CHAPTER XVI
The Hudson’s Bay Post stood at the southern end of the lake, as did most Hudson’s Bay Posts in the North Country, and consisted of a group of log buildings, well constructed, neat in appearance and well adapted to their purposes of trade and defence. The store, with the Factor’s house attached, was the most imposing of the group, and next in size was the Mission House, which did for dwelling for the missionary, the church and the school, all under one roof and within four walls. Straggling outhouses were scattered about where boats and canoes and tackle of different kinds were stored. A few Indian wigwams and well built huts near the forest line completed the picture.
It was early morning and the air was bitter cold and thick with driving snow. About the Post there was not a sign of life except at the door of the Mission House, where a six-dog team hitched to a toboggan waited for their master. In their harness they lay curled up, backs to the wind, a nondescript lot, of varied and altogether doubtful ancestry but mostly husky.
Suddenly the leader raised his head, pricked up his ears, sniffed the wind and uttered a short sharp bark. Instantly the remaining five were on their feet, vigorously barking, indignant that they had missed something and protesting that they knew quite as much as old Skookum, who after his first warning bark had remained standing stiff-legged and bristled as to his back, sniffing the wind. The door of the Mission House opened and a little man, fur-clad as for a journey, looked out.
“What’s up, Skookum? Lie down, you old idiot,” he said. The other five looked foolish, but old Skookum maintained his posture, with ears alert and hair stiff and bristling. He knew that down the wind a definite and authentic scent had struck his nostrils. His was no second-hand knowledge, and he was not to be browbeaten into denial of a veritable experience.
“Well, old son, you are not usually an ass,” said the missionary. “We will investigate.”
He ran down to the shore and looked up the lake through the drifting snow. “Nothing there,” he muttered, “but Skookum knows a thing or two.” Long and steadily he gazed, waiting for a break in the drift of snow.
“By Jove! I believe there is something moving out there,” he said. Long he stood peering through the breaking drift that blinded his eyes and for the most part shut out the landscape. But nothing was to be seen. He returned to the house.
“You smelt something, old boy,” he said, patting the leader’s head, “but it’s gone away. A fox or something, eh?” But Skookum’s nose was still in the air and he refused to accept anything but the testimony of that reliable organ. As the missionary turned to re-enter the house Skookum again lifted his voice in a sharp, decisive bark and again his chorus supported him with vociferous yelping.
“Shut up, you idiots,” said the man to the five chorus dogs. “You didn’t smell anything.” For a moment the missionary stood undecided, looking at Skookum. “All right, old boy. It’s a beastly day to be out in, too beastly to take a chance. We’ll take your word for it.”
He entered the house, shouting, “Mother, Skookum says there’s some one up the lake, so before I go to Pine Point I shall run up a bit.”
“All right, John. It is a dreadful storm, but you were going out anyway, and it may be a runner from the Indian camp, you know.”
“You’re right, Mother, as you always are. I didn’t think of that. My mitts? Ah, here they are. And my bottle in case——? Ah, yes, thanks. I shall come in before I start, for the Point if I don’t find anything. Good-bye.”
His wife followed him to the door. “What a day! No! No! Come back, children, from the storm.” She drew back into the cosy room two brown-faced little boys who were keen to follow their father to the lake shore.
Within twenty minutes they heard the barking of the dogs, and in another moment her husband burst into the room, steadying a tall slight youth who swayed, staggered, clutched at the door and so hung, his chin fallen on his breast, his breath coming in gasps and deep drawn sobs.
“Quick, Mother, tea!” said the missionary, holding the stranger from falling.
“Here, old chap, sit down. You’re all right now,” said the missionary, pushing a chair toward him. But the youth clung fast to the door.
“No!” he gasped. “No! Mustn’t sit. Mother—two kids—up lake—mustn’t sit—never get up again.” But even as he spoke his hold loosened on the door. The warm air of the room relaxed his nerve tension and he slumped down in a huddled heap on the floor. Swiftly the missionary’s fingers were at work, loosening hood and coat.
“Yes, that’s right, Mother,” he said, taking from her hand a cup in which she had poured some spirits and hot water. “Now, get this into you. Good! A little more! Ah, now you are coming round. Now finish up the cup. Down with it, do you hear! No nonsense! Fine! Now, let’s see how you are. Hands all right, or nearly so. Off with his moccasins, Mother! Feet? Toes frozen a bit. Some snow, Mother, and rub ’em hard. All right, boy! You’re sound outside.”
So working swiftly he kept up in a loud, cheery voice, now soothing, again commanding, a monologue with which he strove to divert his patient from his own condition and restore him to normal self-control.
“Now the tea, Mother. A little spirits in it—ah, not too much—he doesn’t need it. Nothing like tea. Puts heart into a man—no unpleasant reactions. Great stuff, tea, for this country, eh? Something to chew on now, Mother. Toast? Nothing better! A little more now. Lots of time though, no rush. Sit down, old chap.” By this time the young man was on a chair. “Sit down.Sit down.What?”
“No!” said the young man, getting to his feet. “I will not sit! Must get back—mother—two children—in camp—snow bound—starving—dying! Must go.” He was on his feet now, his hands stretched out imploringly.
“What?” shouted the missionary. “A woman and children? For God’s dear sake, where? How far?”
“Left there—an hour after midnight. Come! She is dying!”
“Where, boy? For God’s sake, where?” Without waiting his answer the missionary flung open the door, whistled a succession of shrill blasts with his fingers, waved violently to a man who appeared at the door of one of the huts near by and turned back to the boy.
“What’s your name, boy?” he shouted.
“My name? Paul.”
“And the woman—your mother?”
“No—yes—my stepmother.”
“And dying? Where? Show me!” The missionary dragged him to a map hanging on the wall. The boy shook his head.
“Give me paper,” he said.
The missionary thrust paper and pencil into his hands. With shaking fingers he drew a rough outline of the lake, and traced a trail along the east shore.
“There!” he said, indicating a jutting point. “Twenty miles—one hour after midnight—I left.”
“Twenty miles! God help us now!” muttered the missionary, making swift preparations. “Quick, Mother! Tea, hot bricks, blankets, grub, whiskey. Ah! Thomas, good man—” he turned to an Indian who had come in—“party lost up the lake, twenty miles. Get ready to go with me. Another team—the Factor’s. Quick! quick!” Without a word the Indian vanished.
The missionary turned to the boy. “Now, lad, you go to bed. Mother will look after you.” He turned to his wife, busy with the preparation of food. “Feed him, Mother, and let him sleep. I know that point. We will bring them in safe enough.”
“I am going. I am all right now,” said Paul, pulling on his moccasins. “I am going. I know the way.”
“Nonsense!” shouted the missionary. “You stay here. You don’t go a foot. You will only keep us back.”
Paul looked at him stupidly, then smiled. “I am going. You can’t keep me here. I am going.” His voice remained quite quiet. “I’ll not hold you back. Let me go! Oh, let me go!” Again his hands went out in an imploring gesture.
The missionary paused in his preparations, keenly searching the boy’s face.
“All right, you young mule!” he snapped. “We haven’t time to argue. Anyway we have two toboggans,” he added to himself. “All right, all right. Feed this youth, Mother. He can stand some meat now. Fill the beggar up while we get ready. Here, off with those socks of yours,” he continued. “Dry socks, Mother. Two pairs. My mackinaws—find a pair of mitts. All right, now! Steady all!”
His wife, without a word and with swift hands that never hesitated or fumbled, followed out his instructions.
“Here, boy!” said the missionary. “If you are going with me, listen and obey orders.” There was no mistaking that tone.
“Yes, sir, I will!” said Paul. “Tell me what to do.”
“First sit here close to the fire,” said the missionary, drawing close to the glowing stove a big rocking chair. “Eat and drink all you can. Don’t guzzle; take your time. Get dry, warm things on your feet and hands. We shall not move for twenty minutes or so. Eat—drink—rest. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir. I will. I am all right, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Good boy! Good stuff, eh? Now don’t talk.”
Eagerly, ravenously, yet with no indecent haste, he ate the food given him, helping it down with cups of strong tea, pulling on the while dry clothing. Having eaten and got into dry things, he settled himself down into the big rocker. In a dozen breaths he was asleep, insensible, immovable, dead to his world.
The missionary smiled. “We will give him half an hour, Mother. He is dead beat.”
“Poor lad! How thin he is! And how terribly worn he looks! I am quite anxious about him, John. He can never go with you. Why not slip away now? You would be back before he wakes.”
“He has had a hard go, but he looks fit enough.”
“Why not let him sleep? He cannot go twenty miles.”
“We will give him half an hour. If he woke and found us gone you would have to tie him. He would follow us till he dropped.”
In consultation with Thomas the missionary studied the boy’s rough sketch.
“That is just beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas, eh?”
Thomas pondered. “How long he marshe?”
“From midnight. But he could not make good time in his condition and against that storm, eh?”
Thomas stood calculating. “La Petite Traverse ten miles,” he said, holding up two hands. “La Grande Traverse, he—” he showed fifteen fingers “and some more. S’pose he run queeck, eh? No dreeft. De win’—she’s blow heem—poof!”
“The Big Traverse!” exclaimed the missionary. “That’s good eighteen miles! Still, as you say, there would be little drifting on the lake with this wind. He might do it. By Jove! Thomas, we have a big job before us. And that boy wants to come with us.”
“Non, non, he cannot! Impossible!” Thomas was very emphatic, the missionary’s wife equally so.
“Look at him, John! Did you ever see a boy so terribly worn?”
The missionary sat regarding the youth. “He is thin and worn. I am sorry I gave him my word, by Jove! Everything ready, Thomas? What have you, Mother? There is a sick woman, you know.”
“Starving and worn out, like enough,” replied his wife. “There’s a bottle of soup and tea and hard tack and meat.”
“Fine. We will give him a full half hour.”
“Perhaps when he wakes he can be persuaded to wait here,” said his wife.
“Not he! He is a mule, a perfect mule. Look at that mouth, that long jaw. He will try it anyway. We may have to put him on the toboggan, but he will go.”
Thomas shook his head. “No bon! No bon! Him sleep so five hour, dead like one bear. We go toute suite!”
But to this the missionary would not agree. “At any rate, we must give him the chance to say.”
“It’s a shame! a crime!” said his wife.
At the end of three-quarters of an hour the missionary stood up, put his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy and gave him a slight shake. With one movement the boy was on his feet, awake and alert.
“What is it, Peter? Time, eh?” he asked, gazing upon the faces about him. “I was—I’m afraid I was asleep,” he said shamefacedly. “All ready? Let us go.” He drew on his light fur coat, seized his mitts, caps and snowshoes.
“No use, Mother,” said the missionary. “All right, we’re off. You’ll see us when we get back. Good-bye.” He kissed his wife.
“Oh, he cannot make that trip, John. He will perish on the way,” said his wife, quick tears coming to her eyes.
“Nonsense, Mother! He has two days’ march in him.”
The boy stood, his big grey eyes turning from one to the other. They were concerned for him. The tears in the woman’s eyes were for him. Slowly a deep red flush overspread his thin haggard face. Silently he took her hand in both of his, held it for a moment, then with a kind of shy grace he kissed it.
“You are awfully good,” he muttered, turned away and made for the door.
“En avant!” shouted the missionary cheerily. “All aboard! See you later, Mother!”
There was little breaking trail for the dogs that day; for, in Thomas’ dramatic words, “de win’ she’s blow heem—poof!” So after the first half hour the party struck and held to the steady dog trot that devours the white miles in the north land and keeps the blood jumping in the teeth of forty below. The boy took his turn with the other two in leading. After two hours’ run the missionary would have swung off to a bold out-jutting headland, heavily wooded, dimly seen through the storm.
“There is the point beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas,” he said.
“Oui!”
“No, that is not the camp,” said Paul. “Farther up, farther up.”
“Beyond the Grande Traverse, Thomas, eh?” said the missionary. “Another eight miles at least. Are you fit? Can you go on?”
The boy looked at him a moment with eyes that burned in their deep sockets like points of fire, then without answer he set off on a dog trot on the northward trail.
A twenty minute run brought them round the headland. They were on the edge of the Big Traverse, a bleak white plain, bare of mark or guiding sign, swept by bitter wind and driving snow. The missionary was for striking straight across the open, but Thomas after the Indian habit was for the more cautious plan of skirting the shore. “De win’, she no so bad, and de trail he’s no get los’.” Paul was for the shore line too.
They had not run for more than half an hour longer when old Skookum, who was leading, began to show signs of anxiety, sniffing, whimpering and uttering short yelps. The missionary pulled up his team short.
“Something coming, sure thing, man or beast,” he shouted to the others following. They all stood listening intently, but only the howling and hissing of the storm came to their ears. The dogs had all caught Skookum’s restlessness, sniffing and whimpering.
“Huh! Something! Indian think,” grunted Thomas, sniffing like the dogs.
“Indian, eh?” said the missionary sharply. “By Jove, it couldn’t be——” he paused, looking at Paul.
Quickly the boy’s hands went to his lips, he threw back his head and flung out into the storm a long weird call. Thomas glanced quickly at him. “Chippewayan,” he grunted.
Faintly and as if from a long way to the lake side came a similar call.
“Peter!” exclaimed Paul, setting off in the direction of the call. The missionary caught and held him fast.
“Hold on! Let’s be sure! Call again.”
Once more, Paul with his hands to mouth uttered his call and again from the lake came the faint response.
“From there, eh?” said the missionary, pointing north-west.
“Oui!” said Thomas, pointing a little farther north. “Indian there!”
But already the boy was off into the blinding drift.
“Hold up, you young fool! We must keep together,” cried the missionary, dashing after him. “Follow up, Thomas, with the dogs,” he shouted.
Not a sign of the boy could he get, but keeping the line of direction carefully he ran with all his speed, listening intently as he ran. Again there came on the storm wind the long weird call.
“More to the left,” he muttered, swinging off in that direction, but keeping up his pace. A few minutes of hard running, and through a break in the drifting storm he caught a glimpse of a huddled group of snow-sheeted spectral figures, and in the midst of them Paul holding in his arms a woman, tall and swaying in the storm like a wind-blown sapling. Clinging to the young man was a child, a little girl, and near by a boy stood, sturdily independent. Instantly the missionary took command.
“Here, Thomas!” he shouted, starting back on his tracks. Soon he met the Indian with the two dog teams, coming along at a gallop. “We have them here, Thomas. Let us make camp at the big headland. Quick! Quick!” Round the little group the Indian swung the teams.
“Get her on to the toboggan, Paul,” ordered the missionary. “We camp at the headland. Good shelter and good wood. Only hurry, for God’s sake, and follow me.”
The woman sank without a word onto one of the toboggans, the little girl upon the other, the boy scorning to ride. And rescued and rescuers made for camp.
Dazed, stupid, devoid of sensation or emotion, Paul trolled after the last toboggan, but through his head the words kept time to his feet: “He maketh the clouds His chariot; He rideth upon the wings of the wind.” And he knew that they were true.