor cures un, I’ll go to Seal Lake some time and hunt, too.”
“We’ll do our best, now,” assured David, “an’ we’ll get th’ fur, never fear.”
“That we will,” said Andy, squaring his shoulders.
“Pop says you’ll have t’ keep plenty o’ grit,” warned Jamie.
“We’ll keep plenty o’ grit,” said Andy.
“And a stout heart, like a man’s,” added Jamie.
“And we’ll keep our hearts stout like a man’s,” said Andy proudly.
It was to be a long time before the family should be together again, and Margaret had the dinner table set close to Thomas’s bunk. Doctor Joe had shot a great fat goose the day before—the first of the season—and Margaret cooked it for their Sunday dinner. Then there was bread and tea, and a fine big tart of bake-apple berries. And a cozy feast they had, with the fire in the big stove crackling merrily, for it was raw and cold outside. And though Thomas must needs lie flat upon his back he enjoyed the feast as well as any of them, for Margaret attended to that, in her gentle, thoughtful way.
When dinner was cleared away Doctor Joe told them stories, and at Margaret’s request sang for them, and when he sang some hymns they all joined with him—even Thomas, with a great bellowing voice. It was a day to be remembered, and David and Andy were to think of it often in the months to come, as they wearily tramped silent white trails, or sat of evenings in lonely tilts.
It was after candlelight, and they were at tea, that evening, when suddenly the door opened and in walked Uncle Ben Rudder and Hiram Muggs. Uncle Ben led Hiram directly to Thomas’s bed, and Thomas greeted them warmly.
“Good gracious! Good gracious!” exclaimed Uncle Ben. “To think, now, that Thomas Angus went and broke his leg! Dear eyes!”
“’Twas a sorry mishap,” sympathized Hiram, a wiry, active little man of few words.
“Aye,” agreed Thomas, “but it might ha’ been worse. I were thinkin’ how hard ’twould ha’ been when the children were little, or a season when th’ fishin’ were poor, and I were in debt with nothin’ ahead for th’ winter.”
“H-m-m-m,” grunted Uncle Ben. “I suppose nothin’s so bad it couldn’t be worse, but bad’s bad enough for all that. Good gracious, yes!”
“Well,” said Thomas, “we have t’ take things as they come, good or bad, and th’ best way, t’ my thinkin’, is t’ take un without complaint. But set in now, and have tea.”
When tea was cleared away, and Indian Jake and Hiram and Doctor Joe were smoking their pipes comfortably at the other end of the room, Uncle Ben seated himself by Thomas’s bed and asked:
“How about th’ huntin’, Tom? I says to myself, when Davy tells me you broke your leg, ‘Tom’ll need some one, now, t’ hunt his trail on shares. Good gracious, yes!’ and so I speaks t’ Hiram, and Hiram says he’ll hunt un, and here Hiram is, ready t’ go.”
“Why, I got un all fixed for Indian Jake t’ hunt un, along with Davy and Andy, and they starts in th’ marnin’,” explained Thomas.
“H-m-m-m!” grunted Uncle Ben. “Th’ Lard helps them that’s got common sense. Good gracious! What’s Indian Jake like t’ do? You know Indian Jake. He’s like t’ make off with all th’ fur. Good gracious, you know him!”
“Well,” said Thomas, a tinge of regret in his voice, for Hiram was both a good hunter and reliable man, “Indian Jake has my word he’s t’ go, and Tom Angus never goes back on his word.”
Uncle Ben grunted and grunted, and was soon in such ill humor because Thomas would not listen to his arguments to change his plan that he spread his blankets upon the floor, crawled into them, and was presently snoring uproariously.
And there was no doubt that Thomas had some misgivings about Indian Jake, because of Indian Jake’s bad record. And there was no doubt, too, that these misgivings had been increased by Uncle Ben, whose advice the folk of the Bay were accustomed to heed, for Uncle Ben’s judgment was in the long run uncommonly sound.
“But a man’s word is a man’s word,” said Thomas to himself, “and when a man gives un there’s no goin’ back on it, for that wouldn’t be straight dealin’, and first to last the man that keeps his word and deals straight comes out on top.”
And so Thomas kept his word and stuck to his bargain, as any man should, and in the twilight of Monday morning the boat was loaded, and when David and Andy said farewell Thomas told them to do their best, and Doctor Joe told them to stand up to their work like men, and Jamie told them to keep their grit, and Margaret cried a little, for The Jug was to be a lonely place now.
And then, with David and Andy waving to those on shore, the boat moved down the bight and out into the bay, until it passed from view around the point, and the three voyageurs were on their way at last to the great wilderness which was to hide them in its silent and mysterious depths for many long months.
VI
THE TRAPPING PARTNER
“TH’ wind’s freshenin’, and she feels like snow. I’m expectin’ a white camp tonight,” observed Indian Jake when they had passed out of The Jug and out of the view of the cabin.
“She does feel like snow,” said David, “but it’s a good wind for us, and if she holds where she is we’ll make a fine run up Grand Lake.”
“Yes,” agreed Indian Jake, blowing a mouthful of smoke from his pipe and watching its direction. “She’s east nor’east now, and fine. We’d better not lose any time stopping at the post.”
“No,” said David, “not with a fine breeze like this. Pop was four days gettin’ up th’ Lake last year, with contrary winds.”
It was a somber morning. Gray clouds hung low and the wind was damp and cold, but it was a fair wind, and before nine o’clock they came abreast the post. Zeke Hodge saw them and hailed and they answered his hail, but passed on into the river without stopping, at which Zeke marveled, for he had never before known a boat to pass the post without pausing at least for a brief call.
The tide was nearing flood, and this was vastly to their advantage in counteracting the river current, and the five miles to Grand Lake was accomplished in an hour.
“Oh, ’tis grand!” exclaimed Andy when the long vista of lake appeared before them.
“Aye,” said David, “’tis that, and that’s why she’s called Grand Lake, I’m thinkin’.”
At the eastern end of the lake, where they entered it, both the northern and southern shores were lined with low hills wooded to their summits with spruce, white birch, balsam fir, and tamarack, the foliage of the latter making golden splotches in the green. Some few miles up the lake the wooded hills on its southern shore gave place to naked mountains, with perpendicular cliffs rising sheer from the water’s edge for several hundred feet, grim and austere, but at the same time giving to the landscape a touch of grandeur and majestic beauty. In the far distance to the westward high peaks in an opalescent haze lifted their summits against the sky.
The vast and boundless wilderness inhabited by no human being other than a few wandering Indians, lay in somber and impressive silence, just as God had fashioned it untold ages before, untouched and unmarred by the hand of man. There were no smoking chimneys, no ugly brick walls, no shrieking locomotives; no sound to break the silence save the cry of startled gulls, soaring overhead, the honk of a flock of wild geese in southern flight, and the waves lapping upon the rocky shore. The air was fresh and spicy with the odor of balsam and other forest perfumes. It was a wilderness redolent with suggestions of mysteries hidden in the bosom of its unconquered and unmeasured solitudes and waiting for discovery.
“It makes me feel wonderful strange—t’ think I’m goin’ in there,” remarked Andy presently, gazing away over the dark forest which receded to the northward over rolling hills, “and t’ think we’re t’ be gone till th’ break-up next spring, an’ won’t see Pop or Margaret or Doctor Joe for so long.”
“Not gettin’ sorry you’re goin’, now, be you?” grinned Indian Jake.
“No, I’m not gettin’ sorry. Not me! I’m wonderful glad t’ be goin’,” Andy asserted stoutly.
“Better not think about the folks and home too much, or you’ll be gettin’ homesick,” counseled Indian Jake.
“I’m not like t’ get homesick!” and Andy’s voice suggested that nothing in the world was less likely to happen.
“Ah, but you’ll have a sore trial, lads,” said Indian Jake. “Wait till we’re deep in th’ trails, and winter settles, and th’ wind cuts t’ th’ bone, and th’ shiftin’ snow blinds you, and th’ cold’s like t’ freeze your blood, and t’ have t’ fight it for your very life. Then’s th’ time that you’ll be tried out for th’ stuff that’s in you—both of you. And you can’t rest then, for there’s fur t’ be got out of th’ traps, and there’s no one t’ get it but you, and you got t’ get it. Then, lads, you’ll be thinkin’ of your warm snug home at The Jug, with its big stove, and your cozy nest of a bed. There’s no rest for the trapper that makes a good hunt, lads. ’Tis the man that rests when th’ storms blow wild and the cold settles bitter and fierce, that makes th’ poor hunt. ’Tis always so with work.”
“We’ll stick to un, and make th’ good hunt,” David declared stoutly.
“Aye, we’ll stick to un, and not be gettin’ homesick, either. We’ll have plenty o’ grit,” said Andy.
“That’s the way to talk, lads!” said Indian Jake heartily. “Stick to it, lads, and have grit a plenty, and you’ll make a good hunt.”
“But I was thinkin’ o’ what a wonderful big place ’tis in there,” and Andy was again gazing at the forest-clad hills.
“’Tis a big place,” said Indian Jake.
“Pop says,” continued Andy, “that ’tis so big they’s no end to un.”
“Aye,” agreed Indian Jake, “no end to un.”
“And there’ll be nobody but just us in there,” and there was awe in Andy’s voice.
“Just us,” said Indian Jake.
Snow was falling when they made camp that evening in the shelter of the forest on the lake shore, and cozy and snug the tent was with a roaring fire in the stove, and the wind swirling the snow outside, and moaning through the tree tops. Indian Jake had said little during the afternoon, but now as he fried a pan of pork by the light of a sputtering candle, while David and Andy laid the bed of fragrant spruce boughs, he volunteered the information that they would be in the Nascaupee River early in the morning.
“That’s fine,” said David. “We made a wonderful day’s travel, now, didn’t we?”
Indian Jake did not reply, and the boys, too, fell into silence, until supper was eaten and Indian Jake had lighted his pipe. Then David asked:
“Where were you livin’ before you came to th’ Bay, Jake?”
“South,” grunted Indian Jake.
“Did your folks live there?” asked Andy.
“Yes,” answered Indian Jake.
“Why don’t yo bring un t’ th’ Bay t’ live, now you’re here?” asked Andy. “’Twould be fine t’ have your folks t’ live with you.”
“Because I can’t,” replied Indian Jake, in a tone that implied he was through talking.
“I’m wonderful sorry,” sympathized Andy.
“It’s too bad, now,” said David.
Indian Jake grunted again, but whether it was a grunt of appreciation or of resentment that they should have asked the questions, they could not tell, and quietly they spread their sleeping bags and slipped into them. They were to learn as the weeks passed that Indian Jake had a double personality—that he was both an Indian and a white man—and that he possessed traits of character peculiar to both.
It was Andy’s first night in camp, and for a time he lay awake wondering if Jamie and his father and Margaret were very lonely without him and David. And then he fell to listening to the wind and the crackling fire in the stove, and to watching in the dim light of the candle the dark outline of Indian Jake’s figure crouched before the stove and silently smoking. The half-breed’s face with its beaked nose was never a pleasant thing to see, and now it looked unusually sinister and forbidding to Andy. Presently it began to fade, and a great black wolf took its place, and Andy dreamed that the wolf was crouching over him and David, ready to devour them.
He awoke with a start. The candle light was out and all was darkness and strangely silent, with no sound save David’s deep breathing and the moan of wind through the trees. It was weird and lonely there in the darkness, and when Andy thought of how long it would be before he and David returned to The Jug again, it seemed still lonelier.
“I must have plenty o’ grit, and keep a stout heart, the way Jamie is doing,” he thought, and it gave him courage, and he slept again.