THE CAMP ON THE COPPERMINE
It was mid-afternoon when Brent drank the last of the liquor and threw the bottle into the snow. He was very drunk, and with the utmost gravity, halted the outfit and commanded the Indian to turn the dogs and strike out on the trail of Claw. But Joe Pete merely shrugged, and started the dogs, whereupon Brent faced about and started over the back-trail. When he had proceeded a hundred yards the Indian halted the dogs, and strode swiftly after Brent, who was making poor going of it on his snowshoes. As Joe Pete understood his orders, the journey to the Mackenzie called for no side trips after hooch, and he made this fact known to Brent in no uncertain terms. Whereupon Brent cursed him roundly, and showed fight. It was but the work of a few moments for the big Indian to throw him down, tie him hand and foot and carry him, struggling and cursing, back to the sled, where he rode for the remainder of the day in a most uncomfortable position from which he hurled threats and malediction upon the broad back of the Indian.
The following morning Brent awoke long before daylight. His head ached fiercely and in his mouth was the bitter aftermath of dead liquor. In vain he sought sleep, but sleep would not come. Remorse and shame gripped him as it had never gripped him before. He writhed at the thought that only a day or two ago he had laughed at hooch, and had openly boasted that he was through with it and that he would not take a drink if he possessed a barrel of it. And, at the very first opportunity, he had taken a drink, and after that first drink, he had paid gold that was not his to use for such purpose for more hooch, and had deliberately drank himself drunk. The reviling and malediction which he had hurled at Joe Pete from the sled were words of gentle endearment in comparison with the terrible self-castigation that he indulged in as he tossed restlessly between his blankets and longed for the light of day. To be rid of the torture he finally arose, replenished the fire, and brewed many cups of strong tea. And when Joe Pete stepped from the tent in the grey of the morning it was to find breakfast ready, and Brent busy harnessing the dogs. In silence the meal was eaten, and in silence the two hit the trail. That day was a hard one owing to rough ice encountered upon the lower Gravel River, and the two alternated frequently between breaking trail and working at the gee-pole. The long snow trail had worked wonders for Brent physically, and by evening he had entirely thrown off the effectsof the liquor. He ate a hearty supper, and over the pipes beside the fire the two men talked of gold. As they turned in, Brent slapped Joe Pete on the back: "Just forget what I said yesterday—I was a damned fool."
The Indian shrugged: "The hooch, she all tam' mak' de damn fool. She no good. I ain' care w'at de hooch talk 'bout. Som' tam' you queet de hooch. Dat good t'ing. W'en you sober, you good man. You say, Joe Pete, you do lak dis. I do it. W'en de hooch say, Joe Pete you do lak som' nodder way. I say go to hell."
At Fort Norman, Brent bought an additional dog team and outfitted for the trip to the Coppermine. Upon learning from Murchison, the factor, that the lower Coppermine, from Kendall River northward to the coast, had been thoroughly explored and prospected without finding gold, he decided to abandon the usual route by way of Dease Bay, Dease River, the Dismal Lakes, and the Kendall River, and swing southward to the eastern extremity of Conjuror Bay of Great Bear Lake, and then head straight across the barrens, to strike the upper reaches of the Coppermine in the region of Point Lake.
Murchison expressed doubt that there was gold upon any part of the Coppermine, "If there is," he added, "No one's ever got any of it. An' I'm doubtin' if there's any gold east of the Mackenzie. I've been on the river a good many years, an' I neversaw any, except a few nuggets that an old squaw named Wananebish found years ago."
"On the Coppermine?" asked Brent.
Murchison laughed: "I don't know—an' she don't either. She found 'em, an' then her husband was drowned in a rapids and she pulled out of there and she claims she ain't never be'n able to locate the place since, an' she's spent years huntin' for it an' draggin' a little band of worthless Injuns after her. They're over there now, somewhere. I heard they hit up Hare Indian River, along about the first of September. McTavish at Good Hope, give 'em debt to be rid of 'em. But I don't think they'll find any gold. The formation don't seem to be right on this side of the river."
"Gold has been taken from the bottom of the sea, and from the tops of mountains," reminded Brent, "You know the old saying, 'Gold is where you find it.'"
"Aye," answered Murchison, with a smile, "But, east of the Mackenzie, gold is where you don't find it."
The four hundred mile journey from Fort Norman to the Coppermine was accomplished in sixteen days. A permanent camp-site was selected upon the west bank of the river, and the two worked with a will in constructing a tiny log cabin, well within the shelter of a thick clump of spruce. Brent's eyes had lost the last trace of muddiness, the bloated unhealthy skin had cleared, and hisflabby muscles had grown iron-hard so that he plunged into the work of felling and trimming trees, and heaving at logs with a zest and enthusiasm that had not been his for many a long day. He had not even thought of a drink in a week. When the cabin was finished and the last of the chinking rammed into place, he laughingly faced Joe Pete upon the trampled snow of the dooryard. "Come on now, you old leather image!" he cried, "Come and take your medicine! I owe you a good fall or two for the way you used me on the trail. You're heapskookum, all right, but I can put you on your back! Remember you didn't handle the butt ends ofallthose logs!"
And thus challenged the big Indian, who was good for his two hundred pound pack on a portage, sailed in with a grin, and for ten minutes the only sounds in the spruce thicket were the sounds of scrappingmuklukson the hard-trampled snow, and the labored breathing of the straining men. Laughter rang loud as Brent twice threw the Indian, rolled him onto his back, and rubbed snow into his face, and then, still laughing, the two entered their cabin and devoured a huge meal of broiled caribou steaks, and pilot bread.
Supper over, Joe Pete lighted his pipe and regarded Brent gravely: "On de trail," he said, "I handle you lak wan leetle baby. Now, youskookum tillicum. You de firs mans kin put Joe Pete on de back. De hooch, she no good for hell!"
"You bet, she's no good!" agreed Brent, "Believe me, I'm through with it. It's been a good while since I've even thought of a drink."
Joe Pete seemed unimpressed: "You ain't t'ink 'bout a drink cos you ain't got non. Dat better you keep 'way from it, or you t'ink 'bout it dam' queek." And Brent, remembering that morning on the trail when he had said good bye to Claw, answered nothing.
For the next few days, while Joe Pete worked at the building of a cache, Brent hunted caribou. Upon one of these excursions, while following up the river, some three of four miles south of the cabin, he came suddenly upon a snowshoe trail. It was a fresh trail, and he had followed it scarcely a mile when he found other trails that crossed and recrossed the river, and upon rounding a sharp bend, he came abruptly upon an encampment. Three tiny log cabins, and a half-dozen tepees were visible in a grove of scraggling spruce that gave some shelter from the sweep of the wind. Beyond the encampment, the river widened abruptly into a lake. An Indian paused in the act of hacking firewood from a dead spruce, and regarded him stolidly. Brent ascended the bank and greeted him in English. Receiving no response, he tried the jargon:
"Klahowya, six?"
The Indian glanced sidewise, toward one of the cabins, and muttered something in guttural. Then, the door of the cabin opened and a girl stepped outonto the snow and closed the door behind her. Brent stared, speechless, as his swift glance took in the details of her moccasins, deer-skin leggings, short skirt, whitecapoteand stocking cap. She held a high-power rifle in her mittened hand. Then their eyes met, and the man felt his heart give a bound beneath his tight-buttoned mackinaw. Instantly, he realized that he was staring rudely, and as the blood mounted to his cheeks, he snatched the cap from his head and stepped forward with hasty apology: "I beg your pardon," he stammered, "You see, I had no idea you were here—I mean, I had not expected to meet a lady in the middle of this God-forsaken wilderness. And especially as I only expected to find Indians—and I hadn't even expected them, until I struck the trail on the river." The man paused, and for the first time noted the angry flash of the dark eyes—noted, too, that the red lips curled scornfully.
"Iam an Indian," announced the girl, haughtily, "And, now you have found us—go!"
"An Indian!" cried Brent, "Surely, you are——"
"Go!" Repeated the girl, "Before I kill you!"
"Oh, come, now," smiled Brent, "You wouldn't do that. We are neighbors, why not be friends?"
"Go!" repeated the girl, "and don't come back! The next time I shall not warn you." The command was accompanied by a sharp click, as she threw a cartridge into the chamber of her rifle, and another swift glance into her eyes showed Brent that shewas in deadly earnest. He returned the cap to his head and bowed:
"Very well," he said gravely. "I don't know who you think I am, or why you should want to kill me, but I do know that some day we shall become better acquainted. Good bye—till we meet again."
IN THE BARRENS
Late that evening Brent and Joe Pete were surprised by a knock upon the door of their cabin. Brent answered the summons and three Indians filed solemnly into the room. Two of them stood blinking foolishly while the third drew from a light pack a fox skin which he extended for Brent's inspection. Brent handed the skin to Joe Pete: "What's all this?" he asked, "What do they want?"
"Hooch," answered the Indian who had handed over the skin.
Brent shook his head: "No hooch here," he answered, "You've come to the wrong place. You are the fellow I saw today in the camp up the river. Tell me, who is the young lady that claims she's an Injun? And why is she on the war-path?" The three stared stolidly at each other and at Brent, but gave no hint of understanding a word he had uttered. He turned to Joe Pete. "You try it," he said, "See if you can make 'em talk." The Indian tried them in two or three coast dialects, but to no purpose, and at the end of his attempt, the visitorsproduced two more fox skins and added them to the first.
"They think we're holding out for a higher price," laughed Brent.
"No wonder these damned hooch-peddlers can afford to take a chance. What are those skins worth?"
Joe Pete examined the pelts critically: "Dis wan she dark cross fox, wort' mebbe-so, t'irty dolla. Dis wan, an' dis wan, cross fox, wort' 'bout twenty dolla."
"Seventy dollars for a bottle of hooch!" cried Brent, "It's robbery!"
He handed back the skins, and at the end of five minutes, during which time he indicated as plainly as possible by means of signs, that there was no hooch forthcoming, the Indians took their departure. The next evening they were back again, and this time they offered six skins, one of them a silver fox that Joe Pete said would bring eighty dollars at any trading post. After much patient pantomime Brent finally succeeded in convincing them that there was really no hooch to be had, and with openly expressed disgust, the three finally took their departure.
Shortly after noon a week later, Brent drew the last bucket of gravel from the shallow shaft, threw it onto the dump, and leaving Joe Pete to look after the fire, took his rifle and struck off up the river in search of caribou. "Go down the river,"whispered the still small voice of Common Sense, "There are no hunters there." But Brent only smiled, and held his course. And as he swung over the snow trail his thoughts were of the girl who had stepped from the cabin and angrily ordered him from the village at the point of her rifle. Each day during the intervening week he had thought of her, and he had lain awake at night and tried in vain to conjure a reason for her strange behaviour. Alone on the trail he voiced his thoughts: "Why should she threaten to shoot me? Who does she think I am? Why should she declare she is an Injun? I don't believe she's any more Injun than I am. Who ever heard of an Injun with eyes like hers, and lips, yes, and a tip-tilted nose? Possibly, a breed—but, never an Injun. And, I wonder if her warlike attitude includes the whole white race, or a limited part of it, or only me? I'll find out before this winter is over—but, I'll bet she can shoot! She threw that shell into her rifle in a sort of off-handpracticedway, like most girls would powder their nose."
His speculation was cut short by a trail that crossed the river at a right angle and headed into the scrub in a south-easterly direction. The trail was only a few hours old and had been made by a small band of caribou traveling at a leisurely pace. Abruptly, Brent left the River and struck into the trail. For an hour he followed it through the scraggly timber and across patches of open tundraand narrow beaver meadows. The animals had been feeding as they traveled and it was evident that they could not be far ahead. Cautiously topping a low ridge, he sighted them upon a small open tundra, about two hundred yards away. There were seven all told, two bulls, three cows, and two yearlings. One of the bulls and two cows were pawing the snow from the moss, and the others were lying down. Taking careful aim, Brent shot the standing bull. The animals that had been lying down scrambled to their feet, and three more shots in rapid succession accounted for a cow and one of the yearlings, and Brent watched the remaining four plunge off through the snow in the direction of the opposite side of the tundra which was a mile or more in width. When they had almost reached the scrub he was startled to see the flying bull suddenly rear high and topple into the snow, the next instant one of the others dropped, and a moment later a third. Then to his ears came the sound of four shots fired in rapid succession. As Brent stepped out onto the tundra and, sheath knife in hand, walked to his fallen caribou, he saw a figure from the opposite scrub. An exclamation of surprise escaped him. It was the girl of the Indian Village.
"Wonder if she needs any help?" he muttered as he slit the throat of his third caribou. He glanced across the short open space to see the girl bending over the carcass of the other bull. "Guess I'll takea chance," he grinned, "And go and see. I knew she could shoot—three out of four, running shots—that's going some!" When he was half way across the open he saw the girl rise and wipe the blade of her knife upon the hair of the dead bull's neck. She turned and knife in hand, waited for him to approach. Brent noted that her rifle lay within easy reach of her hand, propped against the dead animal's belly. He noted also, that as he drew near, she made no move to recover it.
Jerking at the strings of his cap, he removed it from his head: "That was mighty good shooting," he smiled, "Those brutes were sure traveling!"
"But, they were very close. I couldn't have missed. It took two shots for the last one, but both bullets counted. You did good shooting, too. Your shots were harder—they were farther away. Did all your bullets count?"
Brent laughed aloud from pure joy. He hardly heard her words. The only thing he could clearly comprehend was the fact that there was no hint of anger in the dark eyes, and that the red lips were smiling. "I'm sure I don't know," he managed to reply, "I didn't stop to look. I think very likely I missed one shot."
"Why do you take your cap off?" she asked, and almost instantly she smiled again: "Oh, yes, I know—I have read of it—but, they don't do it here. Put it on please. It is cold."
Brent returned the cap to his head. "I'm glad Ididn't know the other day, how expert you are with your rifle," he laughed, "Or I wouldn't have stayed as long as I did."
The girl regarded him gravely: "You are not angry with me?" she asked.
"Why, no, of course not! Why should I be angry with you? I knew that there was no reason why you should shoot me. And I knew that things would straighten out, somehow. I thought you had mistaken me for someone else, and——"
"I thought you were a hooch-runner," interrupted the girl. "I did not think any white man who is not a hooch-runner, or a policeman, would be way over here, and I could see that you were not in the Mounted."
"No," answered Brent, "I am not in the Mounted, but, how do you know that I am not a hooch-runner?"
"Because, three of our band went to your cabin that very night to buy hooch, and they did not get it. And the next night they went again and took more fox skins, and again they came away empty handed."
"You sent them then?"
"No, no! But, I knew that they would think the same as I did, that you wanted to trade them hooch, so I followed them when they slipped out of the village. Both nights I followed, and I pressed my ear close to the door, so that I heard all you said."
Brent smiled: "I have some recollection of asking one of those wooden images something about a certain warlike young lady——"
The girl interrupted him with a laugh: "Yes, I heard that, and I heard you swear at the hooch traders, and tell the Indians there was no hooch in the cabin, and I was glad."
The man's eyes sought hers in a swift glance: "Why—why were you glad?" he asked.
"Because I—because you—because I didn't want to kill you. And I would have killed you if you had sold them hooch."
"You wouldn't—really——"
"Yes, I would!" cried the girl, and Brent saw that the dark eyes flashed, "I would kill a hooch-runner as I would a wolf. They are wolves. They're worse than wolves! Wolves kill for meat, but they kill for money. They take the fur that would put bread in the mouths of the women and the little babies, and they make the men drunken and no good. There used to be thirty of us in the band, and now there are only sixteen. Two of the men deserted their families since we came here, because they would not stay where there was no hooch." The girl ceased speaking and glanced quickly upward: "Snow!" she cried, "It is starting to snow, and darkness will soon be here. I must draw these caribou, before they freeze." She drew the knife from her belt and stepped to the carcass of the bull. But Brent took it from her hand.
"Let me do it," he said, eagerly, "You stand there and tell me how, and we'll have it done in no time."
"Tell you how!" exclaimed the girl, "What do you mean?" Brent laughed: "I'm afraid I'm still an awfulchechakoabout some things. I can shoot them, all right, but there has always been someone to do the drawing, and skinning, and cutting up. But, I'll learn quickly. Where do I begin?"
Under the minute directions of the girl Brent soon had the big bull drawn. The two smaller animals were easier and when the job was finished he glanced apprehensively at the thickening storm. "We had better go now," he said. "Do you know how far it is to your camp?"
"Nine or ten miles, I think," answered the girl, "We have only been here since fall and this is the first time I have hunted in this direction. But, first we must draw your caribou. If they freeze they cannot be drawn and then they will not be fit for food."
"But, the snow," objected Brent. "It is coming down faster all the time."
"The snow won't bother us. There is no wind. Hurry, we must finish the others before dark."
"But, the wind might spring up at any moment, and if it does we will have a regular blizzard."
"Then we can camp," answered the girl, and before the astounded man could reply, she had led off at a brisk pace in the direction of the other caribou.
The early darkness was already beginning to makeitself felt and Brent drove to his task with a will, and to such good purpose that the girl nodded hearty approval. "You did learn quickly," she smiled, "I could not have done it any better nor quicker, myself."
"Thank you," he laughed, "And that is a real compliment, for by the way you can handle a rifle, and cover ground on snowshoes, I know you areskookum tillicum."
"Yes," admitted the girl, "I'mskookum tillicum. But, I ought to be. I was born in the North and I have lived in the woods and in the barrens, and upon rivers, all my life."
Brent was about to reply when each glanced for a moment into the other's face, and then both stared into the North. From out of the darkness came a sullen roar, low, and muffled, and mighty, like the roar of surf on the shore of a distant sea.
"It is the wind!" cried the girl, "Quick, take a shoulder of meat! We must find shelter and camp."
"I can't cut a leg bone with this knife!"
"There are no bones! It is like this." She snatched the knife from Brent's hand and with a few deft slashes severed a shoulder from the yearling caribou. "Come, quick," she urged, and led the way toward a dark blotch that showed in the scraggling timber a few hundred yards away: "When the storm strikes, we shall not be able to see," she flung over her shoulder, "We must make that thicket of spruce—or we're bushed."
Louder and louder sounded the roar of the approaching wind. Brent encumbered with his rifle and the shoulder of meat, found it hard to keep up with the girl whose snowshoes fairly flew over the snow. They gained the thicket a few moments before the storm struck. The girl paused before a thick spruce, that had been broken off and lay with its trunk caught across the upstanding butt, some four feet from the ground. Jerking the ax from its sheath she set to work lopping branches from the dead tree.
"Break some live branches for the roof of our shelter!" she commanded. "This stuff will do for firewood, and in a minute you can take the ax and I will build the wikiup." The words were snatched from her lips by the roar of the storm. Full upon them, now, it bent and swayed the thick spruces as if to snap them at the roots. Brent gasped for breath in the first rush of it and the next moment was coughing the flinty dry snow-powder from his lungs. No longer were there snow-flakes in the air—the air itself was snow—snow that seared and stung as it bit into lips and nostrils, that sifted into the collars ofcapoteand mackinaw, and seized neck and throat in a deadly chill. Back and forth Brent stumbled bearing limbs which he tore from the trunks of trees, and as he laid them at her feet the girl deftly arranged them. The ax made the work easier, and at the end of a half-hour the girl shouted in his ear that there were enough branches. Removing their rackets, they stood them upright in the snow, and stooping, the girl motioned him to follow as she crawled through a low opening in what appeared to be a mountain of spruce boughs. To his surprise, Brent found that inside the wikiup he could breathe freely. The fine powdered snow, collecting upon the close-lying needles had effectively sealed the roof and walls.
For another half hour, the two worked in the intense blackness of the interior with hands and feet pushing the snow out through the opening, and when the task was finished they spread a thick floor of the small branches that the girl had piled along one side. Only at the opening there were no branches, and there upon the ground the girl proceeded to build a tiny fire. "We must be careful," she cautioned, "and only build a small fire, or our house will burn down." As she talked she opened a light packsack that Brent had noticed upon her shoulders, and drew from its interior a rabbit robe which she spread upon the boughs. Then from the pack she produced a small stew pan and a little package of tea. She filled the pan with snow, and smiled up into Brent's face: "And, now, at last, we are snug and comfortable for the night. We can live here for days if necessary. The caribou are not far away, and we have plenty of tea."
"You are a wonder," breathed Brent, meeting squarely the laughing gaze of the dark eyes, "Do you know that if it had not been for you, I wouldhave been—would never have weathered this storm?"
"You were not born in the bush," she reminded, as she added more snow to the pan. "I do not even know your name," she said, gravely, "And yet I feel—" she paused, and Brent, his voice raised hardly above a whisper, asked eagerly:
"Yes, you feel—how do you feel?"
"I feel as though—as though I had known you always—as though you were my friend."
"Yes," he answered, and it was with an effort he kept the emotion from his voice, "We have known each other always, and I am your friend. My name is Carter Brent. And now, tell me something about yourself. Who are you? And why did you tell me you were an Indian?"
"I am an Indian," she replied, quickly, "That is, I am a half-breed. My father was a white man."
"And what is your name?"
"Snowdrift."
"Snowdrift!" he cried, "what an odd name! Is it your last name or your first?"
"Why, it is the only name I have, and I never had any other."
"But your father—what was your father's name?"
There was a long moment of silence while the girl threw more snow into the pan, and added wood to the fire. Then her words came slowly, and Brent detected a peculiar note in her voice. He wonderedwhether it was bitterness, or pain: "My father is dead," she answered, "I do not know his name. Why is Snowdrift an odd name?"
"I think it a beautiful name!" cried Brent.
"Do you—really?" The dark eyes were regarding him with a look in which happiness seemed to be blended with fear lest he were mocking her.
"Indeed I do! I love it. And now tell me more—of your life—of your education."
"I went to school at the mission on the Mackenzie. I went there for a good many years, and I worked hard, for I like to study. And books! I love to read books. I read all they had, and some of them many times. Do you love books?"
"Why yes," answered Brent, "I used to. I haven't read many since I came North."
"Why did you come North?"
"I came for gold."
"For gold!" cried the girl, her eyes shining, "That is why we are here! Wananebish says there is gold here in the barrens. Once many years ago she found it—but we have tried to find the place again, and we cannot."
"Who is Wananebish?"
"Wananebish is my mother. She is an Indian, and she has tried to keep the band together through many years, and to keep them away from the hooch, but, they will not listen to her. It was hard work to persuade them to come away from the river. And, have you found gold?"
"Yes," answered Brent, "Way over beyond the mountains that lie to the westward of the Mackenzie, I found much gold. But I lost it."
"Lost it! Oh, that was too bad. Did it fall off your sled?"
"Well, not exactly," answered the man dryly. "In my case, it was more of a toboggan."
"Couldn't you find it again?"
"No. Other men have it, now."
"And they won't give it back!"
"No, it is theirs. That part of it is all right—only I would give anything in the world to have it—now."
"Why do you want it now? Can you not find more gold? I guess I do not understand."
Brent shook his head: "No, you do not understand. But, sometime you will understand. Sometime I think I shall have many things to tell you—and then I want you to understand."
The girl glanced at him wonderingly, as she threw a handful of tea into the pan. "You must sharpen some green sticks and cut pieces of meat," she said, "And we will eat our supper."
A silence fell upon them during the meal, a silence broken only by the roar of the wind that came to them as from afar, muffled as it was by its own freighting of snow. Hardly for a moment did Brent take his eyes from the girl. There was a great unwonted throbbing in his breast, that seemed to cry out to him to take the girl in his arms andhold her tight against his pounding heart, and the next moment the joy of her was gone, and in its place was a dull heavy pain.
"Now, I know why I like you," said the girl, abruptly, as she finished her piece of venison.
"Yes?" smiled Brent, "And are you going to tell me?"
"It is because you are good." She continued, without noting the quick catch in the man's breath. "Men who hunt for gold are good. My father was good, and he died hunting for gold. Wananebish told me. It was years and years ago when I was a very little baby. I know from reading in books that many white men are good. But in the North they are bad. Unless they are of the police, or are priests, or factors. I had sworn to hate all white men who came into the North—but I forgot the men who hunt gold."
"I am glad you remembered them," answered Brent gravely. "I hope you are right."
"I am sleepy," announced the girl. "We cannot both sleep in this robe, for we have only one, and to keep warm it is necessary to roll up in it. One of us can sleep half the night while the other tends the fire, and then the other will sleep."
"You go to sleep," said Brent. "I will keep the fire going. I am not a bit sleepy. And besides, I have a whole world of thinking to do."
"I will wake up at midnight, and then you can sleep," she said, and, taking off her moccasins, andleggings, and long woolen stockings she arranged them upon sticks to dry and rolled up in the thick robe.
"Good night," called Brent, as she settled down.
"Good night, and may God keep you. You forgot that part," she corrected, gravely, "We used to say that at the Mission."
"Yes," answered Brent, "May God keep you. I did forget that part."
Suddenly the girl raised her head: "Do you believe we have known each other always?" she asked.
"Yes, girl," he answered, "I believe we have known each other since the beginning of time itself."
"Why did you come way over here to find gold? I have heard that there is much gold beyond the mountains to the westward."
It was upon Brent's tongue to say: "I came to find you," but, he restrained the impulse. "All the gold claims that are any good are taken up over there," he explained, "And I read in a book that a man gave me that there was gold here."
"What kind of a book was that? I never read a book about gold."
"It was an old book. One that the man had picked up over in the Hudson Bay country. Its title was torn off, but upon one of its pages was written a man's name, probably the name of the former owner of the book. I have often wondered who he was. The name was Murdo MacFarlane."
"Murdo MacFarlane!" cried the girl, sitting bolt upright, and staring at Brent.
"Yes," answered the man, "Do you know him?"
The girl reached out and tossed her belt to Brent. "It is the name upon the sheath of the knife," she answered, "It is Wananebish's knife. I broke the point of mine."
Brent took the sheath and held it close to the light of the little fire. "Murdo MacFarlane," he deciphered, "Yes, the name is the same." And long after the girl's regular breathing told him she was sleeping, he repeated the name again: "Murdo MacFarlane. I don't know who you were or who you are, if you still live, but whoever you were, or whoever you are—here's good luck to you—Murdo MacFarlane!"
MOONLIGHT
The wind had died down, although the snow continued to fall thickly the following morning, as Brent and Snowdrift crept from the wikiup and struck out for the river. It was heavy going, even the broad webbed snowshoes sinking deeply into the fluffy white smother that covered the wind-packed fall of the night. Brent offered to break trail, but Snowdrift insisted upon taking her turn, and as he labored in her wake, the man marveled at the strength and the untiring endurance of the slender, lithe-bodied girl. He marveled also at the unfailing sureness of her sense of direction. Twice, when he was leading she corrected him and when after nearly four hours of continuous plodding, they stood upon the bank of the river, he realized that without her correction, his course would have carried him miles to the southward.
"Good bye," he smiled, extending his bared hand, when at length they came to the parting of the ways, "I don't want but one of the caribou I shot. Divide the other two between the families of the Indians that skipped out."
Slipping off her mitten, the girl took the proffered hand unhesitatingly and an ecstatic thrill shot through Brent's heart at the touch of the firm slender fingers that closed about his own—a thrill that half-consciously, half-unconsciously, caused him to press the hand that lay warm within his clasp.
"Yes," she answered, making no effort to release the hand, "They need the meat. With the rabbits they can snare, it will keep them all winter. I have not much fur yet—a few fox skins, and someloup cervier. I will bring them to you tomorrow."
"Bring them to me!" cried Brent, "What do you mean? Why should you bring them to me?"
"Why!" she exclaimed, regarding him curiously, "To pay for the meat, of course. A caribou is worth a cross fox, and——"
Brent felt the blood mounting to his face. Abruptly, almost roughly he released the girl's hand. "I did not offer to sell you the meat," he answered, a trifle stiffly. "They need it, and they're welcome to it."
Snowdrift, too, had been thrilled by that handclasp, and the thrill had repeated itself at the gentle pressure of the strong fingers, and she was quick to note the change in the man's manner, and stood uncertainly regarding her bared hand until a big snowflake settled upon it and melted into a drop of water. Then she thrust the hand into her big fur mitten, and as her glance met his, Brent saw that the dark eyes were deep with concern: "I—I donot understand," she said, softly. "I have made you angry. I do not want you to be angry with me. Do you mean that you want to give them the meat? People do not give meat, excepting to members of their own tribe when they are very poor. But you are not of the tribe. You are not even an Indian. White men do not give Indians meat, ever."
Already Brent was cursing himself for his foolish flare of pride. Again his heart thrilled at the wonder of the girl's absolute unsophistication. Swiftly his hand sought hers, but this time she did not remove it from the mitten. "I am not angry with you, Snowdrift!" he exclaimed, quickly, "I was a fool! It was I who did not understand. But, I want you to understand that here is one white man who does give meat to Indians. And I wish I were a member of your tribe. Sometime, maybe——"
"Oh, no, no! You would not want to be one of us. We are very poor, and we are Indians. You are a white man. Why should you want to live with us?"
"Some day I will tell you why," answered the man, in a voice so low that the dark eyes searched his face wonderingly. "And, now, won't you give me your hand again? To show me that you are not angry with me."
The girl laughed happily: "Angry with you! Oh, I would never be angry with you! You are good. You are the only good white man I have knownwho was not a priest, or a factor, or a policeman—and even they do not give the Indians meat." With a swift movement she slipped her hand from the mitten and once more placed it within his, and this time there was nothing unconscious in the pressure of Brent's clasp. He fancied that he felt the slender hand tremble ever so lightly within his own, and glanced swiftly into the girl's face. For an instant their eyes met, and then the dark eyes dropped slowly before his gaze, and very gently he released her hand.
"May I come and see you, soon?" he asked.
"Why, yes, of course! Why did you ask me that?" she inquired, wonderingly, "You know the way to our camp, and you know that now I know you are not a hooch trader."
"Why," smiled Brent, "I asked because—why, just because it seemed the thing to do—a sort of formality, I reckon."
The girl's smile met his own: "I do not understand, I guess. Formality—what is that? A custom of the land of the white man? But I have not read of that in books. Here in the North if anybody wants to go a place, he goes, unless he has been warned to stay away for some reason, and then if he goes he will get shot. I will shoot the hooch traders if they come to the camp. The first time I will tell them to go—and if they come back I will kill them."
"You wouldn't kill them—really?" smiled Brent,amazed at the matter of fact statement coming from this slip of a girl, whose face rimmed in its snow-covered parka hood was, he told himself, the most beautiful face he had ever looked upon. "Didn't they teach you in the mission that it is wrong to kill?"
"It is wrong to kill in anger, or for revenge for a wrong, or so that you may steal a man's goods. But it is not wrong to kill one who is working harm in the world. You, too, know that this is true, because in the books I have read of many such killings, and in some books it was openly approved, and other books were so written that the approval was made plain."
"But, there is the law," ventured Brent.
"Yes, there is the law. But the law is no good up here. By the time the policemen would get here the hooch trader would be many miles away. And even if they should catch him, the Indians would not say that he traded them hooch. They would be afraid. No, it is much better to kill them. They take all the fur in trade for hooch, and then the women have nothing to eat, and the little babies die."
Brent nodded, thoughtfully; "I reckon you're right," he agreed, "But, I wish you would promise me that if any hooch runners show up, you will let me deal with them."
"Oh, will you?" cried the girl, her eyes shining, "Will you help me? Oh, with a white man to helpme! Withyou—" she paused, and as Brent's glance met hers, the dark eyes drooped once more, and the man saw that the cheeks were flushed through their tan.
"Of course I'll help you!" he smiled reassuringly, "I would love to, and between us we'll make the Coppermine country a mighty unhealthy place for the hooch runners."
"You will come to see me," reminded the girl, "And I will come to see you, and we will hunt together, and you will show me how to find gold."
"Yes," promised Brent, "We will see each other often—very often. And we will hunt together, and I will show you all I know about finding gold. Good bye, and if you need any help getting the meat into camp, let me know and Joe Pete and I will come down with the dogs."
"We won't need any help with the meat. There are plenty of us to haul it in. That is squaw's work, Good bye."
The girl stood motionless and watched Brent until his form was hidden by a bend of the river. Then, slowly, she turned and struck off up stream. And as she plodded through the ever deepening snow her thoughts were all of the man who had come so abruptly—so vitally into her life, and as she pondered she was conscious of a strange unrest within her, an awakening longing that she did not understand. Subconsciously she drew off her heavy mitten and looked at the hand that had lain in his.And then, she raised it to her face, and drew it slowly across her cheek.
In the cabin, she answered the questions of old Wananebish in monosyllables, and after a hearty meal, she left the cabin abruptly and entered another, where she lifted a very tiny red baby from its bed of blankets and skins, and to the astonishment of the mite's mother, seated herself beside the little stove, and crooned to it, and cuddled it, until the short winter day came to a close.
Early the following day Snowdrift piloted a dozen squaws with their sleds and dog teams to the place of the kill. One of Brent's three caribou was gone, and the girl's eyes lighted with approval as she saw that his trail was partially covered with new-fallen snow. "He came back yesterday—he and his Indian, and they got the meat. He is strong," she breathed to herself, "Stronger than I, for I was tired from walking in the loose snow, and I did not come back."
Leaving the squaws to bring in the meat, the girl shouldered her rifle and struck into the timber, her footsteps carrying her unerringly toward the patch of scrub in which she and Brent had sought shelter from the storm. She halted beside the little wikiup, snow-buried, now—even the hole through which they had crawled was sealed with the new-fallen snow. For a long time she stood looking down at the little white mound. As she turned to go, her glance fell upon a trough-like depression, only halffilled with snow. The depression was a snowshoe trail, and it ended just beyond the little mound.
"It ishistrail," she whispered, to a Canada jay that chattered and jabbered at her from the limb of a dead spruce. "He came here, as I came, to look at our little wikiup. And he went away and left it just as it was." Above her head the jay flitted nervously from limb to limb with his incessant scolding. "Why did he come?" she breathed, "And why did I come?" And, as she had done upon the river, she drew her hand from her mitten and passed it slowly across her cheek. Then she turned, and striking into the half-buried trail, followed it till it merged into another trail, the trail of a man with a dog-sled, and then she followed the broader trail to the northwestward.
At nine o'clock that same morning Brent threw the last shovelful of the eight-inch thawing of gravel from the shallow shaft, and leaving Joe Pete to build and tend the new fire, he picked up his rifle, and under pretense of another hunt, struck off up the river in the direction of the Indian camp.
Joe Pete watched with a puzzled frown until he had disappeared. Then he carried his wood and lighted the fire in the bottom of the shaft.
An hour and a half later Brent knocked at the door of the cabin from which Snowdrift had stepped, rifle in hand, upon the occasion of their first meeting. The door was opened by a wrinkled squaw, who looked straight into his eyes as she waited forhim to speak. There was unveiled hostility in the stare of those beady black eyes, and it was with a conscious effort that Brent smiled: "Is Snowdrift in?" he inquired.
"No," the squaw answered, and as an after-thought, "She has gone with the women to bring in the meat."
The man was surprised that the woman spoke perfect English. The Indians who had come to trade, had known only the word "hooch." His smile broadened, though he noticed that the glare of hostility had not faded from the eyes: "She told you about our hunt, then? It was great sport. She is a wonder with a rifle."
"No, she did not tell me." The words came in a cold, impersonal monotone.
"Can't I come in?" Brent asked the question suddenly. "I must get back to camp soon. I just came down to see—to see if I could be of any help in bringing in the meat."
"The women bring in the meat," answered the woman, and Brent felt as though he had been caught lying. But, she stepped aside and motioned him to a rude bench beside the stove. Brent removed his cap and glanced about him, surprised at the extreme cleanliness of the interior, until he suddenly remembered that this was the home of the girl with the wondrous dark eyes. Covertly he searched the face of the old squaw, trying to discover one single feature that would proclaim her to be the mother ofthe girl, but try as he would, no slightest resemblance could he find in any line or lineament of the wrinkled visage.
She had seated herself upon the edge of the bunk beyond the little stove.
"Can't we be friends?" he asked abruptly.
The laugh that greeted his question sounded in his ears like the snarl of a wolf: "Yes, if you will let me kill you now—we can be friends."
"Oh, come," laughed Brent, "That's carrying friendship a bit too far, don't you think?"
"I had rather you had traded hooch to the men," answered the woman, sullenly, "For then she would even now hate you—as someday she will learn to hate you!"
"Learn to hate me! What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean!" cried the squaw, her voice quivering with anger, "You white men are devils! You come, and you stay a while, and then you go your way, and you stop again, and your trail is a trail of misery—of misery, and of father-less half-breed babies! I wish she had killed you that day you stood out there in the snow! Maybe the harm has been already done——"
"What do you mean?" roared Brent, overturning the bench and towering above the little stove in his rage. "You can't talk to me like that! Out with it! What do you mean?"
The squaw, also, was upon her feet, cowering at the side of the bunk, as she hurled her words intoBrent's face. "Where were you last night? And, where was she?"
Two steps and Brent was before her, his face thrust to within a foot of her own: "We were together," he answered in a voice that cut cold as steel, "In a wikiup that we built in the blinding snow and the darkness to protect us from the storm. Half of the night, while she slept upon her robe, I sat and tended the fire, and then, because she insisted upon it, she tended the fire while I slept." As the man spoke never for a moment did the glittering eyes of the squaw leave his close-thrust, blazing eyes, and when he finished, she sank to the bunk with an inarticulate cry. For in the righteous wrath of the blazing eyes she had read the truth—and in his words was the ring of truth.
"Can it be?" she faltered, "Can it be that there is such a white man?"
The anger melted from Brent's heart as quickly as it had come. He saw huddled upon the bunk not a poison-tongued, snake-eyed virago, but a woman whose heart was torn with solicitude for the welfare of her child. But, was Snowdrift her child? Swiftly the thought flitted into Brent's brain, and as swiftly flashed another. Her child, or another's—what matter? One might well question her parentage—but never her love.
Gently his hand went out and came to rest upon the angular shoulder. And when he spoke the tone of his voice, even more than his words, reassured the woman. "There are many such white men," he said, soothingly. "You need not fear. I am your friend, and the friend of Snowdrift. I, like yourself, am here to find gold, and like yourself, I too, hate the traders of hooch—and with reason." He stepped to the stove, upturned the bench and recovered his cap. And as the old woman rose to her feet, Brent saw that the look of intense hatred had been supplanted by a look, which if not exactly of friendliness, was at least one of passive tolerance. At the doorway he paused, hesitated for a moment, and then, point blank, flashed the question that for days had been uppermost in his mind: "Who is Snowdrift?"
Wananebish leaned against a stanchion of the bunk. Instinctively, her savage heart knew that the white man standing before had spoken the truth. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, in the withered breast raged a conflict. Then her eyes opened, her lips moved, and she saw that the man was straining eagerly toward her to catch the words: "Snowdrift is my daughter," she said.
Brent hesitated. He had been quick to catch the flash of the eye that had accompanied the words, a flash more of defiance than of anger. It was upon his tongue to ask who was Murdo MacFarlane, but instead he bowed: "I must go now. I shall be coming here often. I hope I shall not be unwelcome."
The look of passive tolerance was once more in her eyes, and she shrugged so noncommittally thatBrent knew that for the present, if he had not gained an ally, he had at least, eliminated an enemy.
As the man plodded down the river, his thoughts were all of the girl. The stern implacability of her as she stood in the doorway of the cabin and ordered him from the encampment. The swift assurance with which she assumed leadership as the storm roared down upon them. The ingenuous announcement that they must spend the night—possibly several nights in the barrens. And the childlike naïvete of the words that unveiled her innermost thoughts. The compelling charm of her, her beauty of face and form, and the lithe, untiring play of her muscles as she tramped through the new-fallen snow. Her unerring sense of direction. Her simple code of morals regarding the killing of men. Her every look, and word and movement was projected with vivid distinctness upon his brain. And then his thoughts turned to the little cabin that was her home, and to the leathern skinned old woman who told him she was the girl's mother.
"The squaw lied!" he uttered fiercely. "Never in God's world is Snowdrift her daughter! But—who is she?"
He rounded the last bend of the river and brought up shortly. Joe Pete was stoking the fire with wood, and upon the gravel dump, sat the girl apparently very much interested in the operation.
Almost at the same instant she saw him, and Brent's heart leaped within him at the glad little crythat came to him over the snow, as the girl scrambled to her feet and hurried toward him. "Where have you been?" she asked. "I came to hunt—and you were gone. So I waited for you to come, and I watched Joe Pete feed the fire in the hole."
Brent's fingers closed almost caressingly over the slender brown hand that was thrust into his and he smiled into the upraised eyes: "I, too, went to hunt. I went to your cabin, and your—mother," despite himself, the man's tongue hesitated upon the word, "told me that you had gone with the women to bring in the meat."
"Oh, you have seen Wananebish!" cried the girl, "And she was glad to see you?"
"Well," smiled Brent, "Perhaps not so awfully glad—right at first. But Wananebish and I are good friends, now."
"I am glad. I love Wananebish. She is good to me. She has deprived herself of many things—sometimes I think, even of food, that I might stay in school at the mission. And now it is too late to hunt today, and I am hungry. Let us go in the cabin and eat."
"Fine!" cried Brent, "Hey, Joe Pete, cut some caribou steaks, and I'll build up the fire!" He turned again to the girl, "Come on," he laughed, "I could eat a raw dog!"
"But, there is plenty of meat!" cried the girl, "And you'll need the dogs! Only when men are starving will they eat their dogs—and notraw!"
Brent laughed heartily into the dismayed face: "You need not be afraid, we will save the dogs till we need them. That was only a figure of speech. I meant that I am very hungry, and that, if I could find nothing else to eat I should relish even raw dog meat."
Snowdrift was laughing, now: "I see!" she cried, "In books are many such sayings. It is a metaphor—no, not a metaphor—a—oh, I don't remember, but anyway I am glad you said that because I thought such things were used only in the language of books—and maybe I can say one like that myself, someday."
At the door of the cabin they removed their snowshoes, and a few moments later a wood fire was roaring in the little stove. Joe Pete came in with the frozen steaks, set them down upon the table, and moved toward the door, but Brent called him back. "You're in on this feed! Get busy and fry up those steaks while I set the table."
The Indian hesitated, glanced shrewdly at Brent as if to ascertain the sincerity of the invitation, and throwing off his parka, busied himself at the stove, while Brent and Snowdrift, laughing and chattering like children, placed the porcelain lined plates and cups and the steel knives and forks upon the uneven pole table.
The early darkness was gathering when they again left the cabin. Snowdrift paused to watch Joe Pete throw wood into the flames that leapedfrom the mouth of the shallow shaft: "Why do you have the fire in the hole?" she asked of Brent, who stood at her side.
"Why, to thaw the gravel so we can throw it out onto the dump. Then in the spring, we'll sluice out the dump and see what we've got."
"Do you mean for gold?" asked the girl in surprise, "We only hunt for gold in the summer in the sand of the creeks and the rivers."
"This way is better," explained Brent. "In the summer you can only muck around in the surface stuff. You can't sink a shaft because the water would run in and fill it up. In most places the deeper you go the richer the gravel. The very best of it is right down against bed-rock. In the winter we keep a fire going until the gravel is thawed for six or eight inches down, then we rake out the ashes and wait for the hole to cool down so there will be air instead of gas in it, and then we throw out the loose stuff and build up the fire again."
"And you won't know till spring whether you have any gold or not? Why, maybe you would put in a whole winter's work and get nothing!"
"Oh, we kind of keep cases on it with the pan. Every day or so I scoop up a panful and carry it into the cabin and melt some ice and pan it out."
"And is there gold here? Have you found it?"
"Not yet. That is, not in paying quantities. The gravel shows just enough color to keep us at it. Idon't think it is going to amount to much. So far we're making fair wages—and that's about all."
"What do you mean by fair wages?" smiled the girl. "You see, I am learning all I can about finding gold."
"I expect we're throwing out maybe a couple of ounces a day—an ounce apiece. If it don't show something pretty quick I'm going to try some other place. There's a likely looking creek runs in above here."
"But an ounce of gold is worth sixteen dollars!" exclaimed the girl, "And sixteen dollars every day for each of you is lots of money."
Brent laughed: "It's good wages, and that's about all. But I'm not here just to make wages. I've got to make a strike."
"How much is a strike?"
"Oh, anywhere from a half a million up."
"A half a million dollars!" cried the girl, "Why, what could you do with it all?"
Brent laughed: "Oh I could manage to find use for it, I reckon. In the first place I owe a man some money over on the Yukon—two men. They've got to be paid. And after that—" His voice trailed off into silence.
"And what would you do after that?" persisted the girl.
"Well," answered the man, as he watched the shower of sparks fly upward, "That depends—But, come, it's getting dark. I'll walk home with you."
"Are you going because you think I am afraid?" she laughed.
"I am going because I want to go," he answered, and led off up the river.
As the darkness settled the snow-covered surface of the river showed as a narrow white lane that terminated abruptly at each bend in a wall of intense blackness. Overhead a million stars glittered so brightly in the keen air that they seemed suspended just above the serried skyline of the bordering spruces. At the end of an hour it grew lighter. Through the openings between the flanking spruce thickets long naked ridges with their overhanging wind-carved snow-cornices were visible far back from the river. As they came in sight of the encampment the girl, who was traveling ahead, paused abruptly and with an exclamation of delight, pointed toward a distant ridge upon the clean-cut skyline of which the rim of the full moon showed in an ever widening segment of red. Brent stood close by her side, and together, in wrapt silence they watched the glowing orb rise clear of the ridge, watched its color pale until it hung cold and clean-cut in the night sky like a disk of burnished brass.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she breathed, and by the gentle pressure that accompanied the words, Brent suddenly knew that her bared hand was in his own, and that two mittens lay upon the snow at their feet.
"Wonderful," he whispered, as his eyes swept the unending panorama of lifeless barrens. "It isas if we two were the only living beings in the whole dead world."
"Oh, I wish—I wish we were!" cried the girl, impulsively. And then: "No that is wrong! Other people—thousands and thousands of them—men, and women, and little babies—they all love to live."
"It is wonderful to live," breathed the man, "And to be standing here—with you—in the moonlight."
"Ah, the moonlight—is it the moonlight that makes me feel so strange—in here?" she raised her mittened hand and pressed it against her breast, "So strange and restless. I want to go—I do not know where—but, I want to do something big—to go some place—any place, but to go, and go, and go!" Her voice dropped suddenly, and Brent saw that her eyes were resting broodingly upon the straggling group of tepees and cabins. A dull square of light glowed sullenly from her own cabin window, and her voice sounded heavy and dull: "But, there is no place to go, and nothing to do, but hunt, and trap, and look for gold. Sometimes I wish I were dead. No I do not mean that—but, I wish I had never lived."
"Nonsense, girl! You love to live! Beautiful, strong, young—why, life is only just starting for—you." Brent had almost said "us."
"But, of what use is it all? Why should one love to live? I am an Indian—yet I hate the Indians—except Wananebish. We fight the hooch traders, yet the men get the hooch. It is no use. I learnedto love books at the mission—and there are no books. You are here—with you I am happy. But, if you do not find a strike, you will go away. Or, if we do not find gold, we will go. The Indians will return to the river and become hangers-on at the posts. It is all—no use!"
Brent's arms were about her, her yielding body close against his, and she was sobbing against the breast of his parka. The man's brain was a chaos. In vain he strove to control the trembling of his muscles as he crushed her to him. In an unsteady voice he was murmuring words: "There, there, dear. I am never going away from you—never." Two arms stole about his neck, and Brent's heart pounded wildly as he felt them tighten in a convulsive embrace. He bent down and their lips met in a long, lingering kiss, "Darling," he whispered, with his lips close to her ear, "You are mine—mine! And I am yours. And we will live—live! Tell me Snowdrift—sweetheart—do you love me?"
"I love you!" her lips faltered the simple words, and Brent saw that the dark eyes that looked up into his own glowed in the moonlight like black pools. "Now—I know—it was—not the moonlight—in here—it was love!"
"Yes, darling, it was love. I have loved you since the first moment I saw you."
"And I have loved you—always!"