Throughout this voyage we were struck by the rarity of some sorts of animals and the continual remarks that three, five, or six years ago these same sorts were extremely abundant; and in some few cases the conditions were reversed.
For example, during a week spent at Fort Smith, Preble had out a line of 50 mouse-traps every night and caught only one Shrew and one Meadowmouse in the week. Four years before he had trapped on exactly the same ground, catching 30 or 40 Meadowmice every night.
Again, in 1904 it was possible to see 100 Muskrats any fine evening. In 1907, though continually on the lookout, I saw less than a score in six months. Redsquirrels varied in the same way.
Of course, the Rabbits themselves were the extreme case, millions in 1904, none at all in 1907. The present, then, was a year of low ebb. The first task was to determine whether this related to all mammalian life. Apparently not, because Deermice, Lynxes, Beaver, and Caribou were abundant. Yet these are not their maximum years; the accounts show them to have been so much more numerous last year.
There is only one continuous statistical record of the abundance of animals, that is the returns of the fur trade. These have been kept for over 200 years, and if we begin after the whole continent was covered by fur-traders, they are an accurate gauge of the abundance of each species. Obviously, this must be so, for the whole country is trapped over every year, all the furs are marketed, most of them through the Hudson's Bay Company, and whatever falls into other hands is about the same percentage each year, therefore the H. B. Co. returns are an accurate gauge of the relative rise and fall of the population.
Through the courtesy of its officials I have secured the Company's returns for the 85 years—1821-1905 inclusive. I take 1821 as the starting-point, as that was the first year when the whole region was covered by the Hudson's Bay Company to the exclusion of all important rivals.
First, I have given these accounts graphic tabulation, and at once many interesting facts are presented to the eye. The Rabbit line prior to 1845 is not reliable. Its subsequent close coincidence with that of Lynx, Marten, Skunk, and Fox is evidently cause and effect.
The Mink coincides fairly well with Skunk and Marten.
The Muskrat's variation probably has relation chiefly to the amount of water, which, as is well known, is cyclic in the north-West.
The general resemblance of Beaver and Otter lines may not mean anything. If, as said, the Otter occasionally preys on the Beaver, these lines should in some degree correspond.
The Wolf line does not manifest any special relationship and seems to be in a class by itself. The great destruction from 1840 to 1870 was probably due to strychnine, newly introduced about then.
The Bear, Badger, and Wolverine go along with little variation. Probably the Coon does the same; the enormous rise in 1867 from an average of 3,500 per annum. to 24,000 was most likely a result of accidental accumulation and not representative of any special abundance. Finally, each and every line manifests extraordinary variability in the '30's. It is not to be supposed that the population fluctuated so enormously from one year to another, but rather that the facilities for export were irregular.
The case is further complicated by the fact that some of the totals represent part of this year and part of last; nevertheless, upon the whole, the following general principles are deducible:
(a) The high points for each species are with fair regularity 10 years apart.
(b) In the different species these are not exactly coincident.
(c) To explain the variations we must seek not the reason for the increase—that is normal—but for the destructive agency that ended the increase.
This is different in three different groups.
First. The group whose food and enemies fluctuate but little. The only examples of this on our list are the Muskrat and Beaver, more especially the Muskrat. Its destruction seems to be due to a sudden great rise of the water after the ice has formed, so that the Rats are drowned; or to a dry season followed by severe frost, freezing most ponds to the bottom, so that the Rats are imprisoned and starve to death, or are forced out to cross the country in winter, and so are brought within the power of innumerable enemies.
How tremendously this operates may be judged by these facts. In 1900 along the Mackenzie I was assured one could shoot 20 Muskrats in an hour after sundown. Next winter the flood followed the frost and the Rats seemed to have been wiped out. In 1907 1 spent 6 months outdoors in the region and saw only 17 Muskrats the whole time; in 1901 the H. B. Co. exported over 11 millions; in 1907, 407,472. The fact that they totalled as high was due, no doubt, to their abundance in eastern regions not affected by the disaster.
Second. The group that increases till epidemic disease attacks their excessively multiplied hordes. The Snowshoe-Rabbit is the only well-known case today, but there is reason for the belief that once the Beaver were subjected to a similar process. Concerning the Mice and Lemmings, I have not complete data, but they are believed to multiply and suffer in the same, way.
Third. The purely carnivorous, whose existence is dependent on the Rabbits. This includes chiefly the Lynx and Fox, but in less degree all the small carnivores.
In some cases such as the Marten, over-feeding seems as inimical to multiplication as under-feeding, and it will be seen that each year of great increase for this species coincided with a medium year for Rabbits.
But the fundamental and phenomenal case is that of the Rabbits themselves. And in solving this we are confronted by the generally attested facts that when on the increase they have two or three broods each season and 8 to 10 in a brood; when they are decreasing they have but one brood and only 2 or 3 in that. This points to some obscure agency at work; whether it refers simply to the physical vigour of the fact, or to some uncomprehended magnetic or heliological cycle, is utterly unknown.
The practical consideration for the collecting naturalist is this: Beaver, Muskrat, Otter, Fisher, Raccoon, Badger, Wolverine, Wolf, Marten, Fox reached the low ebb in 1904-5. All are on the upgrade; presumably the same applies to the small rodents. Their decacycle will be complete in 1914-15, so that 1910-11 should be the years selected by the next collecting naturalist who would visit the north.
For those who will enter before that there is a reasonable prospect of all these species in fair numbers, except perhaps the Lynx and the Caribou. Evidently the former must be near minimum now (1909) and the latter would be scarce, if it is subject to the rule of the decacycle, though it is not at all proven that such is the case.
We were still held back by the dilatory ways of our Indian friends, so to lose no time Preble and I determined to investigate a Pelican rookery.
Most persons associate the name Pelican with tropic lands and fish, but ornithologists have long known that in the interior of the continent the great white Pelican ranges nearly or quite to the Arctic circle. The northmost colony on record was found on an island of Great Slave Lake (see Preble, "N.A. Fauna," 27), but this is a very small one. The northmost large colony, and the one made famous by travellers from Alexander Mackenzie downward, is on the great island that splits the Smith Rapids above Fort Smith. Here, with a raging flood about their rocky citadel, they are safe from all spoilers that travel on the earth; only a few birds of the air need they fear, and these they have strength to repel.
On June 22 we set out to explore this. Preble, Billy, and myself, with our canoe on a wagon, drove 6 miles back on the landing trail and launched the canoe on the still water above Mountain Portage. Pelican Island must be approached exactly right, in the comparatively slow water above the rocky island, for 20 feet away on each side is an irresistible current leading into a sure-death cataract. But Billy was a river pilot and we made the point in safety.
Drifted like snow through the distant woods were the brooding birds, but they arose before we were near and sailed splendidly overhead in a sweeping, wide-fronted rank. As nearly as I could number them, there were 120, but evidently some were elsewhere, as this would not allow a pair to each nest.
We landed safely and found the nests scattered among the trees and fallen timbers. One or two mother birds ran off on foot, but took wing as soon as clear of the woods—none remained.
The nests numbered 77, and there was evidence of others long abandoned. There were 163 eggs, not counting 5 rotten ones, lying outside; nearly all had 2 eggs in the nest; 3 had 4; 5 had 3; 4 had 1. One or two shells were found in the woods, evidently sucked by Gulls or Ravens.
All in the nests were near hatching. One little one had his beak out and was uttering a hoarse chirping; a dozen blue-bottle flies around the hole in the shell were laying their eggs in it and on his beak., This led us to examine all the nests that the flies were buzzing around, and in each case (six) we found the same state of affairs, a young one with his beak out and the flies "blowing" around it. All of these were together in one corner, where were a dozen nests, probably another colony of earlier arrival.
We took about a dozen photos of the place (large and small). Then I set my camera with the long tube to get the old ones, and we went to lunch at the other end of the island. It was densely wooded and about an acre in extent, so we thought we should be forgotten. The old ones circled high overhead but at last dropped, I thought, back to the nests. After an hour and a half I returned to the ambush; not a Pelican was there. Two Ravens flew high over, but the Pelicans were far away, and all as when we went away, leaving the young to struggle or get a death-chill as they might. So much for the pious Pelican, the emblem of reckless devotion—a common, dirty little cock Sparrow would put them all to shame.
We brought away only the 5 rotten eggs. About half of the oldPelicans had horns on the bill.
On the island we saw a flock of White-winged Crossbills and heard a Song-sparrow. Gulls were seen about. The white spruce cones littered the ground and were full of seed, showing that no Redsquirrel was on the island.
We left successfully by dashing out exactly as we came, between the two dangerous currents, and got well away.
The Indians are simply large children, and further, no matter how reasonable your proposition, they take a long time to consider it and are subject to all kinds of mental revulsion. So we were lucky to get away from Fort Smith on July 4 with young Francois Bezkya as guide. He was a full-blooded Chipewyan Indian, so full that he had knowledge of no other tongue, and Billy had to be go-between.
Bezkya, the son of my old patient, came well recommended as a good man and a moose-hunter. A "good man" means a strong, steady worker, as canoeman or portager. He may be morally the vilest outcast unhung; that in no wise modifies the phrase "he is a good man." But more: the present was a moosehunter; this is a wonderfully pregnant phrase. Moose-hunting by fair stalking is the pinnacle of woodcraft. The Crees alone, as a tribe, are supposed to be masters of the art; but many of the Chipewyans are highly successful. One must be a consummate trailer, a good shot, have tireless limbs and wind and a complete knowledge of the animal's habits and ways of moving and thinking. One must watch the wind, without ceasing, for no hunter has the slightest chance of success if once the Moose should scent him. This last is fundamental, a three-times sacred principle. Not long ago one of these Chipewyans went to confessional. Although a year had passed since last he got cleaned up, he could think of nothing to confess. Oh! spotless soul! However, under pressure of the priest, he at length remembered a black transgression. The fall before, while hunting, he went to the windward of a thicket that seemed likely to hold his Moose, because on the lee, the proper side, the footing happened to be very bad, and so he lost his Moose. Yes! there was indeed a dark shadow on his recent past.
A man may be a good hunter, i.e., an all-round trapper and woodman, but not a moose-hunter. At Fort Smith are two or three scores of hunters, and yet I am told there are only three moose-hunters. The phrase is not usually qualified; he is, or is not, a moose-hunter. Just as a man is, or is not, an Oxford M.A. The force, then, of the phrase appears, and we were content to learn that young Bezkya, besides knowing the Buffalo country, was also a good man and a moose-hunter.
We set out in two canoes, Bezkya and Jarvis in the small one, Billy, Selig, Preble, and I in the large one, leaving the other police boys to make Fort Resolution in the H. B. steamer.
Being the 4th of July, the usual torrential rains set in. During the worst of it we put in at Salt River village. It was amusing to see the rubbish about the doors of these temporarily deserted cabins. The midden-heaps of the Cave-men are our principal sources of information about those by-gone races; the future ethnologist who discovers Salt River midden-heaps will find all the usual skulls, bones, jaws, teeth, flints, etc., mixed with moccasin beads from Venice, brass cartridges from New England, broken mirrors from France, Eley cap-boxes from London, copper rings, silver pins, lead bullets, and pewter spoons, and interpersed with them bits of telephone wires and the fragments of gramophone discs. I wonder what they will make of the last!
Eight miles farther we camped in the rain, reaching the Buffalo Portage next morning at 10, and had everything over its 5 miles by 7 o'clock at night.
It is easily set down on paper, but the uninitiated can scarcely realise the fearful toil of portaging. If you are an office man, suppose you take an angular box weighing 20 or 30 pounds; if a farmer, double the weight, poise it on your shoulders or otherwise, as you please, and carry it half a mile on a level pavement in cool, bright weather, and I am mistaken if you do not find yourself suffering horribly before the end of a quarter-mile; the last part of the trip will have been made in something like mortal agony. Remember, then, that each of these portagers was carrying 150 to 250 pounds of broken stuff, not half a mile, but several miles, not on level pavement, but over broken rocks, up banks, through quagmires and brush—in short, across ground that would be difficult walking without any burden, and not in cool, clear weather, but through stifling swamps with no free hand to ease the myriad punctures of his body, face, and limbs whenever unsufficiently protected from the stingers that roam in clouds. It is the hardest work I ever saw performed by human beings; the burdens are heavier than some men will allow their horses to carry.
Yet all this frightful labour was cheerfully gone through by white men, half-breeds, and Indians alike. They accept it as a part of their daily routine. This fact alone is enough to guarantee the industrial future of the red-man when the hunter life is no longer possible.
Next day we embarked on the Little Buffalo River, beginning what should have been and would have been a trip of memorable joys but for the awful, awful, awful—see Chapter IX.
The Little Buffalo is the most beautiful river in the whole world except, perhaps, its affluent, the Nyarling.
This statement sounds like the exaggeration of mere impulsive utterance. Perhaps it is; but I am writing now after thinking the matter over for two and a half years, during, which time I have seen a thousand others, including the upper Thames, the Afton, the Seine, the Arno, the Tiber, the Iser, the Spree, and the Rhine.
A hundred miles long is this uncharted stream; fifty feet its breadth of limpid tide; eight feet deep, crystal clear, calm, slow, and deep to the margin. A steamer could ply on its placid, unobstructed flood, a child could navigate it anywhere. The heavenly beauty of the shores, with virgin forest of fresh, green spruces towering a hundred feet on every side, or varied in open places with long rows and thick-set hedges of the gorgeous, wild, red, Athabaska rose, made a stream that most canoemen, woodmen, and naturalists would think without a fault or flaw, and with every river beauty in its highest possible degree. Not trees and flood alone had strenuous power to win our souls; at every point and bank, in every bend, were living creatures of the north, Beaver and Bear, not often seen but abundant; Moose tracks showed from time to time and birds were here in thousands. Rare winter birds, as we had long been taught to think them in our southern homes; here we found them in their native land and heard not a few sweet melodies, of which in faraway Ontario, New Jersey, and Maryland we had been favoured only with promising scraps when wintry clouds were broken by the sun. Nor were the old familiar ones away—Flicker, Sapsucker, Hairy Woodpecker, Kingfisher, Least Flycatcher, Alder Flycatcher, Robin, Crow, and Horned Owl were here to mingle their noises with the stranger melodies and calls of Lincoln Sparrow, Fox Sparrow, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Snipe, Rusty Blackbird, and Bohemian Waxwing.
Never elsewhere have I seen Horned Owls so plentiful. I did not know that there were so many Bear and Beaver left; I never was so much impressed by the inspiring raucous clamour of the Cranes, the continual spatter of Ducks, the cries of Gulls and Yellowlegs. Hour after hour we paddled down that stately river adding our 3 1/2 miles to its 1 mile speed; each turn brought to view some new and lovelier aspect of bird and forest life. I never knew a land of balmier air; I never felt the piney breeze more sweet; nowhere but in the higher mountains is there such a tonic sense abroad; the bright woods and river reaches were eloquent of a clime whose maladies are mostly foreign-born. But alas! I had to view it all swaddled, body, hands, and head, like a bee-man handling his swarms. Songs were muffled, scenes were dimmed by the thick, protecting, suffocating veil without which men can scarcely live.
Ten billion dollars would be all too small reward, a trifle totally inadequate to compensate, mere nominal recognition of the man who shall invent and realise a scheme to save this earthly paradise from this its damning pest and malediction.
At 8.30 A. M., 10 miles from the portage, we came to the Clew-ee, or White Fish River; at 6.30 P. M. made the Sass Tessi, or Bear River, and here camped, having covered fully 40 miles.
Now for the first time we were all together, with leisure to question our guide and plan in detail. But all our mirth and hopes were rudely checked by Corporal Selig, who had entire charge of the commissary, announcing that there were only two days' rations left.
In the dead calm that followed this bomb-shell we all did some thinking; then a rapid fire of questions demonstrated the danger of having a guide who does not speak our language.
It seems that when asked how many days' rations we should take on this Buffalo hunt he got the idea how many days to the Buffalo. He said five, meaning five days each way and as much time as we wished there. We were still two days from our goal. Now what should we do? Scurry back to the fort or go ahead and trust to luck? Every man present voted "go ahead on half rations."
We had good, healthy appetites; half rations was veritable hardship; but our hollow insides made hearty laughing. Preble disappeared as soon as we camped, and now at the right time he returned and silently threw at the cook's feet a big 6-pound Pike. It was just right, exactly as it happens in the most satisfactory books and plays. It seems that he always carried a spoon-hook, and went at once to what he rightly judged the best place, a pool at the junction of the two rivers. The first time he threw he captured the big fellow. Later he captured three smaller ones in the same place, but evidently there were no more.
That night we had a glorious feast; every one had as much as he could eat, chiefly fish. Next morning we went on 4 1/2 miles farther, then came to the mouth of the Nyarling Tessi, or Underground River, that joins the Buffalo from the west. This was our stream; this was the highway to the Buffalo country. It was a miniature of the river we were leaving, but a little quicker in current. In about 2 miles we came to a rapid, but were able to paddle up. About 6 miles farther was an immense and ancient log-jamb that filled the stream from bank to bank for 190 yards. What will be the ultimate history of this jamb? It is added to each year, the floods have no power to move it, logs in water practically never rot, there is no prospect of it being removed by natural agencies. I suspect that at its head the river comes out of a succession of such things, whence its name Underground River.,
Around this jamb is an easy portage. We were far now from the haunts of any but Indians on the winter hunt, so were surprised to see on this portage trail the deep imprints of a white man's boot. These were made apparently within a week, by whom I never learned. On the bank not far away we saw a Lynx pursued overhead by two scolding Redsquirrels.
Lunch consisted of what remained of the Pike, but that afternoon Bezkya saw two Brown Cranes on a meadow, and manoeuvring till they were in line killed both with one shot of his rifle at over 100 yards, the best shot I ever knew an Indian to make. Still, two Cranes totalling 16 pounds gross is not enough meat to last five men a week, so we turned to our Moosehunter.
"Yes, he could get a Moose." He went on in the small canoe with Billy; we were to follow, and if we passed his canoe leave a note. Seven miles above the log-jamb, the river forked south and west; here a note from the guide sent us up the South Fork; later we passed his canoe on the bank and knew that he had landed and was surely on his way "to market." What a comfortable feeling it was to remember that Bezkya was a moose-hunter! We left word and travelled till 7, having come 11 miles up from the river's mouth. Our supper that night was Crane, a little piece of bread each, some soup, and some tea.
At 10 the hunters came back empty-handed. Yes, they found a fresh Moose track, but the creature was so pestered by clouds of ———— that he travelled continually as fast as he could against the wind. They followed all day but could not overtake him. They saw a Beaver but failed to get it. No other game was found.
Things were getting serious now, since all our food consisted of 1 Crane, 1 tin of brawn, 1 pound of bread, 2 pounds of pork, with some tea, coffee, and sugar, not more than one square meal for the crowd, and we were 5 men far from supplies, unless our hunting proved successful, and going farther every day.
Next morning (July 9) each man had coffee, one lady's finger of bread, and a single small slice of bacon. Hitherto from choice I had not eaten bacon in this country, although it was a regular staple served at each meal. But now, with proper human perversity, I developed an extraordinary appetite for bacon. It seemed quite the most delicious gift of God to man. Given bacon, and I was ready to forgo all other foods. Nevertheless, we had divided the last of it. I cut my slice in two, revelled in half, then secretly wrapped the other piece in paper and hid it in the watch-pocket of my vest, thinking "the time is in sight when the whole crowd will be thankful to have that scrap of bacon among them." (As a matter of fact, they never got it, for five days later we found a starving dog and he was so utterly miserable that he conjured that scrap from the pocket next my heart.)
We were face to face with something like starvation now; the game seemed to shun us and our store of victuals was done. Yet no one talked of giving up or going back. We set out to reach the Buffalo country, and reach it we would.
That morning we got 7 little Teal, so our lunch was sure, but straight Teal without accompaniments is not very satisfying; we all went very hungry. And with one mind we all thought and talked about the good dinners or specially fine food we once had had. Selig's dream of bliss was a porterhouse steak with a glass of foaming beer; Jarvis thought champagne and roast turkey spelt heaven just then; I thought of my home breakfasts and the Beaux-Arts at New York; but Billy said he would he perfectly happy if he could have one whole bannock all to himself. Preble said nothing.
There was plenty of hollow hilarity but no word of turning back. But hold! yes, there was. There was one visage that darkened more each day, and finally the gloomy thoughts broke forth in words from the lips of—our Indian guide. His recent sullen silence was now changed to open and rebellious upbraiding.
He didn't come here to starve. He could do that at home. He was induced to come by a promise of plenty of flour. "All of which was perfectly true. But," he went on, "We were still 11 days from the Buffalo and we were near the head of navigation; it was a case of tramp through the swamp with our beds and guns, living on the country as we went, and if we didn't have luck the Coyotes and Ravens would."
Before we had time to discuss this prospect, a deciding step was announced, by Jarvis, He was under positive orders to catch the steamer Wrigley at Fort Resolution on the evening of July 10. It was now mid-day of July 9, and only by leaving at once and travelling all night could he cover the intervening 60 miles.
So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for"Bezkya was a moose-hunter."
Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe. We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat; they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.
Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically, I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food. A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.
Nothing loath, he set off with Billy. I marked them well as they went, one lithe, sinewy, active, animal-eyed; the other solid and sturdy, following doggedly, keeping up by sheer blundering strength. I could not but admire them, each in his kind.
Two hours later I heard two shots, and toward evening the boys came back slowly, tired but happy, burdened with the meat, for Bezkya was a moosehunter.
Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have been on that moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have told it. These men, that do it so well, never can tell it. Yet in the days that followed I picked up a few significant phrases that gave glimpses of its action.
Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son of the woods had set out "straightaway west." A big track appeared crossing a pool, seeming fresh. "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not muddy." Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see bite alder. Alder turn red in two hours; only half red." Follow long. "Look out, Billy; no go there; wrong wind. Yes, he pass one hour; see bit willow still white. Stop; he pass half-hour; see grass still bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. Stand here, Billy. He sleep in thick willow there."
Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long wait, the betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that wagged furiously to shake off the winged bloodsuckers. The shot, the rush, the bloody trail, the pause in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from both hunters, and the death.
Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, which lay conveniently on the river bank. After pushing through the alders and poling up the dwindling stream for a couple of hours we reached the place two miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no bell, horns only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across, the tips soft and springy; one could stick a knife through them anywhere outside of the basal half.
Bezkya says they are good to eat in this stage; but we had about 700 pounds of good meat so did not try. The velvet on the horns is marked by a series of concentric curved lines of white hair, across the lines of growth; these, I take it, correspond with times of check by chill or hardship.
We loaded our canoe with meat and pushed on toward the Buffalo country for two miles more up the river. Navigation now became very difficult on account of alders in the stream. Bezkya says that only a few hundred yards farther and the river comes from underground. This did not prove quite correct, for I went half a mile farther by land and found no change.
Here, however, we did find some Buffalo tracks; one went through our camp, and farther on were many, but all dated from the spring and were evidently six weeks old.
There were no recent tracks, which was discouraging, and the air of gloom over our camp grew heavier. The weather had been bad ever since we left Fort Smith, cloudy or showery. This morning for the first time the day dawned with a clear sky, but by noon it was cloudy and soon again raining. Our diet consisted of nothing but Moose meat and tea; we had neither sugar nor salt, and the craving for farinaceous food was strong and growing. We were what the. natives call "flour hungry"; our three-times-a-day prospect of Moose, Moose, Moose was becoming loathsome. Bezkya was openly rebellious once more, and even my two trusties were very, very glum. Still, the thought of giving up was horrible, so I made a proposition: "Bezkya, you go out scouting on, foot and see if you can locate a band. I'll give you five dollars extra if you show me one Buffalo."
At length he agreed to go provided I would set out for Fort Resolution at once unless he found Buffalo near. This was leaving it all in his hands. While I was considering, Preble said: "I tell you this delay is playing the mischief with our Barren-Ground trip; we should have started for the north ten days ago," which was in truth enough to settle the matter.
I knew perfectly well beforehand what Bezkya's report would be.
At 6.30 he returned to say he found nothing but old tracks. There were no Buffalo nearer than two days' travel on foot, and he should like to return at once to Fort Resolution.
There was no further ground for debate; every one and everything now was against me. Again I had to swallow the nauseating draught of defeat and retreat.
"We start northward first thing in the morning," I said briefly, and our third Buffalo hunt was over.
These, then, were the results so far as Buffalo were concerned: Old tracks as far down as last camp, plenty of old tracks here and westward, but the Buffalo, as before on so many occasions, were two days' travel to the westward.
During all this time I had lost no good opportunity of impressing on the men the sinfulness of leaving a camp-fire burning and of taking life unnecessarily; and now, I learned of fruit from this seeding. That night Bezkya was in a better humour, for obvious reasons; he talked freely and told me how that day he came on a large Blackbear which at once took to a tree. The Indian had his rifle, but thought, "I can kill him, yet I can't stop to skin him or use his meat," so left him in peace.
This is really a remarkable incident, almost unique. I am glad to believe that I had something to do with causing such unusual forbearance.
All night it rained; in the morning it was dull, foggy, and showery. Everything was very depressing, especially in view of this second defeat. The steady diet of Moose and tea was debilitating; my legs trembled under me. I fear I should be a poor one to stand starvation, if so slight a brunt should play such havoc with my strength.
We set out early to retrace the course of the Nyarling, which in spite of associated annoyances and disappointments will ever shine forth in my memory as the "Beautiful River."
It is hard, indeed, for words to do it justice. The charm of a stream is always within three feet of the surface and ten feet of the bank. The broad Slave, then, by its size wins in majesty but must lose most all its charm; the Buffalo, being fifty feet wide, has some waste water; but the Nyarling, half the size, has its birthright compounded and intensified in manifold degree. The water is clear, two or three feet deep at the edge of the grassy banks, seven to ten feet in mid-channel, without bars or obstructions except the two log-jambs noted, and these might easily be removed. The current is about one mile and a half an hour, so that canoes can readily pass up or down; the scenery varies continually and is always beautiful. Everything that I have said of the Little Buffalo applies to the Nyarling with fourfold force, because of its more varied scenery and greater range of bird and other life. Sometimes, like the larger stream, it presents a long, straight vista of a quarter-mile through a solemn aisle in the forest of mighty spruce trees that tower a hundred feet in height, all black with gloom, green with health, and gray with moss.
Sometimes its channel winds in and out of open grassy meadows that are dotted with clumps of rounded trees, as in an English park. Now it narrows to a deep and sinuous bed, through alders so rank and reaching that they meet overhead and form a shade of golden green; and again it widens out into reedy lakes, the summer home of countless Ducks, Geese, Tattlers Terns, Peetweets, Gulls, Rails, Blackbirds, and half a hundred of the lesser tribes. Sometimes the foreground is rounded masses of kinnikinnik in snowy flower, or again a far-strung growth of the needle bloom, richest and reddest of its tribe—the Athabaska rose. At times it is skirted by tall poplar woods where the claw-marks on the trunks are witness of the many Blackbears, or some tamarack swamp showing signs and proofs that hereabouts a family of Moose had fed to-day, or by a broad and broken trail that told of a Buffalo band passing weeks ago. And while we gazed at scribbled records, blots, and marks, the loud "slap plong" of a Beaver showed from time to time that the thrifty ones had dived at our approach.
On the way up Jarvis had gone first in the small canoe; he saw 2 Bears, 3 Beaver, and 1 Lynx; I saw nothing but birds. On the way down, being alone, the luck came my way.
At the first camp, after he left, we heard a loud "plong" in the water near the boat. Bezkya glided to the spot; I followed—here was a large Beaver swimming. The Indian fired, the Beaver plunged, and we saw nothing more of it. He told Billy, who told me, that it was dead, because it did not slap with its tail as it went down. Next night another splashed by our boat.
This morning as we paddled we saw a little stream, very muddy, trickling into the river. Bezkya said, "Beaver at work on his dam there." Now that we were really heading for flour, our Indian showed up well. He was a strong paddler, silent but apparently cheerful, ready at all times to work. As a hunter and guide he was of course first class. About 10.30 we came on a large Beaver sunning himself on a perch built of mud just above the water. He looked like a huge chestnut Muskrat. He plunged at once but came up again yards farther down, took another look and dived, to be seen no more.
At noon we reached our old camp, the last where all had been together. Here we put up a monument on a tree, and were mortified to think we had not done so at our farthest camp.
There were numbers of Yellowlegs breeding here; we were surprised to see them resting on trees or flying from one branch to another.
A Great Gray-owl sitting on a stump was a conspicuous feature of our landscape view; his white choker shone like a parson's.
Early in the morning we saw a Kingbird. This was our northernmost record for the species.
We pressed on all day, stopping only for our usual supper of Moose and tea, and about 7 the boys were ready to go on again. They paddled till dark at 10. Camped in the rain, but every one was well pleased, for we had made 40 miles that day and were that much nearer to flour.
This journey had brought us down the Nyarling and 15 miles down the Buffalo.
It rained all night; next morning the sun came out once or twice but gave it up, and clouds with rain sprinklings kept on. We had struck a long spell of wet; it was very trying, and fatal to photographic work.
After a delicious, appetising, and inspiring breakfast of straight Moose, without even salt, and raw tea, we pushed on along the line of least resistance, i.e., toward flour.
A flock of half a dozen Bohemian Waxwings were seen catching flies among the tall spruce tops; probably all were males enjoying a stag party while their wives were home tending eggs or young.
Billy shot a female Bufflehead Duck; she was so small-only 8 inches in slack girth—that she could easily have entered an ordinary Woodpecker hole. So that it is likely the species nest in the abandoned holes of the Flicker. A Redtailed Hawk had its nest on a leaning spruce above the water. It was a most striking and picturesque object; doubtless the owner was very well pleased with it, but a pair of Robins militant attacked him whenever he tried to go near it.
A Beaver appeared swimming ahead; Bezkya seized his rifle and removed the top of its head, thereby spoiling a splendid skull but securing a pelt and a new kind of meat. Although I was now paying his wages the Beaver did not belong to me. According to the custom of the country it belonged to Bezkya. He owed me nothing but service as a guide. Next meal we had Beaver tail roasted and boiled; it was very delicious, but rather rich and heavy.
At 3.45 we reached Great Slave Lake, but found the sea so high that it would have been very dangerous to attempt crossing to Fort Resolution, faintly to be seen a dozen miles away.
We waited till 7, then ventured forth; it was only 11 miles across and we could send that canoe at 5 1/2 miles an hour, but the wind and waves against us were so strong that it took 3 1/2 hours to make the passage. At 10.30 we landed at Resolution and pitched our tent among 30 teepees with 200 huge dogs that barked, scratched, howled, yelled, and fought around, in, and over the tent-ropes all night long. Oh, how different from the tranquil woods of the Nyarling!
Early next morning Preble called on his old acquaintance, Chief Trader C. Harding, in charge of the post. Whenever we have gone to H. B. Co. officials to do business with them, as officers of the company, we have found them the keenest of the keen; but whenever it is their personal affair, they are hospitality out-hospitalled. They give without stint; they lavish their kindness on the stranger from the big world. In a few minutes Preble hastened back to say that we were to go to breakfast at once.
That breakfast, presided over by a charming woman and a genial, generous man, was one that will not be forgotten while I live. Think of it, after the hard scrabble on the Nyarling! We had real porridge and cream, coffee with veritable sugar and milk, and authentic butter, light rolls made of actual flour, unquestionable bacon and potatoes, with jam and toast—the really, truly things—and we had as much as we could eat! We behaved rather badly—intemperately, I fear—we stopped only when forced to do it, and yet both of us came away with appetites.
It was clear that I must get some larger craft than my canoe to cross the lake from Fort Resolution and take the 1,300 pounds of provisions that had come on the steamer. Harding kindly offered the loan of a York boat, and with the help chiefly of Charlie McLeod the white man, who is interpreter at the fort, I secured a crew to man it. But oh, what worry and annoyance it was! These Great Slave Lake Indians are like a lot of spoiled and petulant children, with the added weakness of adult criminals; they are inconsistent, shiftless, and tricky. Pike, Whitney, Buffalo Jones, and others united many years ago in denouncing them as the most worthless and contemptible of the human race, and since then they have considerably deteriorated. There are exceptions, however, as will be seen by the record.
One difficulty was that it became known that on the Buffalo expedition Bezkya had received three dollars a day, which is government emergency pay. I had agreed to pay the regular maximum, two dollars a day with presents and keep. All came and demanded three dollars. I told them they could go at once in search of the hottest place ever pictured by a diseased and perfervid human imagination.
If they went there they decided not to stay, because in an hour they were back offering to compromise. I said I could run back to Fort Smith (it sounds like nothing) and get all the men I needed at one dollar and a half. (I should mortally have hated to try.) One by one the crew resumed. Then another bombshell. I had offended Chief Snuff by not calling and consulting with him; he now gave it out that I was here to take out live Musk-ox, which meant that all the rest would follow to seek their lost relatives. Again my crew resigned. I went to see Snuff. Every man has his price. Snuff's price was half a pound of tea; and the crew came back, bringing, however, several new modifications in our contract.
Taking no account of several individuals that joined a number of times but finally resigned, the following, after they had received presents, provisions, and advance pay, were the crew secured to man the York boat on the "3 or 4" days' run to Pike's Portage and then carry my goods to the first lake.
Weeso. The Jesuits called him Louison d'Noire, but it has been corrupted into a simpler form. "Weeso" they call it, "Weeso" they write it, and for "Weeso" you must ask, or you will not find him. So I write it as I do "Sousi" and "Yum," with the true local colour.
He was a nice, kind, simple old rabbit, not much use and not over-strong, but he did his best, never murmuring, and in all the mutinies and rebellions that followed he remained staunch, saying simply, "I gave my word I would go, and I will go." He would make a safe guide for the next party headed for Aylmer Lake. He alone did not ask rations for his wife during his absence; he said, "It didn't matter about her, as they had been married for a long time now." He asked as presents a pair of my spectacles, as his eyes were failing, and a marble axe. The latter I sent him later, but he could not understand why glasses that helped me should not help him. He acted as pilot and guide, knowing next to nothing about either.
Francois d'Noire, son of Weeso, a quiet, steady, inoffensive chap, but not strong; nevertheless, having been there once with us, he is now a competent guide to take any other party as far as Pike's Portage.
C., a sulky brute and a mischief-maker. He joined and resigned a dozen times that day, coming back on each occasion with a new demand.
S., grandson of the chief, a sulky good-for-nothing; would not have him again at any price; besides the usual wages, tobacco, food, etc., he demanded extra to support his wife during his absence. The wife, I found, was a myth.
T., a sulky good-for-nothing.
Beaulieu, an alleged grandson of his grandfather. A perpetual breeder of trouble; never did a decent day's work the whole trip. Insolent, mutinous, and overbearing, till I went for him with intent to do bodily mischief; then he became extremely obsequious. Like the rest of the foregoing, he resigned and resumed at irregular intervals.
Yum (William), Freesay; the best of the lot; a bright, cheerful, intelligent, strong Indian, boy. He and my old standby, Billy Loutit, did virtually all the handling of that big boat. Any one travelling in that country should secure Yum if they can. He was worth all the others put together.
Sweeping generalisations are always misleading, therefore I offer some now, and later will correct them by specific instances.
These Chipewyans are dirty, shiftless, improvident, and absolutely honest. Of the last we saw daily instances in crossing the country. Valuables hung in trees, protected only from weather, birds, and beasts, but never a suggestion that they needed protection from mankind. They are kind and hospitable among themselves, but grasping in their dealings with white men, as already set forth. While they are shiftless and lazy, they also undertake the frightful toil of hunting and portaging. Although improvident, they have learned to dry a stock of meat and put up a scaffold of white fish for winter use. As a tribe they are mild and inoffensive, although they are the original stock from which the Apaches broke away some hundreds of years ago before settling in the south.
They have suffered greatly from diseases imported by white men, but not from whiskey. The Hudson's Bay Company has always refused to supply liquor to the natives. What little of the evil traffic there has been was the work of free-traders. But the Royal Mounted Police have most rigorously and effectually suppressed this. Nevertheless, Chief Trader Anderson tells me that the Mackenzie Valley tribes have fallen to less than half their numbers during the last century.
It is about ten, years since they made the treaty that surrendered their lands to the government. They have no reserves, but are free to hunt as their fathers did.
I found several of the older men lamenting the degeneracy of their people. "Our fathers were hunters and our mothers made good moccasins, but the young men are lazy loafers around the trading posts, and the women get money in bad ways to buy what they should make with their hands."
The Chipewyan dialects are peculiarly rasping, clicking, and guttural, especially when compared with Cree.
Every man and woman and most of the children among them smoke. They habitually appear with a pipe in their mouth and speak without removing it, so that the words gurgle out on each side of the pipe while a thin stream goes sizzling through the stem. This additional variant makes it hopeless to suggest on paper any approach to their peculiar speech.
The Jesuits tell me that it was more clicked and guttural fifty years ago, but that they are successfully weeding out many of the more unpleasant catarrhal sounds.
In noting down the names of animals, I was struck by the fact that the more familiar the animal the shorter its name. Thus the Beaver, Muskrat, Rabbit, and Marten, on which they live, are respectively Tsa, Dthen, Ka, and Tha. The less familiar (in a daily sense) Red Fox and Weasel are Nak-ee-they, Noon-dee-a, Tel-ky-lay; and the comparatively scarce Musk-ox and little Weasel, At-huh-le-jer-ray and Tel-ky-lay-azzy. All of which is clear and logical, for the name originally is a description, but the softer parts and sharp angles are worn down by the attrition of use—the more use they have for a word the shorter it is bound to get. In this connection it is significant that "to-day" is To-ho-chin-nay, and "to-morrow" Kom-pay.
The Chipewyan teepee is very distinctive; fifty years ago all were of caribou leather, now most are of cotton; not for lack of caribou, but because the cotton does not need continual watching to save it from the dogs. Of the fifty teepees at Fort Chipewyan, one or two only were of caribou but many had caribou-skin tops, as these are less likely to bum than those of cotton.
The way they manage the smoke is very clever; instead of the two fixed flaps, as among the Plains River Indians, these have a separate hood which is easily set on any side (see III). Chief Squirrel lives in a lodge that is an admirable combination of the white men's tent with its weather-proof roof and the Indian teepee with its cosy fire. (See cut, p. 149.)
Not one of these lodges that I saw, here or elsewhere, had the slightest suggestion of decoration.
For people who spend their whole life on or near the water these are the worst boatmen I ever saw. The narrow, thick paddle they make, compared with the broad, thin Iroquois paddle, exactly expressed the difference between the two as canoemen. The Chipewyan's mode of using it is to sit near the middle and make 2 or perhaps 3 strokes on one side, then change to the other side for the same, and so on. The line made by the canoes is an endless zigzag. The idea of paddling on one side so dexterously that the canoe goes straight is yet on an evolutionary pinnacle beyond their present horizon.
In rowing, their way is to stand up, reach forward with the 30-pound 16 1/2-foot oar, throw all the weight on it, falling backward into the seat. After half an hour of this exhausting work they must rest 15 to 20 minutes. The long, steady, strong pull is unknown to them in every sense.
Their ideas of sailing a boat are childish. Tacking is like washing, merely a dim possibility of their very distant future. It's a sailing wind if behind; otherwise it's a case of furl and row.
By an ancient, unwritten law the whole country is roughly divided among the hunters. Each has his own recognised hunting ground, usually a given river valley, that is his exclusive and hereditary property; another hunter may follow a wounded animal into it, but not begin a hunt there or set a trap upon it.
Most of their time is spent at the village, but the hunting ground is visited at proper seasons.
Fifty years ago they commonly went half naked. How they stood the insects I do not know, and when asked they merely grinned significantly; probably they doped themselves with grease.
This religious training has had one bad effect. Inspired with horror of being "naked" savages, they do not run any sinful risks, even to take a bath. In all the six months I was among them I never saw an Indian's bare arms, much less his legs. One day after the fly season was over I took advantage of the lovely weather and water to strip off and jump into a lake by our camp; my Indians modestly turned their backs until I had finished.
If this mock modesty worked for morality one might well accept it, but the old folks say that it operates quite the other way. It has at all events put an end to any possibility of them taking a bath.
Maybe as a consequence, but of this I am not sure, none of these Indians swim. A large canoe-load upset in crossing Great Slave Lake a month after we arrived and all were drowned.
Like most men who lead physical lives, and like all meat-eating savages, these are possessed of a natural proneness toward strong drink.
An interesting two-edged boomerang illustration of this was given by an unscrupulous whiskey trader. While travelling across country he ran short of provisions but fortunately came to a Chipewyan lodge. At first its owner had no meat to spare, but when he found that the visitor had a flask of whiskey he offered for it a large piece of Moose meat; when this was refused he doubled the amount, and after another refusal added some valuable furs and more meat till one hundred dollars worth was piled up.
Again the answer was "no."
Then did that Indian offer the lodge and everything he had in it, including his wife. But the trader was obdurate.
"Why didn't you take it," said the friend whom he told of the affair; "the stuff would have netted five hundred dollars, and all for one flask of whiskey."
"Not much," said the trader, "it was my last flask I wouldn't 'a' had a drop for myself. But it just shows, how fond these Indians are of whiskey."
While some of the Chipewyans show fine physique, and many do great feats of strength and endurance, they seem on the whole inferior to whites.
Thus the strongest portager on the river is said to be Billy Loutit's brother George. At Athabaska Landing I was shown a house on a hill, half a mile away, to which he had carried on his back 450 pounds of flour without stopping. Some said it was only 350 pounds, but none made it less. As George is only three-quarters white, this is perhaps not a case in point. But during our stay at Fort Smith we had several athletic meets of Indians and whites, the latter represented by Preble and the police boys, and no matter whether in running, walking, high jumping, broad jumping, wrestling, or boxing, the whites were ahead.
As rifle-shots, also, the natives seem far inferior. In the matter of moose-hunting only, as already noted, the red-man was master. This, of course, is a matter of life-long training. A white man brought up to it would probably do as well as an Indian even in this very Indian department.
These tribes are still in the hunting and fishing stage; they make no pretence of agriculture or stockraising. Except that they wear white man's clothes and are most of them nominally Roman Catholics, they live as their fathers did 100 years ago. But there is one remarkable circumstance that impressed me more and more—practically every Chipewyan reads and writes his own language.
This miracle was inborn on me slowly. On the first Buffalo hunt we had found a smoothened pole stuck in the ground by the trail. It was inscribed as herewith.
"What is that Sousi?" "It's a notice from Chief William that Swiggert wants men on the portage," and he translated it literally: "The fat white man 5 scows, small white man 2 scows, gone down, men wanted for Rapids, Johnnie Bolette this letter for you. (Signed) Chief William."
Each of our guides in succession had shown a similar familiarity with the script of his people, and many times we found spideresque characters on tree or stone that supplied valuable information. They could, however tell me nothing of its age or origin, simply "We all do it; it is easy."
At Fort Resolution I met the Jesuit fathers and got the desired chance of learning about the Chipewyan script.
First, it is not a true alphabet, but a syllabic; not letters, but syllables, are indicated by each character; 73 characters are all that are needed to express the whole language. It is so simple and stenographic that the fathers often use it as a rapid way of writing French. It has, however, the disadvantage of ambiguity at times. Any Indian boy can learn it in a week or two; practically all the Indians use it. What a commentary on our own cumbrous and illogical spelling, which takes even a bright child two or three years to learn!
Now, I already knew something of the Cree syllabic invented by the Rev. James Evans, Methodist missionary on Lake Winnipeg in the '40s, but Cree is a much less complex language; only 36 characters are needed, and these are so simple that an intelligent Cree can learn to write his own language in one day.
In support, of this astounding statement I give, first, the 36 characters which cover every fundamental sound in their language and then a sample of application. While crude and inconcise, it was so logical and simple that in a few years the missionary had taught practically the whole Cree nation to read and write. And Lord Dufferin, when the matter came before him during his north-west tour, said enthusiastically: "There have been men buried in Westminster Abbey with national honours whose claims to fame were far less than those of this devoted missionary, the man who taught a whole nation to read and write."
These things I knew, and now followed up my Jesuit source of information.
"Who invented this?"
"I don't know for sure. It is in general use."
"Was it a native idea?"
"Oh, no; some white man made it."
"Where? Here or in the south?"
"It came originally from the Crees, as near as we can tell."
"Was it a Cree or a missionary that first thought of it?"
"I believe it was a missionary."
"Frankly, now, wasn't it invented in 1840 by Rev. James Evans,Methodist missionary to the Crees on Lake Winnipeg?"
Oh, how he hated to admit it, but he was too honest to deny it.
"Yes, it seems to me it was some name like that. 'Je ne sais pas.'"
Reader, take a map of North America, a large one, and mark off the vast area bounded by the Saskatchewan, the Rockies, the Hudson Bay, and the Arctic circle, and realise that in this region, as large as continental Europe outside of Russia and Spain, one simple, earnest man, inspired by the love of Him who alone is perfect love, invented and popularised a method of writing that in a few years—in less than a generation, indeed—has turned the whole native population from ignorant illiterates to a people who are proud to read and write their own language. This, I take it, is one of the greatest feats of a civiliser. The world has not yet heard, much less comprehended, the magnitude of the achievement; when it does there will be no name on the Canadian roll of fame that will stand higher or be blazoned more brightly than that of James Evans the missionary.
It sounds like the opening of an epic poem but it is not.
The Chipewyan calender is divided in two seasons—dog season and canoe season. What the horse is to the Arab, what the Reindeer is to the Lap and the Yak to the Thibetan, the dog is to the Chipewyan for at least one-half of the year, until it is displaced by the canoe.
During dog season the canoes are piled away somewhat carelessly or guarded only from the sun. During canoe season the dogs are treated atrociously. Let us remember, first, that these are dogs in every doggy sense, the worshipping servants of man, asking nothing but a poor living in return for abject love and tireless service, as well as the relinquishment of all family ties and natural life. In winter, because they cannot serve without good food, they are well fed on fish that is hung on scaffolds in the fall in time to be frozen before wholly spoiled. The journeys they will make and the devoted service they render at this time is none too strongly set forth in Butler's "Cerf Vola" and London's "Call of the Wild." It is, indeed, the dog alone that makes life possible during the white half-year of the boreal calender. One cannot be many days in the north without hearing tales of dog prowess, devotion, and heroism. A typical incident was related as follows by Thomas Anderson:
Over thirty years ago, Chief Factor George McTavish and his driver, Jack Harvey, were travelling from East Main to Rupert's House (65 miles) in a blizzard so thick and fierce that they could scarcely see the leading dog. He was a splendid, vigorous creature, but all at once he lay down and refused to go. The driver struck him, but the factor reproved the man, as this dog had never needed the whip. The driver then went ahead and found open water only a few feet from the dogs, though out of sight. After that they gave the leader free rein, surrendered themselves to his guidance, and in spite of the blinding blizzard they struck the flagpole of Rupert's between 11 and 12 that night, only a little behind time.
Many of the wild Wolf traits still remain with them. They commonly pair; they bury surplus food; the mothers disgorge food for the young; they rally to defend one of their own clan against a stranger; and they punish failure with death.
A thousand incidents might be adduced to show that in the north there is little possibility of winter travel without dogs and little possibility of life without winter travel.
But April comes with melting snows and May with open rivers and brown earth everywhere; then, indeed, the reign of the dog is over. The long yellow-birch canoe is taken down from the shanty roof or from a sheltered scaffold, stitched, gummed, and launched; and the dogs are turned loose to fend for themselves. Gratitude for past services or future does not enter into the owner's thoughts to secure a fair allowance of food. All their training and instinct prompts them to hang about camp, where, kicked, stoned, beaten, and starved, they steal and hunt as best they may, until the sad season of summer is worn away and merry winter with its toil and good food is back once more.
From leaving Fort MacMurray we saw daily the starving dog, and I fed them when I could. At Smith Landing the daily dog became a daily fifty. One big fellow annexed us. "I found them first," he seemed to say, and no other dog came about our camp without a fight.
Of course he fared well on our scraps, but many a time it made my heart ache and my food-store suffer to see the gaunt skeletons in the bushes, just beyond his sphere of influence, watching for a chance to rush in and secure a mouthful of—anything to stay the devastating pang. My journal of the time sets forth in full detail the diversity of their diet, not only every possible scrap of fish and meat or whatsoever smelled of fish or meat, but rawhide, leather, old boots, flour-bags, potato-peelings, soap, wooden fragments of meat-boxes, rags that have had enough animal contact to be odorous. An ancient dishcloth, succulent with active service, was considered a treat to be bolted whole; and when in due course the cloth was returned to earth, it was intact, bleached, purged, and purified as by chemic fires and ready for a new round of benevolences.
In some seasons the dogs catch Rabbits enough to keep them up. But this year the Rabbits were gone. They are very clever at robbing fish-nets at times, but these were far from the fort. Reduced to such desperate straits for food, what wonder that cannibalism should be common! Not only the dead, but the sick or disabled of their own kind are torn to pieces and devoured. I was told of one case where a brutal driver disabled one of his dogs with heavy blows; its companions did not wait till it was dead before they feasted. It is hard to raise pups because the mothers so often devour their own young; and this is a charge I never heard laid to the Wolf, the ancestor of these dogs, which shows how sadly the creature has been deteriorated by contact with man. There seems no length to which they will not go for food. Politeness forbids my mentioning the final diet for which they scramble around the camp. Never in my life before have I seen such utter degradation by the power of the endless hunger pinch. Nevertheless—and here I expect the reader to doubt, even as I did when first I heard it, no matter how desperate their straits-these gormandisers of unmentionable filth, these starvelings, in their dire extremity will turn away in disgust from duck or any other web-footed water-fowl.
Billy Loutit had shot a Pelican; the skin was carefully preserved and the body guarded for the dogs, thinking that this big thing, weighing 6 or 7 pounds, would furnish a feast for one or two. The dogs knew me, and rushed like a pack of Wolves at sight of coming food. The bigger ones fought back the smaller. I threw the prize, but, famished though they were, they turned away as a man might turn from a roasted human hand. One miserable creature, a mere skeleton, sneaked forward when the stronger ones were gone, pulled out the entrails at last, and devoured them as though he hated them.
I can offer no explanation. But the Hudson's Bay men tell me it is always so, and I am afraid the remembrance of the reception accorded my bounty that day hardened my heart somewhat in the days that followed.
On the Nyarling we were too far from mankind to be bothered with dogs, but at Fort Resolution we reentered their country. The following from my journal records the impression after our enforced three days' stay:
"Tuesday, July 16, 1907.—Fine day for the first time since July 3. At last we pulled out of Fort Resolution (9.40 A. M.). I never was so thankful to leave a place where every one was kind. I think the maddest cynophile would find a cure here. It is the worst dog-cursed spot I ever saw; not a square yard but is polluted by them; no article can be left on the ground but will be carried off, torn up, or defiled; the four corners of our tent have become regular stopping places for the countless canines, and are disfigured and made abominable, so that after our escape there will be needed many days of kindly rain for their purification. There certainly are several hundred dogs in the village; there are about 50 teepees and houses with 5 to 15 dogs at each, and 25 each at the mission and H. B. Co. In a short walk, about 200 yards, I passed 86 dogs.
"There is not an hour or ten minutes of day or night that is not made hideous with a dog-fight or chorus of yelps. There are about six different clans of dogs, divided as their owners are, and a Dogrib dog entering the Yellow-knife or Chipewyan part of the camp is immediately set upon by all the residents. Now the clansmen of the one in trouble rush to the rescue and there is a battle. Indians of both sides join in with clubs to belabour the fighters, and the yowling and yelping of those discomfited is painful to hear for long after the fight is over. It was a battle like this, I have been told, which caused the original split of the tribe, one part of which went south to become the Apaches of Arizona. The scenes go on all day and all night in different forms. A number of dogs are being broken in by being tied up to stakes. These keep up a heart-rending and peculiar crying, beginning with a short bark which melts into a yowl and dies away in a nerve-racking wail. This ceases not day or night, and half a dozen of these prisoners are within a stone's throw of our camp.
"The favourite place for the clan fights seems to be among the guy-ropes of our tent; at least half a dozen of these general engagements take place every night while we try to sleep.
"Everything must be put on the high racks eight feet up to be safe from them; even empty tins are carried off, boots, hats, soap, etc., are esteemed most toothsome morsels, and what they can neither eat, carry off, nor destroy, they defile with elaborate persistency and precision."
A common trick of the Indians when canoe season arrives is, to put all the family and one or two of the best dogs in the canoes, then push away from the shore, leaving the rest behind. Those so abandoned come howling after the canoes, and in unmistakable pleadings beg the heartless owners to take them in. But the canoes push off toward the open sea, aiming to get out of sight. The dogs howl sadly on the shore, or swim after them till exhausted, then drift back to the nearest land to begin the summer of hardship.
If Rabbits are plentiful they get along; failing these they catch mice or fish; when the berry season comes they eat fruit; the weaker ones are devoured by their brethren; and when the autumn arrives their insensate owners generally manage to come back and pick up the survivors, feeding them so that they are ready for travel when dog-time begins, and the poor faithful brutes, bearing no grudge, resume at once the service of their unfeeling masters.
All through our voyage up Great Slave Lake we daily heard the sad howling of abandoned dogs, and nightly, we had to take steps to prevent them stealing our food and leathers. More than once in the dim light, I was awakened by a rustle, to see sneaking from my tent the gray, wolfish form of some prowling dog, and the resentment I felt at the loss inflicted, was never more than to make me shout or throw a pebble at him.
One day, as we voyaged eastward (July 23) in the Tal-thel-lay narrows of Great Slave Lake, we met 5 canoes and 2 York boats of Indians going west. A few hours afterward as, we were nooning on an island (we were driven to the islands now) there came a long howling from the rugged main shore, a mile away to the east of us; then it increased to a chorus of wailing, and we knew that the Indians had that morning abandoned their dogs there. The wailing continued, then we saw a tiny black speck coming from the far shore. When it was half-way across the ice-cold bay we could hear the gasps of a tired swimmer. He got along fairly, dodging the cakes of ice, until within about 200 yards, when his course was barred by a long, thin, drifting floe. He tried to climb on it, but was too weak, then he raised his voice in melancholy howls of despair. I could not get to him, but he plucked up heart at length, and feebly paddling went around till he found an opening, swam through and came on, the slowest dog swimmer I ever saw. At last he struck bottom and crawled out. But he was too weak and ill to eat the meat that I had ready prepared for him. We left him with food for many days and sailed away.