Chapter Fourteen.In the Wild-Woods Again.While these events were taking place among the islands of the Arctic sea, the Indian chief Nazinred was slowly pushing his canoe southward in the direction of Great Bear Lake. He was accompanied, as we have said, by three like-minded comrades, one of whom was named Mozwa—or Moose-deer—from some fancied resemblance in him to that uncouth animal.But Mozwa, although uncouth, was by no means ungenial. On the contrary, he was a hearty good-natured fellow, who always tried to make the best of things, and never gave way to despondency, however gloomy or desperate might be the nature of his circumstances. Moreover, he was a big strong man, full of courage, in the prime of life, and modest withal, so that he was usually rather inclined to take than to give advice—to be led, rather than to lead.For hours together these men dipped their paddles over the side in concert, without uttering a single word, or giving more than a slight exclamation when anything worthy of notice attracted their attention. The interchange of thought during the labours of the day did not seem to strike them as necessary. The mere being in company of each other was a sufficient bond of sympathy, until an encampment was reached each evening, supper disposed of, and the tobacco-pipes in full blast. Then, at last, their native reserve gave way, and they ventured to indulge a little—sometimes a good deal—in the feast of reason and the flow of soul.Yet the nature of their voyage was such that white men might have deemed verbal intercourse an occasional necessity, as their route lay through much rugged and wild scenery, where the streams up which they had to force their way were in some places obstructed by rapids and shallows, and a mistake on their part might have brought sudden disaster and ruin. For their canoe was deeply laden with the furs which they had secured during the labours of the past winter, and on the sale of which to the fur-traders depended much of their and their families’ felicity or misery during the winter which was to come. But the steersman and bowman understood their work so well, and were so absolutely in accord, that the slightest action with the paddle on the part of either was understood and sympathetically met by the other.This unity of action is much more important than the navigators of lakes and oceans may suppose. In those almost currentless waters a steersman in any craft is usually self-sufficient, but among turbulent rapids, where rocks and shoals lie in all directions, and the deep-water track is tortuous, with, it may be, abrupt turnings here and there, a bowman is absolutely essential, and sometimes, indeed, may become the more important steersman of the two.One evening, long after the period when they left their native encampment, the friends paddled their little vessel into the backwater at the foot of a long rapid which roared in foaming white billows right ahead of them, offering what seemed an effectual barrier to their further progress—at least by water—and as the sides of the gorge through which the river rushed were almost perpendicular, without margin and with impenetrable bush everywhere, advance by land seemed equally blocked.Looking backward, Mozwa gave his friend an interrogative glance. Nazinred replied with an affirmative nod, and, all four dipping their paddles vigorously at the same moment, they shot out into the stream. Almost before the canoe was caught by the current it swung quickly into another eddy, which carried it up a few yards close under the frowning cliffs. Here again the Indians paused, and gazed earnestly at the foaming torrent ahead, which, to an unpractised eye, might have seemed a raging flood, to enter which would ensure destruction.And indeed the two guides seemed to entertain some such thoughts, for they continued to gaze for a considerable time in silent inaction. Then the bowman threw back another glance; the steersman replied with another nod, and again the canoe shot out into the stream.This time the struggle was more severe. A short distance above the point where they entered it, a large rock reared its black head in mid-stream. Below it there was the usual long stretch of backwater. To reach the tail of this stretch was the object of the men, but the intervening rush was so powerful that it swept them down like a cork, so that they almost missed it despite their utmost efforts.“Almost,” however, is a hopeful phrase. They were not quite beyond the influence of the eddy when they reached the end of the tail. A superhuman effort might yet save them from being swept back to the point far below that from which they had started. Mozwa was just the man to make such an effort. Nazinred and the others were pre-eminently the men to back him up.“Ho!” cried Mozwa.“Hoi!” shouted Nazinred, as they bent their backs and cracked their sinews, and made the big veins stand up on their necks and foreheads.A few seconds more and the canoe was floating under the shelter of the black-headed rock, and the Indians rested while they surveyed the battleground yet before them.The next reach carried them right across the river to a place where a long bend produced a considerable sweep of eddying water, up which they paddled easily. Above this, one or two short bursts into the tails caused by nearly sunken rocks brought them to a point full half-way up the rapid. But now greater caution was needed, because anything like a miss would send them downward, and might hurl them with destructive force against the rocks and ledges which they had already passed. A birch-bark canoe is an exceedingly tender craft, which is not only certain of destruction if it strikes a rock, but is pretty sure of being swamped if it even grazes one.With the utmost care, therefore, and consummate skill, they succeeded in pushing up the rapid, inch by inch, without mishap, until they reached the last shoot, when their skill or good fortune, or whatever it was, failed them, for they missed the last eddy, were swept downwards a few yards, and just touched a rock. It was a very slight touch. A boatman would have smiled at it; nevertheless it drew from the Indians “ho’s!” and “hoi’s!” such as they had not given vent to since the voyage began. At the same time they rushed the canoe, with all their strength, for the nearest point of land.They were scarcely a minute in reaching it, yet in that brief space of time their craft had almost sunk, a large piece of the bark having been torn from its side.The instant they touched land the two leaders stepped quickly out, and, while they held the craft close to the bank, their comrades threw out the bundles of fur as fast as possible. Then the canoe was turned over to empty it, and carried up the bank.“That is good luck,” said Mozwa quietly, as they stood looking at the large hole in the canoe.“I have seen better luck,” remarked Nazinred, with something that might almost have been mistaken for a smile on his grave countenance.Mozwa did not explain. Nazinred knew that the luck referred to was the fact that before the accident occurred they had surmounted all the difficulties of the rapid, and that the place on which they stood was convenient for camping on, as well as for opening out and drying the furs on the following day. And Mozwa knew that Nazinred knew all that.While the latter kindled a fire, arranged the camp, and prepared supper under a spreading tree, the former mended the canoe. The process was simple, and soon completed. From a roll of birch-bark, always carried in canoes for such emergencies, Mozwa cut off a piece a little larger than the hole it was designed to patch. With this he covered the injured place, and sewed it to the canoe, using an awl as a needle and the split roots of a tree as thread. Thereafter he plastered the seams over with gum to make them water-tight, and the whole job was finished by the time the other men had got supper ready.Indians are in the habit of eating supper in what may be styled a business-like manner—they “mean business,” to use a familiar phrase, when they sit down to that meal. Indeed, most savages do; it is only civilised dyspeptics who don’t. When the seriousness of the business began to wear off, the idea of mental effort and lingual communication occurred to the friends. Hitherto their eyes alone had spoken, and these expressive orbs had testified, as plainly as could the tongue, to the intense gratification they derived from the possession of good appetites and plenty of food.“I think,” said Mozwa, wiping his mouth with that familiar handkerchief—the back of his hand—“that there will be trouble in the camp before long, for when you are away that beast Magadar has too much power. He will try to make our young men go with him to fight the Eskimos!”It must not be supposed that the Indian applied the word “beast” to Magadar in that objectionable and slangy way in which it is used among ourselves. Indians happily have no slang. They are not civilised enough for that. Mozwa merely meant to express his opinion that Magadar’s nature was more allied to that of the lower than of the higher animals.“Yes, and Alizay will encourage him,” returned Nazinred, with a frown. “The man is well-named.”This remark about the name had reference to the word Alizay, which means gunpowder, and which had been given to the Indian in his boyhood because of his fiery and quarrelsome disposition.“The geese and the ducks are in plenty just now,” continued Nazinred; “I hope that he and Magadar will be more taken up with filling their mouths than fighting till I return—and then I can hinder them.”“H’m!” responded Mozwa. He might have said more, but was busy lighting his pipe at the moment. Nazinred made no further remark at the time, for he was in the full enjoyment of the first voluminous exhalation of the weed.After a few minutes the chief resumed—“Our old chief is full of the right spirit. He is losing power with the young men, but I think he can still guide them. I will hope so, and we will return as soon as we can.”Poor Nazinred! If he had known that his only and beloved daughter, even while he spoke, was on her way to the mysterious icy sea in company with one of the despised Eskimos—driven away by the violence of the fire-eaters of the camp—he would not have smoked or spoken so calmly. But, fortunately for his own peace of mind, he did not know—he did not dream of the possibility of such a catastrophe; and even if he had known and returned home at full speed, he would have been too late to prevent the evil.For a long time these Indians lay side by side on their outspread blankets, with their feet to the fire, gazing through the branches at the stars, and puffing away in profound silence, but probably deep thought. At least a sudden exclamation by Mozwa warrants that conclusion.“You think,” he said, “that our old chief has the right spirit. How do you know what is the right spirit? Alizay and Magadar, and many of our braves—especially the young ones—think that a fiery spirit, that flares up like powder, and is always ready to fight, is the right one. You and our old chief think that gentleness and forbearance and unwillingness to fight till you cannot help it is the right spirit. How do you know which is right? You and the war-lovers cannot both be right!”There was an expression of great perplexity on the Indian’s face as he uttered the last sentence.“My son,” replied Nazinred, who, although not much older than his companion, assumed the parentalrôlein virtue of his chieftainship, “how do you know that you are alive?”This was such an unexpected answer that Mozwa gazed fixedly upwards for a few minutes without making any reply.“I know it,” he said at length, “because I—I—know it. I—Ifeelit.”“How do you know,” continued the chief, with perplexing pertinacity, “that the sun is not the moon?”Again Mozwa became astronomically meditative. “Because I see it and feel it,” he replied. “The sun is brighter and warmer. It cheers me more than the moon, and gives me more light, and warms me. It warms the bushes and flowers too, and makes them grow, and it draws the beasts out of their holes. Even a rabbit knows the difference between the sun and the moon.”“My son,” returned Nazinred, “I have not lived very long yet, but I have lived long enough to see, and feel, and know that the kind spirit is the right spirit, because it warms the heart, and opens the eyes, and gives light, and it is the only spirit that can make friends of foes. Is it not better to live at peace and in good-will with all men than to live as enemies?”“Ho!” responded Mozwa, by way of assent.“Then the peaceful spirit is the right one,” rejoined the chief, with a long-drawn sigh that indicated a tendency to close the discussion.As Mozwa felt himself to be in a somewhat confused mental condition, he echoed the sigh, laid down his pipe, drew his blanket round him, and, without the formality of “Good-night,” resigned himself to repose.Nazinred, after taking a look at the weather, pondering, perchance, on the probabilities of the morrow, and throwing a fresh log on the fire, also wrapped his blanket round him and lost himself in slumber.
While these events were taking place among the islands of the Arctic sea, the Indian chief Nazinred was slowly pushing his canoe southward in the direction of Great Bear Lake. He was accompanied, as we have said, by three like-minded comrades, one of whom was named Mozwa—or Moose-deer—from some fancied resemblance in him to that uncouth animal.
But Mozwa, although uncouth, was by no means ungenial. On the contrary, he was a hearty good-natured fellow, who always tried to make the best of things, and never gave way to despondency, however gloomy or desperate might be the nature of his circumstances. Moreover, he was a big strong man, full of courage, in the prime of life, and modest withal, so that he was usually rather inclined to take than to give advice—to be led, rather than to lead.
For hours together these men dipped their paddles over the side in concert, without uttering a single word, or giving more than a slight exclamation when anything worthy of notice attracted their attention. The interchange of thought during the labours of the day did not seem to strike them as necessary. The mere being in company of each other was a sufficient bond of sympathy, until an encampment was reached each evening, supper disposed of, and the tobacco-pipes in full blast. Then, at last, their native reserve gave way, and they ventured to indulge a little—sometimes a good deal—in the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Yet the nature of their voyage was such that white men might have deemed verbal intercourse an occasional necessity, as their route lay through much rugged and wild scenery, where the streams up which they had to force their way were in some places obstructed by rapids and shallows, and a mistake on their part might have brought sudden disaster and ruin. For their canoe was deeply laden with the furs which they had secured during the labours of the past winter, and on the sale of which to the fur-traders depended much of their and their families’ felicity or misery during the winter which was to come. But the steersman and bowman understood their work so well, and were so absolutely in accord, that the slightest action with the paddle on the part of either was understood and sympathetically met by the other.
This unity of action is much more important than the navigators of lakes and oceans may suppose. In those almost currentless waters a steersman in any craft is usually self-sufficient, but among turbulent rapids, where rocks and shoals lie in all directions, and the deep-water track is tortuous, with, it may be, abrupt turnings here and there, a bowman is absolutely essential, and sometimes, indeed, may become the more important steersman of the two.
One evening, long after the period when they left their native encampment, the friends paddled their little vessel into the backwater at the foot of a long rapid which roared in foaming white billows right ahead of them, offering what seemed an effectual barrier to their further progress—at least by water—and as the sides of the gorge through which the river rushed were almost perpendicular, without margin and with impenetrable bush everywhere, advance by land seemed equally blocked.
Looking backward, Mozwa gave his friend an interrogative glance. Nazinred replied with an affirmative nod, and, all four dipping their paddles vigorously at the same moment, they shot out into the stream. Almost before the canoe was caught by the current it swung quickly into another eddy, which carried it up a few yards close under the frowning cliffs. Here again the Indians paused, and gazed earnestly at the foaming torrent ahead, which, to an unpractised eye, might have seemed a raging flood, to enter which would ensure destruction.
And indeed the two guides seemed to entertain some such thoughts, for they continued to gaze for a considerable time in silent inaction. Then the bowman threw back another glance; the steersman replied with another nod, and again the canoe shot out into the stream.
This time the struggle was more severe. A short distance above the point where they entered it, a large rock reared its black head in mid-stream. Below it there was the usual long stretch of backwater. To reach the tail of this stretch was the object of the men, but the intervening rush was so powerful that it swept them down like a cork, so that they almost missed it despite their utmost efforts.
“Almost,” however, is a hopeful phrase. They were not quite beyond the influence of the eddy when they reached the end of the tail. A superhuman effort might yet save them from being swept back to the point far below that from which they had started. Mozwa was just the man to make such an effort. Nazinred and the others were pre-eminently the men to back him up.
“Ho!” cried Mozwa.
“Hoi!” shouted Nazinred, as they bent their backs and cracked their sinews, and made the big veins stand up on their necks and foreheads.
A few seconds more and the canoe was floating under the shelter of the black-headed rock, and the Indians rested while they surveyed the battleground yet before them.
The next reach carried them right across the river to a place where a long bend produced a considerable sweep of eddying water, up which they paddled easily. Above this, one or two short bursts into the tails caused by nearly sunken rocks brought them to a point full half-way up the rapid. But now greater caution was needed, because anything like a miss would send them downward, and might hurl them with destructive force against the rocks and ledges which they had already passed. A birch-bark canoe is an exceedingly tender craft, which is not only certain of destruction if it strikes a rock, but is pretty sure of being swamped if it even grazes one.
With the utmost care, therefore, and consummate skill, they succeeded in pushing up the rapid, inch by inch, without mishap, until they reached the last shoot, when their skill or good fortune, or whatever it was, failed them, for they missed the last eddy, were swept downwards a few yards, and just touched a rock. It was a very slight touch. A boatman would have smiled at it; nevertheless it drew from the Indians “ho’s!” and “hoi’s!” such as they had not given vent to since the voyage began. At the same time they rushed the canoe, with all their strength, for the nearest point of land.
They were scarcely a minute in reaching it, yet in that brief space of time their craft had almost sunk, a large piece of the bark having been torn from its side.
The instant they touched land the two leaders stepped quickly out, and, while they held the craft close to the bank, their comrades threw out the bundles of fur as fast as possible. Then the canoe was turned over to empty it, and carried up the bank.
“That is good luck,” said Mozwa quietly, as they stood looking at the large hole in the canoe.
“I have seen better luck,” remarked Nazinred, with something that might almost have been mistaken for a smile on his grave countenance.
Mozwa did not explain. Nazinred knew that the luck referred to was the fact that before the accident occurred they had surmounted all the difficulties of the rapid, and that the place on which they stood was convenient for camping on, as well as for opening out and drying the furs on the following day. And Mozwa knew that Nazinred knew all that.
While the latter kindled a fire, arranged the camp, and prepared supper under a spreading tree, the former mended the canoe. The process was simple, and soon completed. From a roll of birch-bark, always carried in canoes for such emergencies, Mozwa cut off a piece a little larger than the hole it was designed to patch. With this he covered the injured place, and sewed it to the canoe, using an awl as a needle and the split roots of a tree as thread. Thereafter he plastered the seams over with gum to make them water-tight, and the whole job was finished by the time the other men had got supper ready.
Indians are in the habit of eating supper in what may be styled a business-like manner—they “mean business,” to use a familiar phrase, when they sit down to that meal. Indeed, most savages do; it is only civilised dyspeptics who don’t. When the seriousness of the business began to wear off, the idea of mental effort and lingual communication occurred to the friends. Hitherto their eyes alone had spoken, and these expressive orbs had testified, as plainly as could the tongue, to the intense gratification they derived from the possession of good appetites and plenty of food.
“I think,” said Mozwa, wiping his mouth with that familiar handkerchief—the back of his hand—“that there will be trouble in the camp before long, for when you are away that beast Magadar has too much power. He will try to make our young men go with him to fight the Eskimos!”
It must not be supposed that the Indian applied the word “beast” to Magadar in that objectionable and slangy way in which it is used among ourselves. Indians happily have no slang. They are not civilised enough for that. Mozwa merely meant to express his opinion that Magadar’s nature was more allied to that of the lower than of the higher animals.
“Yes, and Alizay will encourage him,” returned Nazinred, with a frown. “The man is well-named.”
This remark about the name had reference to the word Alizay, which means gunpowder, and which had been given to the Indian in his boyhood because of his fiery and quarrelsome disposition.
“The geese and the ducks are in plenty just now,” continued Nazinred; “I hope that he and Magadar will be more taken up with filling their mouths than fighting till I return—and then I can hinder them.”
“H’m!” responded Mozwa. He might have said more, but was busy lighting his pipe at the moment. Nazinred made no further remark at the time, for he was in the full enjoyment of the first voluminous exhalation of the weed.
After a few minutes the chief resumed—
“Our old chief is full of the right spirit. He is losing power with the young men, but I think he can still guide them. I will hope so, and we will return as soon as we can.”
Poor Nazinred! If he had known that his only and beloved daughter, even while he spoke, was on her way to the mysterious icy sea in company with one of the despised Eskimos—driven away by the violence of the fire-eaters of the camp—he would not have smoked or spoken so calmly. But, fortunately for his own peace of mind, he did not know—he did not dream of the possibility of such a catastrophe; and even if he had known and returned home at full speed, he would have been too late to prevent the evil.
For a long time these Indians lay side by side on their outspread blankets, with their feet to the fire, gazing through the branches at the stars, and puffing away in profound silence, but probably deep thought. At least a sudden exclamation by Mozwa warrants that conclusion.
“You think,” he said, “that our old chief has the right spirit. How do you know what is the right spirit? Alizay and Magadar, and many of our braves—especially the young ones—think that a fiery spirit, that flares up like powder, and is always ready to fight, is the right one. You and our old chief think that gentleness and forbearance and unwillingness to fight till you cannot help it is the right spirit. How do you know which is right? You and the war-lovers cannot both be right!”
There was an expression of great perplexity on the Indian’s face as he uttered the last sentence.
“My son,” replied Nazinred, who, although not much older than his companion, assumed the parentalrôlein virtue of his chieftainship, “how do you know that you are alive?”
This was such an unexpected answer that Mozwa gazed fixedly upwards for a few minutes without making any reply.
“I know it,” he said at length, “because I—I—know it. I—Ifeelit.”
“How do you know,” continued the chief, with perplexing pertinacity, “that the sun is not the moon?”
Again Mozwa became astronomically meditative. “Because I see it and feel it,” he replied. “The sun is brighter and warmer. It cheers me more than the moon, and gives me more light, and warms me. It warms the bushes and flowers too, and makes them grow, and it draws the beasts out of their holes. Even a rabbit knows the difference between the sun and the moon.”
“My son,” returned Nazinred, “I have not lived very long yet, but I have lived long enough to see, and feel, and know that the kind spirit is the right spirit, because it warms the heart, and opens the eyes, and gives light, and it is the only spirit that can make friends of foes. Is it not better to live at peace and in good-will with all men than to live as enemies?”
“Ho!” responded Mozwa, by way of assent.
“Then the peaceful spirit is the right one,” rejoined the chief, with a long-drawn sigh that indicated a tendency to close the discussion.
As Mozwa felt himself to be in a somewhat confused mental condition, he echoed the sigh, laid down his pipe, drew his blanket round him, and, without the formality of “Good-night,” resigned himself to repose.
Nazinred, after taking a look at the weather, pondering, perchance, on the probabilities of the morrow, and throwing a fresh log on the fire, also wrapped his blanket round him and lost himself in slumber.
Chapter Fifteen.Wild Doings of the Fur-Traders and Red Men.In course of time, after many a hard struggle with rushing rapids and not a few narrow escapes from dangerous rocks, the Indian voyagers swept out at last upon the broad bosom of Great Bear Lake.This mighty inland sea of fresh water—about two hundred miles in diameter, and big enough to engulf the greater part of Scotland—was, at the time we write of, and still is, far beyond the outmost verge of civilisation, in the remotest solitudes of the Great Lone Land.Here the fur-traders had established a small trading-post close to the shores of the lake. It was in charge of a Scotchman—we had almost said of course; for it would seem as if these hardy dwellers in the north of our island have a special gift for penetrating into and inhabiting the wildest and most unlikely parts of the world. His name was MacSweenie, and he had a few Orkney-men and half-castes to keep him company while vegetating there.It was a sort of event, a mild excitement, a pink—if not a red—letter day, when our Indians arrived at that lonely outpost, and MacSweenie, who was in the prime of life and the depths ofennui, gave the strangers a hearty and warm reception.Nazinred had been there before, and was able somewhat to subdue his feelings of admiration and not-quite-exhausted surprise at all the wonderful things he saw; but to the others it was comparatively new, and Mozwa had never been at a trading-post in his life. Being a sympathetic man, he found it difficult to retain at all times that solemnity of manner and look which he knew was expected of him. The chief, who was also sympathetic, experienced deep pleasure in watching his companion’s face, and observing the efforts he made to appear indifferent, knowing, as he did, from former experience, that he must in reality be full of surprise and curiosity.And, truly, in the store of the fur-traders there was a display of wealth which, to unaccustomed Indian eyes, must have seemed almost fabulous. For were there not in this enchanted castle bales of bright blue cloth, and bright scarlet cloth, and various other kinds of cloth sufficient to clothe the entire Dogrib nation? Were there not guns enough—cheap flint-lock, blue-barrelled ones—to make all the Eskimos in the polar regions look blue with envy, if not with fear? Were there not bright beads and brass rings, and other baubles, and coloured silk thread, enough to make the hearts of all the Dogrib squaws to dance with joy? Were there not axes, and tomahawks, and scalping-knives enough to make the fingers of the braves to itch for war? Were there not hooks and lines enough to capture all the fish in Great Bear Lake, and “nests” of copper kettles enough to boil them all at one tremendous culinary operation? And was there not gunpowder enough to blow the fort and all its contents into unrecognisable atoms?Yes, there was enough in that store fully to account for the look of awe-stricken wonder which overspread the visage of Mozwa, and for the restrained tendency to laughter which taxed the solemn Nazinred considerably.“You are fery welcome,” said MacSweenie, as he ushered the chief and Mozwa into the store the day after their arrival. “We hev not seen one o’ your people for many a day; an’ it’s thinking I wass that you would be forgettin’ us altogether. Tell them that, Tonal’.”Tonal’, (or Donald), Mowat was MacSweenie’s interpreter and factotum. He was a man of middle age and middle height, but by no means middle capacity. Having left his native home in Orkney while yet a youth, he had spent the greater part of his life in the “Nor’-West,” and had proved himself to be one of those quick learners and generally handy fellows, who, because of their aptitude to pick up many trades, are too commonly supposed to be masters of none. Mowat, besides being a first-rate blacksmith, had picked up the Indian language, after a fashion, from the Crees, and French of a kind from the Canadian half-castes, and even a smattering of Gaelic from the few Scotch Highlanders in the service. He could use the axe as well as forge it, and, in short, could turn his hand to almost anything. Among other things, he could play splendidly on the violin—an instrument which he styled a fiddle, and which MacSweenie called a “fuddle.” Hisrepertoirewas neither extensive nor select. If you had asked for something of Beethoven or Mozart he would have opened his eyes, perhaps also his mouth. But at a Strathspey or the Reel o’ Tulloch he was almost equal to Neil Gow himself—so admirable were his tune and time. In a lonesome land, where amusements are few and the nights long, the power to “fuddle” counts for much.Besides being MacSweenie’s interpreter, Donald was also his storekeeper.“Give them both a quid, Tonal’, to begin with,” said MacSweenie. “It iss always politic to keep Indians in good humour.”Donald cut off two long pieces of Canada twist and handed it to them. He cut them from a roll, which was large enough, in the estimation of Mozwa, to last a reasonable smoker to the crack of doom. They received the gift with an expression of approval. It would have been beneath their dignity to have allowed elation or gratitude to appear in their manner.“Solemn humbugs!” thought the trader,—“ye know that you’re as pleased as Punch,” but he was careful to conceal his thoughts. “Now, then, let us hev a look at the furs.”It took the trader and his assistant some time to examine the furs and put a price on them. The Indians had no resource but to accept their dictum on the point, for there were no rival markets there. Moreover, the value being fixed according to a regular and well-understood tariff, and the trader being the servant of a Company with a fixed salary, there was no temptation to unfair action on his part. When the valuation was completed a number of goose-quills were handed to the Indians—each quill representing a sum of about two shillings—whereby each man had a fair notion of the extent of his fortune.“What iss it you will be wanting now?” said the trader, addressing himself to Nazinred with the air of a man whose powers of production are illimitable.But the chief did not reply for some time. It was not every day that he went shopping, and he was not to be hurried. His own personal wants had to be considered with relation to the pile of quill-wealth at his elbow, and, what was of far greater importance and difficulty to a kind man, the wants of his squaw and Adolay had also to be thought of. Mozwa, having left a squaw, two little daughters, and a very small son, had still greater difficulties to contend with. But they both faced them like men.“Pasgisségan,” said both men, at length, simultaneously.“I thought so,” observed the trader, with a smile, as he selected two trade-guns—the fire-spouters of the Eskimo—and handed them across the counter.The Indians received the weapons with almost tender care; examined them carefully; took long and steady aim at the windows several times; snapped the flints to make sure that the steels were good, and, generally, inspected every detail connected with them. Being satisfied, they rested them against the wall, the trader withdrew the price of the guns from the two little piles, threw the quills into an empty box under the counter, and looked—if he did not say, “What next?”Powder, shot, and ball came next, and then the means of hunting and self-defence having been secured, beads and scarlet cloth for the women claimed their attention. It was an interesting sight to see these tall, dark-skinned sons of the forest handling the cloth and fingering the various articles with all the gravity and deliberation of experts, with now and then a low-toned comment, or a quiet question as to the price.“You’ll want that,” suggested Mowat, as he threw a small thick blanket—quite a miniature blanket—towards Mozwa, “your small boy will want it.”“Ho!” exclaimed the Indian, with a look of surprise in spite of himself, “how do you know?”“I didn’t know. I only guessed; but your question shows me I’m right. Any more?”“Yes, two more, but bigger.”“Of course bigger, for it’s not likely they were all born at the same time,” returned Mowat, with a grin.“What iss this man wantin’, Tonal’? I can’t make him out at all,” asked MacSweenie.It was found that Nazinred had been pointing with eager pertinacity at something lying on one of the shelves which had caught his eye, but the name of which he did not know.“Oh! I see,” added the trader, “it iss a cocktail feather you want.”“Yes, for my daughter,” exclaimed the Indian as he received the feather and regarded it with some uncertainty—as well he might, for the feather in question was a thing of brilliant scarlet made up of many feathers,—rigid and over a foot in height.“It’s not a good plaything for a child,” remarked Mowat.“My daughter is not a child—she is a woman.”“Wow, man,” said MacSweenie, “tell him that feather is not for a woman. It iss for a man.”The Indian, however, needed no explanation. That which had captivated him at a distance lost its attraction on closer examination. He rejected it with quiet indifference, and turned his eyes to something not less attractive, but more useful—a web of brilliant light-blue cloth. He was very fond of Adolay, and had made up his mind to take back to her a gift which she would be certain to like. Indeed, to make sure of this, he determined to take to her a variety of presents, so that among them all she would be sure to find something to her taste.In this way the Indians spent several days at the “fort” of the traders on Great Bear Lake, and then prepared to return home with a canoe-load of goods instead of furs.Before leaving, however, they had a specimen of one of the ways in which fur-traders in those lonely regions of the far north enjoy themselves. The whole establishment consisted of the officer in charge—MacSweenie—his interpreter Donald Mowat, and seven men—two of whom were French Canadians, two half-castes, and three Orkney-men. There were also three women, two being wives of the men from Orkney, and one the wife of one of the half-castes.The greater part of the day previous to that on which they were to set out on the return voyage, Nazinred and Mozwa spent in testing the quality of their new guns in company with MacSweenie, who took his faithful Donald Mowat with him, partly to assist in carrying the game, and partly for interpreting purposes. And a superb testing-ground it was, for the swampy spots and mud flats were alive with wild-fowl of all kinds, from the lively sandpiper to the great Canada grey goose, while the air was vocal with their whistling wings and trumpet cries, so that, whether they walked among the shrubs and sedges, or sat in ambush on the rocky points, ample opportunity was afforded to test the weapons as well as the skill of the owners.The beginning of the day, however, was not quite satisfactory. They had scarcely proceeded more than a few hundred yards from the fort when a flock of ducks was observed flying low and straight towards them.“Down, man, quick!” exclaimed MacSweenie, crouching behind a large bush. “You will get a goot chance, and the gun will kill if ye point straight, for the trade-guns are fery goot, the most of—wow!”The sudden end of his remark was caused by Nazinred firing, and thereafter rising with the shattered fragments of the gun in his hand, and a little blood trickling from one of his fingers, while an expression of stern perplexity overspread his visage.“Well, now, that iss most extraordinary,” said the trader, examining the weapon. “I hev not seen such a thing for years. To be sure, they are cheap and made of cast-iron, but they seldom burst like that, an’ they usually shoot straight, whatever!—Tell him, Tonal’, that he need not concern himself, for I will give him another.”On this being translated, Nazinred seemed content, and began to examine his hurt, which by good fortune was a slight one.“It might have been worse,” remarked Mowat gravely; “I’ve seen many a man in this country with a short allowance of finger-joints from the same cause.”“What you observe is fery true, Tonal’,” said the trader, with a serious air, “it might have been worse. There was a bit of the barrel went past my head that fery nearly put me on a short allowance of life. But come with me to the store an’ we will choose a better one.”Half an hour sufficed to select another fowling-piece, which stood all the tests to which it was subjected, and as evening was about to close in the whole party returned well laden with game, and thoroughly pleased with the weapons.Meanwhile the men of the establishment had been variously employed, cutting and hauling firewood, attending the nets, etcetera, while the women had been busy making moccasins and mending garments. The cook—an Orkney-man—had made extensive preparations for a feast, but this was a secret between him and MacSweenie; the latter being fond of occasionally giving his people a surprise-treat.It was not indeed easy to surprise them at that time with unusually good food, for the land was swarming with spring life, and they daily enjoyed the fat of it. But there were some little delicacies which were not to be had every day in the wilderness of the far north. Among them was a round object about the shape, size, and consistency of a large cannon-ball, which was tied up in a cloth and seemed to require an immense amount of boiling. The smell of this was delicious, and, when ultimately turned out of its cloth it presented a whitey-brown mottled appearance which was highly suggestive.The cook also had a peculiar talent for making cakes, which no Nor’-Wester could imitate, but which any Nor’-Wester in the land could eat. There were other trifles which it would take too long to mention, and large pots of tea which it would not take very long to drink. That was all the drink they had, happily, for strong young people with high spirits do not require strong spirits to keep their spirits up!After the feast, the tables and chairs were cleared away from the central, or reception, hall of the fort, and preparations were made for spending a harmonious evening; for, you see, stout people, in the prime of life, who have not damaged themselves with strong drink, find it difficult to exhaust their energies by means of an ordinary day’s work.“Now, Tonal’,” said MacSweenie, “get out your fuddle an’ strike up.”“The ladies have not finished their tea yet, sir,” replied the interpreter.“Nefer mind that. Just let them hear the strains of Lord Macdonald’s Reel, an’ you’ll make them chump whether they will or no.”Thus encouraged, Mowat began, and sure enough there was something so inspiriting in the tuneful tones, the vigorously indicated time, and the lively air, that the excited Highlander gave a whoop that threw Indian war-cries quite into the shade, seized one of the “ladies” by an arm and unceremoniously led her to the middle of the floor. The cook, who was used to his master’s ways, led out one of the other ladies in a similar free-and-easy manner, and soon two couples were thundering on the boards in all the gloriousabandonof a Scotch reel.They danced nothing but Scotch reels, for the good reason that none of them could dance anything else. Indeed, none of them, except MacSweenie, could dance even these in correct fashion; but the reel, like the Scotch character, is adaptable. It lends itself to circumstances, if we may say so, and admits of the absolutely ignorant being pushed, trundled, shoved or kicked through at least a semblance of it, which to the operators is almost as good as the reality.Nazinred and Mozwa had never seen anything of the kind before, or heard the strains of a “fuddle.” It may well be imagined, therefore, what was the condition of their minds. Native reticence stood them in good stead for a considerable time, though, in spite of it, their eyes opened to an extent that was unusual; but as the fun became faster and more furious, their grave features relaxed, their mouths expanded, their teeth began to show, and they looked at each other with the intent, probably, of saying, “We never even dreamed of such things.” But that look wrought a transformation, for when each beheld the other’s grin of unwonted levity he burst into a short laugh, then, becoming ashamed of themselves, they suddenly resumed their expressions of owlish gravity, from which they could not again be driven until a late period of the evening.Frequent slices of the mottled cannon-ball, however, and unlimited mugs of highly-sugared tea, had the effect of thawing them down a little, but nothing could induce them to dance.Next morning they were up by daybreak and ready to start for the farther north.“Now mind,” said MacSweenie, through his interpreter, “don’t you be fechtin’ wi’ the Eskimos. Dance wi’ them if ye will, but don’t fecht. Better try an’ trade wi’ them. An’ be sure ye bring some more o’ your people wi’ you the next time you come here. We’ll be glad to see you. The more the merrier.”How Donald Mowat translated these words we cannot tell. Perhaps he added to them a few sentiments of his own. However that may be, it is certain that the Indians bade their entertainers farewell with feelings of hearty good-will, and, leaving the lonely outpost behind them, set off on the return journey to their wilderness home.
In course of time, after many a hard struggle with rushing rapids and not a few narrow escapes from dangerous rocks, the Indian voyagers swept out at last upon the broad bosom of Great Bear Lake.
This mighty inland sea of fresh water—about two hundred miles in diameter, and big enough to engulf the greater part of Scotland—was, at the time we write of, and still is, far beyond the outmost verge of civilisation, in the remotest solitudes of the Great Lone Land.
Here the fur-traders had established a small trading-post close to the shores of the lake. It was in charge of a Scotchman—we had almost said of course; for it would seem as if these hardy dwellers in the north of our island have a special gift for penetrating into and inhabiting the wildest and most unlikely parts of the world. His name was MacSweenie, and he had a few Orkney-men and half-castes to keep him company while vegetating there.
It was a sort of event, a mild excitement, a pink—if not a red—letter day, when our Indians arrived at that lonely outpost, and MacSweenie, who was in the prime of life and the depths ofennui, gave the strangers a hearty and warm reception.
Nazinred had been there before, and was able somewhat to subdue his feelings of admiration and not-quite-exhausted surprise at all the wonderful things he saw; but to the others it was comparatively new, and Mozwa had never been at a trading-post in his life. Being a sympathetic man, he found it difficult to retain at all times that solemnity of manner and look which he knew was expected of him. The chief, who was also sympathetic, experienced deep pleasure in watching his companion’s face, and observing the efforts he made to appear indifferent, knowing, as he did, from former experience, that he must in reality be full of surprise and curiosity.
And, truly, in the store of the fur-traders there was a display of wealth which, to unaccustomed Indian eyes, must have seemed almost fabulous. For were there not in this enchanted castle bales of bright blue cloth, and bright scarlet cloth, and various other kinds of cloth sufficient to clothe the entire Dogrib nation? Were there not guns enough—cheap flint-lock, blue-barrelled ones—to make all the Eskimos in the polar regions look blue with envy, if not with fear? Were there not bright beads and brass rings, and other baubles, and coloured silk thread, enough to make the hearts of all the Dogrib squaws to dance with joy? Were there not axes, and tomahawks, and scalping-knives enough to make the fingers of the braves to itch for war? Were there not hooks and lines enough to capture all the fish in Great Bear Lake, and “nests” of copper kettles enough to boil them all at one tremendous culinary operation? And was there not gunpowder enough to blow the fort and all its contents into unrecognisable atoms?
Yes, there was enough in that store fully to account for the look of awe-stricken wonder which overspread the visage of Mozwa, and for the restrained tendency to laughter which taxed the solemn Nazinred considerably.
“You are fery welcome,” said MacSweenie, as he ushered the chief and Mozwa into the store the day after their arrival. “We hev not seen one o’ your people for many a day; an’ it’s thinking I wass that you would be forgettin’ us altogether. Tell them that, Tonal’.”
Tonal’, (or Donald), Mowat was MacSweenie’s interpreter and factotum. He was a man of middle age and middle height, but by no means middle capacity. Having left his native home in Orkney while yet a youth, he had spent the greater part of his life in the “Nor’-West,” and had proved himself to be one of those quick learners and generally handy fellows, who, because of their aptitude to pick up many trades, are too commonly supposed to be masters of none. Mowat, besides being a first-rate blacksmith, had picked up the Indian language, after a fashion, from the Crees, and French of a kind from the Canadian half-castes, and even a smattering of Gaelic from the few Scotch Highlanders in the service. He could use the axe as well as forge it, and, in short, could turn his hand to almost anything. Among other things, he could play splendidly on the violin—an instrument which he styled a fiddle, and which MacSweenie called a “fuddle.” Hisrepertoirewas neither extensive nor select. If you had asked for something of Beethoven or Mozart he would have opened his eyes, perhaps also his mouth. But at a Strathspey or the Reel o’ Tulloch he was almost equal to Neil Gow himself—so admirable were his tune and time. In a lonesome land, where amusements are few and the nights long, the power to “fuddle” counts for much.
Besides being MacSweenie’s interpreter, Donald was also his storekeeper.
“Give them both a quid, Tonal’, to begin with,” said MacSweenie. “It iss always politic to keep Indians in good humour.”
Donald cut off two long pieces of Canada twist and handed it to them. He cut them from a roll, which was large enough, in the estimation of Mozwa, to last a reasonable smoker to the crack of doom. They received the gift with an expression of approval. It would have been beneath their dignity to have allowed elation or gratitude to appear in their manner.
“Solemn humbugs!” thought the trader,—“ye know that you’re as pleased as Punch,” but he was careful to conceal his thoughts. “Now, then, let us hev a look at the furs.”
It took the trader and his assistant some time to examine the furs and put a price on them. The Indians had no resource but to accept their dictum on the point, for there were no rival markets there. Moreover, the value being fixed according to a regular and well-understood tariff, and the trader being the servant of a Company with a fixed salary, there was no temptation to unfair action on his part. When the valuation was completed a number of goose-quills were handed to the Indians—each quill representing a sum of about two shillings—whereby each man had a fair notion of the extent of his fortune.
“What iss it you will be wanting now?” said the trader, addressing himself to Nazinred with the air of a man whose powers of production are illimitable.
But the chief did not reply for some time. It was not every day that he went shopping, and he was not to be hurried. His own personal wants had to be considered with relation to the pile of quill-wealth at his elbow, and, what was of far greater importance and difficulty to a kind man, the wants of his squaw and Adolay had also to be thought of. Mozwa, having left a squaw, two little daughters, and a very small son, had still greater difficulties to contend with. But they both faced them like men.
“Pasgisségan,” said both men, at length, simultaneously.
“I thought so,” observed the trader, with a smile, as he selected two trade-guns—the fire-spouters of the Eskimo—and handed them across the counter.
The Indians received the weapons with almost tender care; examined them carefully; took long and steady aim at the windows several times; snapped the flints to make sure that the steels were good, and, generally, inspected every detail connected with them. Being satisfied, they rested them against the wall, the trader withdrew the price of the guns from the two little piles, threw the quills into an empty box under the counter, and looked—if he did not say, “What next?”
Powder, shot, and ball came next, and then the means of hunting and self-defence having been secured, beads and scarlet cloth for the women claimed their attention. It was an interesting sight to see these tall, dark-skinned sons of the forest handling the cloth and fingering the various articles with all the gravity and deliberation of experts, with now and then a low-toned comment, or a quiet question as to the price.
“You’ll want that,” suggested Mowat, as he threw a small thick blanket—quite a miniature blanket—towards Mozwa, “your small boy will want it.”
“Ho!” exclaimed the Indian, with a look of surprise in spite of himself, “how do you know?”
“I didn’t know. I only guessed; but your question shows me I’m right. Any more?”
“Yes, two more, but bigger.”
“Of course bigger, for it’s not likely they were all born at the same time,” returned Mowat, with a grin.
“What iss this man wantin’, Tonal’? I can’t make him out at all,” asked MacSweenie.
It was found that Nazinred had been pointing with eager pertinacity at something lying on one of the shelves which had caught his eye, but the name of which he did not know.
“Oh! I see,” added the trader, “it iss a cocktail feather you want.”
“Yes, for my daughter,” exclaimed the Indian as he received the feather and regarded it with some uncertainty—as well he might, for the feather in question was a thing of brilliant scarlet made up of many feathers,—rigid and over a foot in height.
“It’s not a good plaything for a child,” remarked Mowat.
“My daughter is not a child—she is a woman.”
“Wow, man,” said MacSweenie, “tell him that feather is not for a woman. It iss for a man.”
The Indian, however, needed no explanation. That which had captivated him at a distance lost its attraction on closer examination. He rejected it with quiet indifference, and turned his eyes to something not less attractive, but more useful—a web of brilliant light-blue cloth. He was very fond of Adolay, and had made up his mind to take back to her a gift which she would be certain to like. Indeed, to make sure of this, he determined to take to her a variety of presents, so that among them all she would be sure to find something to her taste.
In this way the Indians spent several days at the “fort” of the traders on Great Bear Lake, and then prepared to return home with a canoe-load of goods instead of furs.
Before leaving, however, they had a specimen of one of the ways in which fur-traders in those lonely regions of the far north enjoy themselves. The whole establishment consisted of the officer in charge—MacSweenie—his interpreter Donald Mowat, and seven men—two of whom were French Canadians, two half-castes, and three Orkney-men. There were also three women, two being wives of the men from Orkney, and one the wife of one of the half-castes.
The greater part of the day previous to that on which they were to set out on the return voyage, Nazinred and Mozwa spent in testing the quality of their new guns in company with MacSweenie, who took his faithful Donald Mowat with him, partly to assist in carrying the game, and partly for interpreting purposes. And a superb testing-ground it was, for the swampy spots and mud flats were alive with wild-fowl of all kinds, from the lively sandpiper to the great Canada grey goose, while the air was vocal with their whistling wings and trumpet cries, so that, whether they walked among the shrubs and sedges, or sat in ambush on the rocky points, ample opportunity was afforded to test the weapons as well as the skill of the owners.
The beginning of the day, however, was not quite satisfactory. They had scarcely proceeded more than a few hundred yards from the fort when a flock of ducks was observed flying low and straight towards them.
“Down, man, quick!” exclaimed MacSweenie, crouching behind a large bush. “You will get a goot chance, and the gun will kill if ye point straight, for the trade-guns are fery goot, the most of—wow!”
The sudden end of his remark was caused by Nazinred firing, and thereafter rising with the shattered fragments of the gun in his hand, and a little blood trickling from one of his fingers, while an expression of stern perplexity overspread his visage.
“Well, now, that iss most extraordinary,” said the trader, examining the weapon. “I hev not seen such a thing for years. To be sure, they are cheap and made of cast-iron, but they seldom burst like that, an’ they usually shoot straight, whatever!—Tell him, Tonal’, that he need not concern himself, for I will give him another.”
On this being translated, Nazinred seemed content, and began to examine his hurt, which by good fortune was a slight one.
“It might have been worse,” remarked Mowat gravely; “I’ve seen many a man in this country with a short allowance of finger-joints from the same cause.”
“What you observe is fery true, Tonal’,” said the trader, with a serious air, “it might have been worse. There was a bit of the barrel went past my head that fery nearly put me on a short allowance of life. But come with me to the store an’ we will choose a better one.”
Half an hour sufficed to select another fowling-piece, which stood all the tests to which it was subjected, and as evening was about to close in the whole party returned well laden with game, and thoroughly pleased with the weapons.
Meanwhile the men of the establishment had been variously employed, cutting and hauling firewood, attending the nets, etcetera, while the women had been busy making moccasins and mending garments. The cook—an Orkney-man—had made extensive preparations for a feast, but this was a secret between him and MacSweenie; the latter being fond of occasionally giving his people a surprise-treat.
It was not indeed easy to surprise them at that time with unusually good food, for the land was swarming with spring life, and they daily enjoyed the fat of it. But there were some little delicacies which were not to be had every day in the wilderness of the far north. Among them was a round object about the shape, size, and consistency of a large cannon-ball, which was tied up in a cloth and seemed to require an immense amount of boiling. The smell of this was delicious, and, when ultimately turned out of its cloth it presented a whitey-brown mottled appearance which was highly suggestive.
The cook also had a peculiar talent for making cakes, which no Nor’-Wester could imitate, but which any Nor’-Wester in the land could eat. There were other trifles which it would take too long to mention, and large pots of tea which it would not take very long to drink. That was all the drink they had, happily, for strong young people with high spirits do not require strong spirits to keep their spirits up!
After the feast, the tables and chairs were cleared away from the central, or reception, hall of the fort, and preparations were made for spending a harmonious evening; for, you see, stout people, in the prime of life, who have not damaged themselves with strong drink, find it difficult to exhaust their energies by means of an ordinary day’s work.
“Now, Tonal’,” said MacSweenie, “get out your fuddle an’ strike up.”
“The ladies have not finished their tea yet, sir,” replied the interpreter.
“Nefer mind that. Just let them hear the strains of Lord Macdonald’s Reel, an’ you’ll make them chump whether they will or no.”
Thus encouraged, Mowat began, and sure enough there was something so inspiriting in the tuneful tones, the vigorously indicated time, and the lively air, that the excited Highlander gave a whoop that threw Indian war-cries quite into the shade, seized one of the “ladies” by an arm and unceremoniously led her to the middle of the floor. The cook, who was used to his master’s ways, led out one of the other ladies in a similar free-and-easy manner, and soon two couples were thundering on the boards in all the gloriousabandonof a Scotch reel.
They danced nothing but Scotch reels, for the good reason that none of them could dance anything else. Indeed, none of them, except MacSweenie, could dance even these in correct fashion; but the reel, like the Scotch character, is adaptable. It lends itself to circumstances, if we may say so, and admits of the absolutely ignorant being pushed, trundled, shoved or kicked through at least a semblance of it, which to the operators is almost as good as the reality.
Nazinred and Mozwa had never seen anything of the kind before, or heard the strains of a “fuddle.” It may well be imagined, therefore, what was the condition of their minds. Native reticence stood them in good stead for a considerable time, though, in spite of it, their eyes opened to an extent that was unusual; but as the fun became faster and more furious, their grave features relaxed, their mouths expanded, their teeth began to show, and they looked at each other with the intent, probably, of saying, “We never even dreamed of such things.” But that look wrought a transformation, for when each beheld the other’s grin of unwonted levity he burst into a short laugh, then, becoming ashamed of themselves, they suddenly resumed their expressions of owlish gravity, from which they could not again be driven until a late period of the evening.
Frequent slices of the mottled cannon-ball, however, and unlimited mugs of highly-sugared tea, had the effect of thawing them down a little, but nothing could induce them to dance.
Next morning they were up by daybreak and ready to start for the farther north.
“Now mind,” said MacSweenie, through his interpreter, “don’t you be fechtin’ wi’ the Eskimos. Dance wi’ them if ye will, but don’t fecht. Better try an’ trade wi’ them. An’ be sure ye bring some more o’ your people wi’ you the next time you come here. We’ll be glad to see you. The more the merrier.”
How Donald Mowat translated these words we cannot tell. Perhaps he added to them a few sentiments of his own. However that may be, it is certain that the Indians bade their entertainers farewell with feelings of hearty good-will, and, leaving the lonely outpost behind them, set off on the return journey to their wilderness home.
Chapter Sixteen.Sorrows and Sins, and a Bold Adventure.It was autumn before Nazinred and Mozwa drew near to their village. They took things leisurely on the return voyage, for, as Indians have little else to do besides hunt, trap, fish, eat, and sleep, they have no particular inducement to hurry their movements.It is true that, being affectionate men, they were naturally anxious to rejoin their families, but being also steady-going, with considerable powers of self-denial, they were good men-of-business, from a savage point of view, and gave leisurely attention to the duties in hand.On arriving at the outskirts of their village, they were surprised to see that one or two children who were playing among the bushes, and who could not have failed to see them, slunk away as if to avoid a meeting. Whatever anxiety the men might have felt, their bronzed and stern countenances betrayed no sign whatever. Landing near the old chief’s hut, they drew up their canoe and Nazinred and Mozwa went to announce their arrival. It was contrary to Indian etiquette to betray excitement, or to ask hasty questions.They saluted the old man, handed him a plug of tobacco, and sat down to smoke, and it was not till some time had elapsed that Nazinred calmly asked if Isquay was well.“Isquay is well,” replied the old chief, and a barely perceptible sigh of relief escaped Nazinred.Then Mozwa asked about his wife and received a satisfactory answer. Still, it was obvious to both men, from the old chief’s manner, that there was something wrong.“Adolay”, said the old man, and stopped.“Dead?” asked Nazinred, with a look of alarm that he did not attempt to conceal.“No, not dead—but gone away,” he replied, and then related in detail the circumstances of the girl’s disappearance. It must have been a terrible blow to the poor father, all the more that he was ignorant at the time of the girl’s motive for forsaking her home. But no vestige of feeling did he betray, save a slight contraction of his brows and a nervous play of his fingers about the handle of his scalping-knife. When the recital was ended he made no reply, but, rising slowly, left the hut and went to his own home.We will not follow him thither: there are some home-comings which are better left undescribed.But next day Nazinred relaunched his canoe, and, with a small quantity of provisions and a large supply of ammunition, set off alone for the shores of the Arctic Sea. What he told his wife is not known, but he gave no explanation whatever to any of his comrades as to his intentions.Arrived at the coast, however, his further advance was rendered impossible by a sharp frost which created the first thin crust that was ultimately destined to turn the sea into thick ice. As even the thinnest coat of ice would be certain destruction to birch-bark, the canoe, he was well aware, was now useless. He therefore returned home, and quietly engaged in the ordinary hunting and fishing occupation of his tribe, but from that date he sank into a state of silent despair, from which his most intimate companions failed to rouse him. Not that he gave expression to his feelings by word or look. It was long-continued silence and want of interest in anything that told of the sorrow that crushed him. It is probable that the fact of Adolay being capable of forsaking her parents in such a way tended to increase the grief occasioned by her loss. But he spoke of his feelings to no one—not even to his wife.Mozwa, who was very fond of his friend, and pitied him sincerely, made no attempt to comfort him, for he knew the nature of the man too well to think that by any words he could assuage his sorrow.All the fine things that Nazinred had brought home, and with which he had hoped to rejoice the hearts of his wife and child, were utterly neglected. He let Isquay do what she pleased with them. The only thing that seemed to comfort him was the tobacco, for that, he found, when smoked to excess, blunted the edge of his feelings.He therefore gave himself up to the unlimited use of this sedative, and would no doubt have become, like many others, a willing slave to the pipe, but for the fortunate circumstance that the supply of tobacco was limited. As the autumn advanced, the diminishing quantity warned him to restrain himself. He eked it out by mixing with it a kind of leaf much used by Indians for this purpose, but which, by itself, was not considered worth smoking. Even with this aid, however, he was compelled to curtail the indulgence; then the weed failed altogether, and he was finally induced to engage in philosophical meditations as to the folly of creating a needless desire which could not be gratified. The unsatisfied craving, coupled with the injury to his health, added considerably to the grief with which he was already oppressed. He had a powerful constitution, however. The enforced abstinence soon began to tell in his favour, and he actually had the courage, not to say wisdom, to refuse occasional pipes offered him by Mozwa when he chanced to visit his friend.As that friend had not the loss of an only child to mourn, but, on the contrary, was called upon to rejoice in the addition of a new baby, the fine things that he had brought home were the cause of great satisfaction to his family. But alas! Mozwa, although almost perfect, for a savage, had one fault—one besetting sin and moral disease—he gambled!We almost hear the exclamation of surprise, if not doubt, with which our reader receives this information. Yes; North American Indians are gamblers; many of them are confirmed gamblers. They do not indeed affect anything so intellectual as chess or so skilful as billiards, but they have a game to the full as intellectual and scientific as thatrouge et noirof Monaco with which highly cultivated people contrive to rob each other by mutual consent, and without being ashamed! Their game is not unknown to the juveniles of our own land. It goes by the name “odd-or-even.”The manner of conducting the game varies a little here and there in its details, but its principle is the same everywhere: “I want your possessions, and get them I will, by hook or crook! I couldn’t think of robbing you—O no; there might be jail or penal servitude on the back of that; and I won’t accept your gifts—good gracious, no! that would involve the loss of self-respect. No, no. Let us humbug each other. I will rob you if I can, and you will rob me if you can, and we’ll mutually agree to throw dust in each other’s eyes and call it ‘play’! Nothing, surely, could be fairer than that!”Of course poor Mozwa did not reason thus. He was not cultured enough for that. In fact, he did not reason at all about the matter, as far as we know, but there can be no question that the poor fellow was smitten with the disease of covetousness, and instead of seeking for a cure, like a manly savage, he adopted the too civilised plan of encouraging and excusing it.Aware of his propensities, Mrs Mozwa was much too knowing to allow the goods and trinkets destined for herself and family to remain in his power. She at once appropriated them, and secreted such of them as she did not require for present use. But there were articles which she could not well treat in that way with any shadow of excuse: for instance, the gun, powder and shot, bows and arrows, tobacco and pipes, hatchets and scalping-knives, blankets and masculine garments, which were in daily use. These were frequently lost and re-won before winter had fairly begun, but Mozwa was too fond of the excitement of gambling to make desperate ventures all at once. He liked to spin it out.One night he had what is styled a “run of bad luck.” Being in something of a reckless mood, he went to visit a young friend who was as fond of gambling as himself, and took most of his worldly possessions with him. The friend, with a number of companions, was seated beside the wigwam fire, and quite ready to begin.Taking a button, or some such object, in his hand, and putting both hands behind his back, the friend began to bob his head and shoulders up and down in an idiotic fashion, at the same time chanting in a sing-song monotone, “Ho yo, yo ho, hi ya yoho!” for a considerable length of time, while Mozwa staked his blanket, a fine thick green one, purchased at Great Bear Lake. We forget the friend’s stake, but it was probably supposed to be an equivalent.Suddenly the yo-ho-ing ceased, both hands, tightly closed, were brought to the front, and the whole party gazed at Mozwa with intense expectation. He was not long in making up his mind. He pointed to the left hand. It was opened, and found to be empty! The blanket was lost. Back went the hands again, and the “yo-ho-ing” was continued. The new gun was the next stake. It also was lost; and thus the game was carried on far into the night, with smaller stakes, until Mozwa had lost almost all that he had brought with him—gun, blanket, pipes, tobacco, flint and steel, fire-bag, and even his coat, so that he walked home a half-naked and nearly ruined man!But ruin in the wilderness of North America is not usually so thorough as it often is in civilised lands, owing partly to the happy circumstance that strong drink does not come into play and complete the moral destruction, as well as the physical, which gambling had begun. The character therefore, although deteriorated, is not socially lost. The nature of property, also, and the means of acquiring it, render recovery more easy.When Mozwa returned homeminushis new blanket and the beautiful deerskin coat which his wife had made and richly ornamented for him with her own brown hands while he was away, he found his old coat and his old blanket ready for him. The old gun, too, was available still, so that he was not altogether disabled from attending to the duties of the chase, and in a short time afterwards, “luck” being in his favour, he had won back some of his lost possessions. But he was too often in that fluctuating state of alternating excitement and depression which is the invariable accompaniment, in a greater or less degree, of the gambler’s sin, whether carried on in the depths of the Arctic wilderness, the well-named “hells” of London, or the gildedsalonsof Monaco.“You are a fool,” said Nazinred one day to his friend—for even among savages there are plain-spoken familiar friends gifted with common sense enough to recognise folly, and spiritual honesty to point it out and warn against it.“Why does my brother say so?” asked Mozwa, who was not in the least offended by the observation.“Because you gain nothing by all your gaining except trouble and excitement, and sometimes you gain loss. Here you are, now, obliged to take to your old gun, whose flint will hardly strike fire more than four times out of ten; you are obliged to wrap yourself in the old blanket full of holes; and you come to me to borrow powder and ball.”“That is true,” replied Mozwa, with a look of self-condemnation. “But,” he added, with a sort of brightly apologetic glance, “sometimes I win, and then I am well off, and it is Magadar who is the fool.”“Does it make you less of a fool because Magadar is one also? Are you comforted to-day, in your poverty, by the thought that you were well off yesterday?”Mozwa’s bright glance faded slowly. He was no match for his friend in argument, and, possessing an honest spirit, the look of self-condemnation began to creep again over his visage, but, being of a sanguine temperament and hopeful nature, the bright glance returned suddenly.“Wisdom falls from the lips of my brother,” he said. “I was well off yesterday and I am badly off to-day, but I may be well off again to-morrow—if I have good luck.”“Yes, and if Magadar has bad luck?” returned his friend. “You cannot both have good luck. Whatever one gains the other must lose—and so it goes on. Should wise men act thus?”Mozwa was silent. His friend had never before spoken to him in this way. Indeed, no member of the tribe had ever before given utterance to such curious opinions. He knew not what to reply, and Nazinred relapsed into the moody silence which had characterised him more or less since he became aware of his daughter’s departure.The short autumn of those Hyperborean regions having passed away, the land was speedily locked in a garment of ice and snow, and the long stern winter began.It was not long before all the lakes and rivers set fast. At first only the lakes solidified, then the more sluggish streams, while the rapids showed out inky black by contrast. Gradually the liquid margins of these were encroached on by the irresistible frost, until they were fairly bridged over, and their existence was only recalled to memory by hollow rumblings below the ice. At last the intensity of the cold overcame the salt sea itself; the floes, hummocks, and bergs became united into one universal mass, and every sign of liquid disappeared from the polar regions.It was when this condition of things had arrived that the heart-crushed Nazinred proceeded to carry out a plan over which he had been brooding ever since his return from Great Bear Lake. His inquiries had led him to believe that the Eskimo who had carried off his child belonged to the tribe which had recently been pursued by his compatriots, and that they probably dwelt among the islands, some of which were seen, and others known to exist, off the Arctic coast opposite the mouth of the Greygoose River. Moreover, a faint hope, that he would have found it difficult to define, was aroused by the fact that the kidnapper of his child had formerly been the rescuer of his wife.As we have seen, his first attempt to go off in his canoe in search of Adolay was frustrated by young ice forming on the sea, and for a considerable time afterwards the Arctic Sea was impassable to any kind of craft. Now that the sea had set fast, however, his difficulty was removed, and he resolved to undertake the journey on foot.Well he knew that no man of his tribe, not even Mozwa, would agree to accompany him on such a wild-goose chase. He therefore not only refrained from making to any of them the proposal, but avoided any allusion to his intentions. Knowing also that Isquay was gifted with such an intense desire for sympathy that she could not resist communicating whatever she knew to a few of her dearest friends—in the strictest confidence—he did not mention the matter to her until all his preparations were completed. Then he told her.Like a good submissive squaw, she made no objection, though the expression of her face showed that she felt much anxiety.“Who goes with you?” she asked.“No one.”“Is it wise to go alone?” she ventured to suggest.“It may not be wise, but no one would go with me, I know, and I am determined to find Adolay!”“How will you travel?”“With a sledge and four dogs. That will enable me to carry food enough for a long journey. I will take my gun, of course.”“But what will you do for fire?” objected Isquay; “there are no woods on the ice.”“I will do without it.”The poor woman was so amazed at this reply that she gave up further questioning.“You have plenty strong moccasins ready, have you not?” asked Nazinred, “and pemmican, and dried meat?”“Yes, plenty. And your snow-shoes are mended, and very strong.”“That is well. I will take them, but I do not expect to use them much, for the snow on the Great Salt Lake is not soft like the snow in the woods.”It was afternoon when this conversation was held, and very dark, for the sun had by that time ceased to rise much above the horizon, even at noon. Late in the night, however, there was brilliant light both from the stars and the aurora. Taking advantage of this, Nazinred left his lodge and hastened to the outskirts of the village, where a little boy awaited him with the sledge and team of dogs all ready for a start.Without saying a word the Indian put on his snow-shoes and took hold of the tail-line of the sledge, which was heavily laden, and well packed. With a slight crack of the whip he set the team in motion.“Tell the old chief,” he said to the boy at parting, “that I go to seek for my daughter among the people of the Frozen Lake. When I find her I will return.”
It was autumn before Nazinred and Mozwa drew near to their village. They took things leisurely on the return voyage, for, as Indians have little else to do besides hunt, trap, fish, eat, and sleep, they have no particular inducement to hurry their movements.
It is true that, being affectionate men, they were naturally anxious to rejoin their families, but being also steady-going, with considerable powers of self-denial, they were good men-of-business, from a savage point of view, and gave leisurely attention to the duties in hand.
On arriving at the outskirts of their village, they were surprised to see that one or two children who were playing among the bushes, and who could not have failed to see them, slunk away as if to avoid a meeting. Whatever anxiety the men might have felt, their bronzed and stern countenances betrayed no sign whatever. Landing near the old chief’s hut, they drew up their canoe and Nazinred and Mozwa went to announce their arrival. It was contrary to Indian etiquette to betray excitement, or to ask hasty questions.
They saluted the old man, handed him a plug of tobacco, and sat down to smoke, and it was not till some time had elapsed that Nazinred calmly asked if Isquay was well.
“Isquay is well,” replied the old chief, and a barely perceptible sigh of relief escaped Nazinred.
Then Mozwa asked about his wife and received a satisfactory answer. Still, it was obvious to both men, from the old chief’s manner, that there was something wrong.
“Adolay”, said the old man, and stopped.
“Dead?” asked Nazinred, with a look of alarm that he did not attempt to conceal.
“No, not dead—but gone away,” he replied, and then related in detail the circumstances of the girl’s disappearance. It must have been a terrible blow to the poor father, all the more that he was ignorant at the time of the girl’s motive for forsaking her home. But no vestige of feeling did he betray, save a slight contraction of his brows and a nervous play of his fingers about the handle of his scalping-knife. When the recital was ended he made no reply, but, rising slowly, left the hut and went to his own home.
We will not follow him thither: there are some home-comings which are better left undescribed.
But next day Nazinred relaunched his canoe, and, with a small quantity of provisions and a large supply of ammunition, set off alone for the shores of the Arctic Sea. What he told his wife is not known, but he gave no explanation whatever to any of his comrades as to his intentions.
Arrived at the coast, however, his further advance was rendered impossible by a sharp frost which created the first thin crust that was ultimately destined to turn the sea into thick ice. As even the thinnest coat of ice would be certain destruction to birch-bark, the canoe, he was well aware, was now useless. He therefore returned home, and quietly engaged in the ordinary hunting and fishing occupation of his tribe, but from that date he sank into a state of silent despair, from which his most intimate companions failed to rouse him. Not that he gave expression to his feelings by word or look. It was long-continued silence and want of interest in anything that told of the sorrow that crushed him. It is probable that the fact of Adolay being capable of forsaking her parents in such a way tended to increase the grief occasioned by her loss. But he spoke of his feelings to no one—not even to his wife.
Mozwa, who was very fond of his friend, and pitied him sincerely, made no attempt to comfort him, for he knew the nature of the man too well to think that by any words he could assuage his sorrow.
All the fine things that Nazinred had brought home, and with which he had hoped to rejoice the hearts of his wife and child, were utterly neglected. He let Isquay do what she pleased with them. The only thing that seemed to comfort him was the tobacco, for that, he found, when smoked to excess, blunted the edge of his feelings.
He therefore gave himself up to the unlimited use of this sedative, and would no doubt have become, like many others, a willing slave to the pipe, but for the fortunate circumstance that the supply of tobacco was limited. As the autumn advanced, the diminishing quantity warned him to restrain himself. He eked it out by mixing with it a kind of leaf much used by Indians for this purpose, but which, by itself, was not considered worth smoking. Even with this aid, however, he was compelled to curtail the indulgence; then the weed failed altogether, and he was finally induced to engage in philosophical meditations as to the folly of creating a needless desire which could not be gratified. The unsatisfied craving, coupled with the injury to his health, added considerably to the grief with which he was already oppressed. He had a powerful constitution, however. The enforced abstinence soon began to tell in his favour, and he actually had the courage, not to say wisdom, to refuse occasional pipes offered him by Mozwa when he chanced to visit his friend.
As that friend had not the loss of an only child to mourn, but, on the contrary, was called upon to rejoice in the addition of a new baby, the fine things that he had brought home were the cause of great satisfaction to his family. But alas! Mozwa, although almost perfect, for a savage, had one fault—one besetting sin and moral disease—he gambled!
We almost hear the exclamation of surprise, if not doubt, with which our reader receives this information. Yes; North American Indians are gamblers; many of them are confirmed gamblers. They do not indeed affect anything so intellectual as chess or so skilful as billiards, but they have a game to the full as intellectual and scientific as thatrouge et noirof Monaco with which highly cultivated people contrive to rob each other by mutual consent, and without being ashamed! Their game is not unknown to the juveniles of our own land. It goes by the name “odd-or-even.”
The manner of conducting the game varies a little here and there in its details, but its principle is the same everywhere: “I want your possessions, and get them I will, by hook or crook! I couldn’t think of robbing you—O no; there might be jail or penal servitude on the back of that; and I won’t accept your gifts—good gracious, no! that would involve the loss of self-respect. No, no. Let us humbug each other. I will rob you if I can, and you will rob me if you can, and we’ll mutually agree to throw dust in each other’s eyes and call it ‘play’! Nothing, surely, could be fairer than that!”
Of course poor Mozwa did not reason thus. He was not cultured enough for that. In fact, he did not reason at all about the matter, as far as we know, but there can be no question that the poor fellow was smitten with the disease of covetousness, and instead of seeking for a cure, like a manly savage, he adopted the too civilised plan of encouraging and excusing it.
Aware of his propensities, Mrs Mozwa was much too knowing to allow the goods and trinkets destined for herself and family to remain in his power. She at once appropriated them, and secreted such of them as she did not require for present use. But there were articles which she could not well treat in that way with any shadow of excuse: for instance, the gun, powder and shot, bows and arrows, tobacco and pipes, hatchets and scalping-knives, blankets and masculine garments, which were in daily use. These were frequently lost and re-won before winter had fairly begun, but Mozwa was too fond of the excitement of gambling to make desperate ventures all at once. He liked to spin it out.
One night he had what is styled a “run of bad luck.” Being in something of a reckless mood, he went to visit a young friend who was as fond of gambling as himself, and took most of his worldly possessions with him. The friend, with a number of companions, was seated beside the wigwam fire, and quite ready to begin.
Taking a button, or some such object, in his hand, and putting both hands behind his back, the friend began to bob his head and shoulders up and down in an idiotic fashion, at the same time chanting in a sing-song monotone, “Ho yo, yo ho, hi ya yoho!” for a considerable length of time, while Mozwa staked his blanket, a fine thick green one, purchased at Great Bear Lake. We forget the friend’s stake, but it was probably supposed to be an equivalent.
Suddenly the yo-ho-ing ceased, both hands, tightly closed, were brought to the front, and the whole party gazed at Mozwa with intense expectation. He was not long in making up his mind. He pointed to the left hand. It was opened, and found to be empty! The blanket was lost. Back went the hands again, and the “yo-ho-ing” was continued. The new gun was the next stake. It also was lost; and thus the game was carried on far into the night, with smaller stakes, until Mozwa had lost almost all that he had brought with him—gun, blanket, pipes, tobacco, flint and steel, fire-bag, and even his coat, so that he walked home a half-naked and nearly ruined man!
But ruin in the wilderness of North America is not usually so thorough as it often is in civilised lands, owing partly to the happy circumstance that strong drink does not come into play and complete the moral destruction, as well as the physical, which gambling had begun. The character therefore, although deteriorated, is not socially lost. The nature of property, also, and the means of acquiring it, render recovery more easy.
When Mozwa returned homeminushis new blanket and the beautiful deerskin coat which his wife had made and richly ornamented for him with her own brown hands while he was away, he found his old coat and his old blanket ready for him. The old gun, too, was available still, so that he was not altogether disabled from attending to the duties of the chase, and in a short time afterwards, “luck” being in his favour, he had won back some of his lost possessions. But he was too often in that fluctuating state of alternating excitement and depression which is the invariable accompaniment, in a greater or less degree, of the gambler’s sin, whether carried on in the depths of the Arctic wilderness, the well-named “hells” of London, or the gildedsalonsof Monaco.
“You are a fool,” said Nazinred one day to his friend—for even among savages there are plain-spoken familiar friends gifted with common sense enough to recognise folly, and spiritual honesty to point it out and warn against it.
“Why does my brother say so?” asked Mozwa, who was not in the least offended by the observation.
“Because you gain nothing by all your gaining except trouble and excitement, and sometimes you gain loss. Here you are, now, obliged to take to your old gun, whose flint will hardly strike fire more than four times out of ten; you are obliged to wrap yourself in the old blanket full of holes; and you come to me to borrow powder and ball.”
“That is true,” replied Mozwa, with a look of self-condemnation. “But,” he added, with a sort of brightly apologetic glance, “sometimes I win, and then I am well off, and it is Magadar who is the fool.”
“Does it make you less of a fool because Magadar is one also? Are you comforted to-day, in your poverty, by the thought that you were well off yesterday?”
Mozwa’s bright glance faded slowly. He was no match for his friend in argument, and, possessing an honest spirit, the look of self-condemnation began to creep again over his visage, but, being of a sanguine temperament and hopeful nature, the bright glance returned suddenly.
“Wisdom falls from the lips of my brother,” he said. “I was well off yesterday and I am badly off to-day, but I may be well off again to-morrow—if I have good luck.”
“Yes, and if Magadar has bad luck?” returned his friend. “You cannot both have good luck. Whatever one gains the other must lose—and so it goes on. Should wise men act thus?”
Mozwa was silent. His friend had never before spoken to him in this way. Indeed, no member of the tribe had ever before given utterance to such curious opinions. He knew not what to reply, and Nazinred relapsed into the moody silence which had characterised him more or less since he became aware of his daughter’s departure.
The short autumn of those Hyperborean regions having passed away, the land was speedily locked in a garment of ice and snow, and the long stern winter began.
It was not long before all the lakes and rivers set fast. At first only the lakes solidified, then the more sluggish streams, while the rapids showed out inky black by contrast. Gradually the liquid margins of these were encroached on by the irresistible frost, until they were fairly bridged over, and their existence was only recalled to memory by hollow rumblings below the ice. At last the intensity of the cold overcame the salt sea itself; the floes, hummocks, and bergs became united into one universal mass, and every sign of liquid disappeared from the polar regions.
It was when this condition of things had arrived that the heart-crushed Nazinred proceeded to carry out a plan over which he had been brooding ever since his return from Great Bear Lake. His inquiries had led him to believe that the Eskimo who had carried off his child belonged to the tribe which had recently been pursued by his compatriots, and that they probably dwelt among the islands, some of which were seen, and others known to exist, off the Arctic coast opposite the mouth of the Greygoose River. Moreover, a faint hope, that he would have found it difficult to define, was aroused by the fact that the kidnapper of his child had formerly been the rescuer of his wife.
As we have seen, his first attempt to go off in his canoe in search of Adolay was frustrated by young ice forming on the sea, and for a considerable time afterwards the Arctic Sea was impassable to any kind of craft. Now that the sea had set fast, however, his difficulty was removed, and he resolved to undertake the journey on foot.
Well he knew that no man of his tribe, not even Mozwa, would agree to accompany him on such a wild-goose chase. He therefore not only refrained from making to any of them the proposal, but avoided any allusion to his intentions. Knowing also that Isquay was gifted with such an intense desire for sympathy that she could not resist communicating whatever she knew to a few of her dearest friends—in the strictest confidence—he did not mention the matter to her until all his preparations were completed. Then he told her.
Like a good submissive squaw, she made no objection, though the expression of her face showed that she felt much anxiety.
“Who goes with you?” she asked.
“No one.”
“Is it wise to go alone?” she ventured to suggest.
“It may not be wise, but no one would go with me, I know, and I am determined to find Adolay!”
“How will you travel?”
“With a sledge and four dogs. That will enable me to carry food enough for a long journey. I will take my gun, of course.”
“But what will you do for fire?” objected Isquay; “there are no woods on the ice.”
“I will do without it.”
The poor woman was so amazed at this reply that she gave up further questioning.
“You have plenty strong moccasins ready, have you not?” asked Nazinred, “and pemmican, and dried meat?”
“Yes, plenty. And your snow-shoes are mended, and very strong.”
“That is well. I will take them, but I do not expect to use them much, for the snow on the Great Salt Lake is not soft like the snow in the woods.”
It was afternoon when this conversation was held, and very dark, for the sun had by that time ceased to rise much above the horizon, even at noon. Late in the night, however, there was brilliant light both from the stars and the aurora. Taking advantage of this, Nazinred left his lodge and hastened to the outskirts of the village, where a little boy awaited him with the sledge and team of dogs all ready for a start.
Without saying a word the Indian put on his snow-shoes and took hold of the tail-line of the sledge, which was heavily laden, and well packed. With a slight crack of the whip he set the team in motion.
“Tell the old chief,” he said to the boy at parting, “that I go to seek for my daughter among the people of the Frozen Lake. When I find her I will return.”
Chapter Seventeen.Nazinred’s Journey over the Arctic Sea.While our Indian travelled through the woods he and his dogs were on familiar ground. He encamped at night in the way to which he had been accustomed all his life. That is to say, he selected a spot under a spreading fir-tree, dug away the snow until he got to the ground, which he covered with a carpet of pine branches. At one end of this encampment—or hole in the snow of ten feet or so in diameter—he made a huge fire of dead logs. At the other end he spread his blanket, unpacked his sledge, fed his dogs with some willow-grouse provided for the purpose, warmed up his pemmican and dried meat, melted some snow for drink, and spent the night in comparative comfort. And it is wonderful, reader, how cosy such an encampment in the snow is, when food is plentiful and health strong.But when our Indian quitted the shore, and began his daring journey on the Arctic Sea, he was surrounded by new and unfamiliar conditions. No trees were to be had for firewood, no branches for bedding, no overhanging pines for shelter. He had gone there, however, prepared for the change.The sea near the shore had been set fast when in a comparatively smooth condition, so that, the first day’s march over, it was easy. As he had expected, the surface of the snow had been drifted quite hard, so that he could dispense with snow-shoes altogether, and the four dogs found the sledge so light that they felt disposed now and then to run away with it; but Nazinred checked this propensity by holding on to the tail-line, thus acting as a drag. Ere long the shore was left out of sight behind, and the first of the islets—a small group—also passed and left behind.When night was well advanced the Indian found himself on the ice of the open sea with nothing but hummocks and bergs to shelter him. Being acquainted, by hearsay at least, with some of the methods of the Eskimos, he avoided the bergs, for there was the danger of masses falling from their sides and from overhanging ice-cliffs, and selected a small hummock—a heap of masses that had been thrown or crushed up earlier in the winter, covered with snow, and formed into a solid mound. The light air that blew over the frozen plain was scarcely worth taking into account, nevertheless the Indian chose the lee side of the hummock and then began to try his “prentice hand” at the erection of a snow-hut.Nazinred had indeed some doubts as to the value of such a cold habitation without fire, but he knew that Eskimos sometimes used such, and what they could do he could dare. Besides, love is strong as death—and he meant to find Adolay or die!His hut, as might have been expected, was not such as an Eskimo architect would have praised, but it was passable for a first attempt. He knew that the northern masons built their winter dwellings in the form of a dome, therefore he essayed the same form; but it fell in more than once before the keystone of the arch was fixed.“Never mind,” thought Nazinred; “they have done it—I can do it.”Nothing is impossible to men of this stamp. He persevered, and succeeded after a couple of hours in producing a sort of misshapen bee-hive about six feet in diameter, and four feet high. The slabs of snow of which it was composed were compact and solid, though easily cut with his scalping-knife, and formed bricks that could resist the influence of the fiercest gale. At one side of the hut he cut a hole for a doorway, and reserved the piece cut out for a door. It was just big enough to let his broad shoulders pass through, and when he got inside and lay down at length to test it, he gave a slight “humph!” of satisfaction. Not that the chamber was cheerful—far from it, for it was intensely dark,—but our Indian was a practical man. He did not require light to enable him to sleep or rest.While engaged in constructing the hut, he observed that the four dogs were sitting on their tails doing nothing except gazing in curiosity, if not surprise, at his unwonted proceedings. Being a busy man, he naturally disliked idlers, and therefore unlashed some food from his sledge and served out their supper by way of giving them something to do. They ceased idling at once, but after supper sat down on their tails again to watch as before, though in a more languid frame of mind.When the hut was finished he sat down outside, the night being clear and comparatively warm, or rather, we should say, not bitterly cold. During the meal he kept up the interest of the dogs to a keenly hopeful point by occasionally tossing a morsel to each. When the meal was over, and they knew from long experience that nothing more was to be hoped for, they curled themselves up in the lee of the hut, and, with a glorious disregard of bedding and all earthly things, went to sleep.It was found rather difficult to get the sledge into the hut, as Nazinred had forgotten to make allowance for its size, but by enlarging the door and manoeuvring, the difficulty was overcome—a matter of considerable importance, for there was no knowing what Arctic monsters might take a fancy to play havoc with its contents while its owner slept.Then the Indian spread a large deerskin with the hair on over the floor of his hut, and was about to spread his blankets above that, when he remembered that he would want water to drink in the morning—for it is well-known that eating snow during the intense cold of Arctic winters is very hurtful. He had provided for this by taking a bladder with him, which he meant to fill with snow each night and take it to bed with him, so that his animal heat—and he had plenty of that—might melt some of it before morning. He was then on the point of closing up the doorway when it occurred to him that if the dogs were inside they might make the place warmer, but upon reflection he feared that they might also make it suffocating—for the dogs were large and the hut was small. After pondering the subject for a few minutes, he decided to take only one of them inside.“Attim, come,” he said quietly, as if speaking to a human friend.Attim, without any remark save a wag of his tail, arose promptly, entered the hut, and lay down. You see, he was accustomed to little attentions of the sort.At last, everything being completed, Nazinred closed the door, plastered it well with snow round the seams, so as to render the place air-tight, wrapped himself in his blankets, took the bladder of snow to his bosom, laid his wearied head on one of his bundles, and prepared to slumber.But ere he reached the land of forgetfulness an idea struck him, which, Indian though he was, caused him to smile even in the dark.“Attim,” he murmured.“Here you are,” replied Attim’s tail with a flop that was quite as expressive as the tongue—and softer.“You take charge of that,” said the sly man, transferring the bladder of snow from his own bosom to that of the dog; “you have more heat than I have.”Whether the Indian was right in this belief we cannot say, but the humble-minded dog received the charge as a special favour, and with an emphatic “I will” from its ever-sensitive tail again lay down to repose.Thereafter the two went to sleep, and spent six or seven hours of unbroken rest, awaking simultaneously and suddenly to find that the dogs outside were also awake and wishing to get in. Indeed, one of them had already scraped a hole in the wall that would soon have admitted him had not his master given him a tap on the nose with the butt of his gun.Of course it was still dark, for the morning was not far advanced, but the star-light and the aurora were quite sufficient to enable them to see their way, as they set out once more on their lonesome journey.Breakfast was a meal of which Nazinred made no account. Supper was his chief stand-by, on the strength of which he and his dogs slept, and also travelled during the following day. Soon after they had awakened, therefore, they were far from the hut in which the night had been spent.The Indian’s plan was to travel in a straight line in the direction in which the Eskimos had been last seen. By so doing he counted upon either crossing their tracks, which he would follow up, or, coming to some large island which might prove to be their winter quarters, would skirt the shores of it in the hope of meeting with some of the tribes of which he was in search. The expedition, it will be seen, was somewhat of the nature of a forlorn hope, for drifting snow quickly obliterates tracks, and if the natives, when found, should turn out to be hostile, they would probably take from him his little possessions, if not also his life. But Nazinred’s love for Adolay was too strong to admit of his allowing such thoughts to weigh with him. Ere long, he found himself far from his woodland home, lost among the rugged solitudes of ice, with a fast diminishing supply of provisions, and, worst of all, no sign of track or other clue to guide him.One day, as he was plodding slowly northward, guided by the stars, his faith in the success of his mission began to flag. Hard continuous toil and a weakening frame had no doubt something to do with his depression. His dogs, also, were in much the same condition with himself,—growing thin, and becoming less lively. Clambering to the top of a hummock, he surveyed the prospect before him. It was not cheering. The faint daylight of noon was spreading over the frozen sea, bringing the tops of the larger bergs out into bold relief against the steel-blue sky, and covering the jumble of lumps and hummocks with a cold grey light.Despite his resolute purpose the poor man sat down on a lump of ice, buried his face in his hands, and meditated.“Can it be,” he thought, “that the Great Manitou knows my grief and does not care? Surely that cannot be. I love my child, though she has fled from me. I am a child of the Manitou. Does He not love me? I will trust Him!”A cold object touched his hand at the moment. It was the nose of the faithful Attim.Nazinred regarded the touch as a good omen. He rose up and was about to resume the journey in a more hopeful frame of mind when a dark cloud on the horizon arrested his eye. After a long gaze he came to the conclusion that it was land. Two hours later he arrived at Waruskeek, and with a beating heart made straight for the huts, which could be plainly seen on the shore. But terrible disappointment was in store for him. On reaching the Eskimo village he found that it was deserted.Nevertheless the improved state of mind did not quite forsake him. It was a comfort to have made a discovery of any kind, and was it not possible that, during the brief daylight of the morrow, he might be able to distinguish the tracks made by the party when they left the place and follow them up?With this idea in his mind he resolved to encamp on the spot, and indulge himself as well as his dogs with a good feed and sleep.With this purpose in view he collected all the bits of wood he could find, and, with a few lumps of much-decayed blubber, made a rousing fire in one of the huts. The flame cheered his canine friends as well as himself, and filled the place with a ruddy glow. As the hut was sufficiently large, he invited all the dogs to sup with him—an invitation which, it is needless to say, they gladly accepted—and we may add that the humble-minded Attim was not jealous.The hut of which Nazinred thus took possession was that which belonged to old Mangivik. With his usually observant nature, our Indian looked keenly about him while cooking his pemmican, noting every particular with an intelligent eye. Suddenly his gaze became fixed on a particular corner. Rising slowly, as if afraid of frightening away some living creature, he advanced step by step toward the corner with eyeballs starting nearly out of his head. Then with a light bound he sprang forward, grasped a little piece of cord, and pulled out from beneath a heap of rubbish what appeared to be an old cast-off moccasin. And such indeed it was. It had belonged to Adolay! Nazinred, hastening to the fire, examined it with minute care, and a deep “hoh!” of satisfaction escaped from him; for he knew it well as being one of a pair made by Isquay for her daughter’s little feet.Need we say that joy filled the Indian’s heart that night, and a feeling of gratitude to that mysterious ever-present yet never visible Being, who—he had come to recognise in his philosophical way—must be the author of all good, though his philosophy failed to tell him who was the author of evil. Nazinred was not by any means the first savage philosopher who has puzzled himself with that question, but it is due to him to add—for it proves him more scientific than many trained philosophers of the present day—that he did not plead his ignorance about his Creator as an excuse for ingratitude, much less as a reason for denying His existence altogether.But there was a surprise in store for our Indian chief which went far to increase his grateful feelings, as well as to determine his future course. On looking about the deserted village the following day for further evidences of his child having been there, he came upon a post with a piece of birch-bark fastened to it. The post was fixed in the ice close to the shore, where in summer-time the land and sea were wont to meet, and from which point tracks in the snow gave clear indication that the Eskimos had taken their departure. This post with its piece of bark was neither more nor less than a letter, such as unlettered men in all ages have used for holding intercourse with absent friends.Knowing her father’s love for her, and suspecting that, sooner or later, he would organise a search party—though it never occurred to her that he would be so wild as to undertake the search alone—Adolay had erected the post when the tribe set out for winter quarters, and had fixed the bark letter to it for his guidance.The writing on the letter, we need hardly say, was figurative, brief, and easily read. It did not give the intelligent father much trouble in the decipherment. At the top was the picture of a hand fairly, if not elegantly, drawn, with one finger pointing. Below it were several figures, the last of which was a girl in unmistakable Indian costume. The figure in front of her was meant to represent Cheenbuk; in advance of him was an Eskimo woman with her tail flowing gracefully behind, while before her was a hazy group of men, women, and children, which represented the tribe on the march. Adolay had obviously the artistic gift in embryo, for there was a decided effort to indicate form and motion, as well as to suggest an idea of perspective, for the woman and the tribal group were drawn much smaller than the foreground figures, and were placed on higher planes. The sketchiness of the group, too, also told of just ideas as to relative degrees of interest in the legend, while the undue prominence of the leading facial feature was an attempt to give that advice which is so forcibly expressed in the well-known phrase, “Follow your nose.” Ten dots underneath, with a group of snow-huts at the end of them, were not so clear at first, but in the end Nazinred made out a sentence, of which the following may be given as a free-and-easy translation:“My hand points the direction in which we have gone. Your loving daughter is following the man who ran away with her. The Eskimo women and men, and dogs, and all the rest of them, are marching before us. Follow me for ten days, and you will come to the snow-huts where we are to winter.”Could anything be plainer? The happy father thought not. He took an extra meal. His team gave themselves an extra feed of bits of old blubber picked up in the camp, and while daylight was still engaged in its brave though hopeless struggle with the Arctic night, he tied up his sledge, thrust the old moccasin into his bosom, gave Attim the order to advance, and set off with revived strength and hope on his now hopeful journey.
While our Indian travelled through the woods he and his dogs were on familiar ground. He encamped at night in the way to which he had been accustomed all his life. That is to say, he selected a spot under a spreading fir-tree, dug away the snow until he got to the ground, which he covered with a carpet of pine branches. At one end of this encampment—or hole in the snow of ten feet or so in diameter—he made a huge fire of dead logs. At the other end he spread his blanket, unpacked his sledge, fed his dogs with some willow-grouse provided for the purpose, warmed up his pemmican and dried meat, melted some snow for drink, and spent the night in comparative comfort. And it is wonderful, reader, how cosy such an encampment in the snow is, when food is plentiful and health strong.
But when our Indian quitted the shore, and began his daring journey on the Arctic Sea, he was surrounded by new and unfamiliar conditions. No trees were to be had for firewood, no branches for bedding, no overhanging pines for shelter. He had gone there, however, prepared for the change.
The sea near the shore had been set fast when in a comparatively smooth condition, so that, the first day’s march over, it was easy. As he had expected, the surface of the snow had been drifted quite hard, so that he could dispense with snow-shoes altogether, and the four dogs found the sledge so light that they felt disposed now and then to run away with it; but Nazinred checked this propensity by holding on to the tail-line, thus acting as a drag. Ere long the shore was left out of sight behind, and the first of the islets—a small group—also passed and left behind.
When night was well advanced the Indian found himself on the ice of the open sea with nothing but hummocks and bergs to shelter him. Being acquainted, by hearsay at least, with some of the methods of the Eskimos, he avoided the bergs, for there was the danger of masses falling from their sides and from overhanging ice-cliffs, and selected a small hummock—a heap of masses that had been thrown or crushed up earlier in the winter, covered with snow, and formed into a solid mound. The light air that blew over the frozen plain was scarcely worth taking into account, nevertheless the Indian chose the lee side of the hummock and then began to try his “prentice hand” at the erection of a snow-hut.
Nazinred had indeed some doubts as to the value of such a cold habitation without fire, but he knew that Eskimos sometimes used such, and what they could do he could dare. Besides, love is strong as death—and he meant to find Adolay or die!
His hut, as might have been expected, was not such as an Eskimo architect would have praised, but it was passable for a first attempt. He knew that the northern masons built their winter dwellings in the form of a dome, therefore he essayed the same form; but it fell in more than once before the keystone of the arch was fixed.
“Never mind,” thought Nazinred; “they have done it—I can do it.”
Nothing is impossible to men of this stamp. He persevered, and succeeded after a couple of hours in producing a sort of misshapen bee-hive about six feet in diameter, and four feet high. The slabs of snow of which it was composed were compact and solid, though easily cut with his scalping-knife, and formed bricks that could resist the influence of the fiercest gale. At one side of the hut he cut a hole for a doorway, and reserved the piece cut out for a door. It was just big enough to let his broad shoulders pass through, and when he got inside and lay down at length to test it, he gave a slight “humph!” of satisfaction. Not that the chamber was cheerful—far from it, for it was intensely dark,—but our Indian was a practical man. He did not require light to enable him to sleep or rest.
While engaged in constructing the hut, he observed that the four dogs were sitting on their tails doing nothing except gazing in curiosity, if not surprise, at his unwonted proceedings. Being a busy man, he naturally disliked idlers, and therefore unlashed some food from his sledge and served out their supper by way of giving them something to do. They ceased idling at once, but after supper sat down on their tails again to watch as before, though in a more languid frame of mind.
When the hut was finished he sat down outside, the night being clear and comparatively warm, or rather, we should say, not bitterly cold. During the meal he kept up the interest of the dogs to a keenly hopeful point by occasionally tossing a morsel to each. When the meal was over, and they knew from long experience that nothing more was to be hoped for, they curled themselves up in the lee of the hut, and, with a glorious disregard of bedding and all earthly things, went to sleep.
It was found rather difficult to get the sledge into the hut, as Nazinred had forgotten to make allowance for its size, but by enlarging the door and manoeuvring, the difficulty was overcome—a matter of considerable importance, for there was no knowing what Arctic monsters might take a fancy to play havoc with its contents while its owner slept.
Then the Indian spread a large deerskin with the hair on over the floor of his hut, and was about to spread his blankets above that, when he remembered that he would want water to drink in the morning—for it is well-known that eating snow during the intense cold of Arctic winters is very hurtful. He had provided for this by taking a bladder with him, which he meant to fill with snow each night and take it to bed with him, so that his animal heat—and he had plenty of that—might melt some of it before morning. He was then on the point of closing up the doorway when it occurred to him that if the dogs were inside they might make the place warmer, but upon reflection he feared that they might also make it suffocating—for the dogs were large and the hut was small. After pondering the subject for a few minutes, he decided to take only one of them inside.
“Attim, come,” he said quietly, as if speaking to a human friend.
Attim, without any remark save a wag of his tail, arose promptly, entered the hut, and lay down. You see, he was accustomed to little attentions of the sort.
At last, everything being completed, Nazinred closed the door, plastered it well with snow round the seams, so as to render the place air-tight, wrapped himself in his blankets, took the bladder of snow to his bosom, laid his wearied head on one of his bundles, and prepared to slumber.
But ere he reached the land of forgetfulness an idea struck him, which, Indian though he was, caused him to smile even in the dark.
“Attim,” he murmured.
“Here you are,” replied Attim’s tail with a flop that was quite as expressive as the tongue—and softer.
“You take charge of that,” said the sly man, transferring the bladder of snow from his own bosom to that of the dog; “you have more heat than I have.”
Whether the Indian was right in this belief we cannot say, but the humble-minded dog received the charge as a special favour, and with an emphatic “I will” from its ever-sensitive tail again lay down to repose.
Thereafter the two went to sleep, and spent six or seven hours of unbroken rest, awaking simultaneously and suddenly to find that the dogs outside were also awake and wishing to get in. Indeed, one of them had already scraped a hole in the wall that would soon have admitted him had not his master given him a tap on the nose with the butt of his gun.
Of course it was still dark, for the morning was not far advanced, but the star-light and the aurora were quite sufficient to enable them to see their way, as they set out once more on their lonesome journey.
Breakfast was a meal of which Nazinred made no account. Supper was his chief stand-by, on the strength of which he and his dogs slept, and also travelled during the following day. Soon after they had awakened, therefore, they were far from the hut in which the night had been spent.
The Indian’s plan was to travel in a straight line in the direction in which the Eskimos had been last seen. By so doing he counted upon either crossing their tracks, which he would follow up, or, coming to some large island which might prove to be their winter quarters, would skirt the shores of it in the hope of meeting with some of the tribes of which he was in search. The expedition, it will be seen, was somewhat of the nature of a forlorn hope, for drifting snow quickly obliterates tracks, and if the natives, when found, should turn out to be hostile, they would probably take from him his little possessions, if not also his life. But Nazinred’s love for Adolay was too strong to admit of his allowing such thoughts to weigh with him. Ere long, he found himself far from his woodland home, lost among the rugged solitudes of ice, with a fast diminishing supply of provisions, and, worst of all, no sign of track or other clue to guide him.
One day, as he was plodding slowly northward, guided by the stars, his faith in the success of his mission began to flag. Hard continuous toil and a weakening frame had no doubt something to do with his depression. His dogs, also, were in much the same condition with himself,—growing thin, and becoming less lively. Clambering to the top of a hummock, he surveyed the prospect before him. It was not cheering. The faint daylight of noon was spreading over the frozen sea, bringing the tops of the larger bergs out into bold relief against the steel-blue sky, and covering the jumble of lumps and hummocks with a cold grey light.
Despite his resolute purpose the poor man sat down on a lump of ice, buried his face in his hands, and meditated.
“Can it be,” he thought, “that the Great Manitou knows my grief and does not care? Surely that cannot be. I love my child, though she has fled from me. I am a child of the Manitou. Does He not love me? I will trust Him!”
A cold object touched his hand at the moment. It was the nose of the faithful Attim.
Nazinred regarded the touch as a good omen. He rose up and was about to resume the journey in a more hopeful frame of mind when a dark cloud on the horizon arrested his eye. After a long gaze he came to the conclusion that it was land. Two hours later he arrived at Waruskeek, and with a beating heart made straight for the huts, which could be plainly seen on the shore. But terrible disappointment was in store for him. On reaching the Eskimo village he found that it was deserted.
Nevertheless the improved state of mind did not quite forsake him. It was a comfort to have made a discovery of any kind, and was it not possible that, during the brief daylight of the morrow, he might be able to distinguish the tracks made by the party when they left the place and follow them up?
With this idea in his mind he resolved to encamp on the spot, and indulge himself as well as his dogs with a good feed and sleep.
With this purpose in view he collected all the bits of wood he could find, and, with a few lumps of much-decayed blubber, made a rousing fire in one of the huts. The flame cheered his canine friends as well as himself, and filled the place with a ruddy glow. As the hut was sufficiently large, he invited all the dogs to sup with him—an invitation which, it is needless to say, they gladly accepted—and we may add that the humble-minded Attim was not jealous.
The hut of which Nazinred thus took possession was that which belonged to old Mangivik. With his usually observant nature, our Indian looked keenly about him while cooking his pemmican, noting every particular with an intelligent eye. Suddenly his gaze became fixed on a particular corner. Rising slowly, as if afraid of frightening away some living creature, he advanced step by step toward the corner with eyeballs starting nearly out of his head. Then with a light bound he sprang forward, grasped a little piece of cord, and pulled out from beneath a heap of rubbish what appeared to be an old cast-off moccasin. And such indeed it was. It had belonged to Adolay! Nazinred, hastening to the fire, examined it with minute care, and a deep “hoh!” of satisfaction escaped from him; for he knew it well as being one of a pair made by Isquay for her daughter’s little feet.
Need we say that joy filled the Indian’s heart that night, and a feeling of gratitude to that mysterious ever-present yet never visible Being, who—he had come to recognise in his philosophical way—must be the author of all good, though his philosophy failed to tell him who was the author of evil. Nazinred was not by any means the first savage philosopher who has puzzled himself with that question, but it is due to him to add—for it proves him more scientific than many trained philosophers of the present day—that he did not plead his ignorance about his Creator as an excuse for ingratitude, much less as a reason for denying His existence altogether.
But there was a surprise in store for our Indian chief which went far to increase his grateful feelings, as well as to determine his future course. On looking about the deserted village the following day for further evidences of his child having been there, he came upon a post with a piece of birch-bark fastened to it. The post was fixed in the ice close to the shore, where in summer-time the land and sea were wont to meet, and from which point tracks in the snow gave clear indication that the Eskimos had taken their departure. This post with its piece of bark was neither more nor less than a letter, such as unlettered men in all ages have used for holding intercourse with absent friends.
Knowing her father’s love for her, and suspecting that, sooner or later, he would organise a search party—though it never occurred to her that he would be so wild as to undertake the search alone—Adolay had erected the post when the tribe set out for winter quarters, and had fixed the bark letter to it for his guidance.
The writing on the letter, we need hardly say, was figurative, brief, and easily read. It did not give the intelligent father much trouble in the decipherment. At the top was the picture of a hand fairly, if not elegantly, drawn, with one finger pointing. Below it were several figures, the last of which was a girl in unmistakable Indian costume. The figure in front of her was meant to represent Cheenbuk; in advance of him was an Eskimo woman with her tail flowing gracefully behind, while before her was a hazy group of men, women, and children, which represented the tribe on the march. Adolay had obviously the artistic gift in embryo, for there was a decided effort to indicate form and motion, as well as to suggest an idea of perspective, for the woman and the tribal group were drawn much smaller than the foreground figures, and were placed on higher planes. The sketchiness of the group, too, also told of just ideas as to relative degrees of interest in the legend, while the undue prominence of the leading facial feature was an attempt to give that advice which is so forcibly expressed in the well-known phrase, “Follow your nose.” Ten dots underneath, with a group of snow-huts at the end of them, were not so clear at first, but in the end Nazinred made out a sentence, of which the following may be given as a free-and-easy translation:
“My hand points the direction in which we have gone. Your loving daughter is following the man who ran away with her. The Eskimo women and men, and dogs, and all the rest of them, are marching before us. Follow me for ten days, and you will come to the snow-huts where we are to winter.”
Could anything be plainer? The happy father thought not. He took an extra meal. His team gave themselves an extra feed of bits of old blubber picked up in the camp, and while daylight was still engaged in its brave though hopeless struggle with the Arctic night, he tied up his sledge, thrust the old moccasin into his bosom, gave Attim the order to advance, and set off with revived strength and hope on his now hopeful journey.