“Tom he was a piper’s son,He learned to play when he was young;But all the tune that he could play,Was ‘Over the hills and far away.’”
“Tom he was a piper’s son,He learned to play when he was young;But all the tune that he could play,Was ‘Over the hills and far away.’”
“Tom he was a piper’s son,
He learned to play when he was young;
But all the tune that he could play,
Was ‘Over the hills and far away.’”
The boys were startled. They had heard no one approach, and they sprang to their feet.
Standing by the fire opposite them was a tall, lank man of middle age. In the hollow of his left arm a rifle rested. He was dressed as a trapper—a fur cap, buckskin capote, buckskin leggins, and moccasins. Beside him stood an Indian, similarly dressed and nearly as tall and lank as himself.
The boys were startled. They had heard no one approach
The boys were startled. They had heard no one approach
Thestranger laughed at the startled boys, who gazed at him and the Indian in mute surprise. Wrinkles at the corners of his gray-blue eyes indicated habitual good humor. The eyes themselves seemed always to smile, even when his lips did not.
“You were having such a good time,” said he, in a rich, well-modulated voice, “that I disliked to disturb you, but it has been so long since I saw a white face that I had to do it.”
“We’re mighty glad you did,” answered Paul, who instinctively felt that in spite of his rough exterior and dress their visitor was well bred and cultured. “Won’t you sit down?” he continued. “We’re just out from the post enjoying the holiday.”
“Thank you, we will join you, and perhaps return to the post with you, if you don’t mind.” He kicked off his snowshoes, stuckthem upright in the snow at the end of the lean-to, the Indian following his example. Then extending his hand to each of the boys he said, by way of introduction:
“My name is Charles Amesbury. I’m trapping back in the Indian Lake country. My friend here is Ahmik, though you will hear them call him John Buck at the post.”
“My name is Paul Densmore.”
“Mine’s Dan’l Rudd.”
“How do?” said the Indian, following his companion’s example and shaking hands.
“You seem to be having a cozy time here,” remarked Amesbury, picking the ice from his beard as rapidly as the heat from the fire loosened it sufficiently.
“We’re having a bully good day. We were getting homesick over at the post, and ran over for the holiday.”
Dan had gone to the river for a kettle of water, and returning put it over the fire.
“We’ll be boilin’ th’ kettle, an’ you’ll have a snack o’ pa’tridge along with a cup o’ tea,” he suggested.
“Thank you. Don’t mind if we do,eh Ahmik?” And Amesbury contentedly stretched his long legs, which seemed very much in the way.
“Ugh. Good,” remarked Ahmik, who was sitting on his heels.
Four of the ptarmigans, as well as some of the pork and bread, remained, and while the water was heating Dan sliced pork in the frying pan, while Paul dismembered the birds, ready for Dan to arrange them in the pan to fry when the pork grease began to bubble. Amesbury, lazily looking on, began to sing:
“Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,Cannot fly, cannot fly;Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,On Christmas day in the morning.”
“Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,Cannot fly, cannot fly;Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,On Christmas day in the morning.”
“Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
Cannot fly, cannot fly;
Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
On Christmas day in the morning.”
The boys laughed, and Paul remarked:
“They can’t fly very far. We clipped their wings on the way out.”
“When did you come from New York, Densmore?”
“Left there last July. How did you know I came from New York?”
“You have the accent, and a New Yorker handles his r’s pretty much as a Londoner handles his h’s; he tacks them on where they don’t belong, and leaves them off where they do. I’m a New Yorker myself, though you’d never suspect it. I outgrew the accent long ago. I haven’t been there for—let me see—more than twenty years—how time flies!”
“From New York!” Paul’s face lighted up with pleasure. “But I thought you said you were a trapper?”
“So I am. I came to this country when I left home, twenty years ago, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“And never been home since! How could you stay away from home for twenty years? And New York too? It seems to me I’ve been away for ages, and it’s only half a year. You bet I’ll go back the first chance.”
Amesbury’s face became grave for an instant.
“It’s too long a story—the story of my coming. I’ll tell you about it, perhaps, some time when I’m not so hungry,” and he smiled. “But how about you? What brought you?”
He listened with manifest interest while Paul related the happenings of the weeks just past, and until Dan finally set the pan of fried ptarmigan between the visitors, interrupting with:
“Tea’s ready, sir. Help yourselves t’ th’ pa’tridges an’ bread.”
And while Dan poured the tea and the two men stirred in molasses from the bottle, Amesbury hummed irrelevantly:
“Heigh ding-a-ding, what shall I sing?How many holes has a skimmer?Four and twenty. I’m half starving!Mother, pray give me some dinner.”
“Heigh ding-a-ding, what shall I sing?How many holes has a skimmer?Four and twenty. I’m half starving!Mother, pray give me some dinner.”
“Heigh ding-a-ding, what shall I sing?
How many holes has a skimmer?
Four and twenty. I’m half starving!
Mother, pray give me some dinner.”
Then, as he took a piece of breast from the pan:
“Well, Densmore, the rest of the story. Don’t mind the interruption. It was important. But so is your story. I’m immensely interested.”
The story and dinner were finished together. Amesbury made no comment at once, then while he cut tobacco from a black plug, and stuffed it into his pipe, he repeated:
“O, that I was where I would be,Then would I be where I am not!But where I am I must be,And where I would be I cannot.
“O, that I was where I would be,Then would I be where I am not!But where I am I must be,And where I would be I cannot.
“O, that I was where I would be,
Then would I be where I am not!
But where I am I must be,
And where I would be I cannot.
“That reference is to you chaps. I wouldn’t be anywhere else if I could, and I wouldn’t have missed this good Christmas dinner and meeting you fellows right here for worlds.”
Reaching for a hot coal he applied it to his pipe, and the pipe lighted he resumed his reclining position, puffing quietly for a moment, when he remarked:
“Old Davy MacTavish is as hard as they make ’em. The company is all there is in the world for him that’s worth while. He’d cut a man’s soul out and throw it to the dogs, if the company would profit by his doing so. Thank God, the factors aren’t all like him.”
“Bad man,” remarked Ahmik, puffing at his pipe.
Amesbury lapsed into silence, while he smoked and gazed at the fire, apparently in deep reflection. Presently, as though a brilliant thought had occurred to him, he exclaimed enthusiastically:
“I have it! How would you chaps like to leave the post and go up Indian Lake way with me trapping for the winter? I go out to Winnipeg in the spring with my catch, and you might go along, if the wolves don’t eat you up in the meantime, or you don’t freeze to death.”
“Could we? Could we go with you?” asked Paul excitedly.
“’T would be wonderful fine!” exclaimed Dan.
“No reason why you can’t. I’m up there all alone, and I need a couple of chaps like you to use for dumb-bells, or to kick around when I want exercise, or suffer fromennui.”
“We’ll be wonderful glad o’ th’ chance t’ go with you,” said Dan, “and t’ be doin’ things t’ help when you’s sick an’ sufferin’, but I’s not likin’ t’ be kicked, sir. Is ‘ownwe’ a bad ailment, sir?”
“Pretty bad sometimes, but I’ll try and control myself and not kick youveryhard,” explained Amesbury, looking very grave about his lips but with eyes betraying merriment.
“Oh, Dan,” exclaimed Paul, laughing outright, “ennui isn’t a sickness. Mr. Amesbury is just joking.”
Dan did not understand the joke, but he smiled uncertainly, nevertheless.
“We’ll hit the trail, then, the day after New Year’s. How’ll that suit you?” asked Amesbury.
“Can’t go too soon to suit us,” said Paul.
“Now I’m thinkin’,” suggested Dan, “th’ master’ll not be lettin’ us leave th’ post. I were so glad t’ be goin’ I forgets we has a debt an’ we signed papers t’ work un out, an’ he’ll sure not let us go till we works un out.”
“That’s so,” admitted Paul in a tone of deep disappointment.
“How much did you say the debt amounted to?” asked Amesbury.
“Eighteen dollars for each of us,” answered Paul, “but we’ve been here working two months with wages, and that takes off six dollars from each debt, so the first of the month our debts’ll each be down to twelve dollars.”
“Good arithmetic; worked it out right the first time,” Amesbury nodded in approval.“Now if you each pay the old pirate twelve dollars, how much will you owe him and how long can he hold you at the post?”
“Why the debt would be squared and he couldn’t keep us at all.”
“Right again.”
“But we has no money to pay un,” broke in Dan.
“Just leave all that to me,” counseled Amesbury. “I’ll attend to his case.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Amesbury,” and Paul grasped the trapper’s hand.
“’Tis wonderful kind of you,” said Dan.
“Don’t waste your words thanking me,” cautioned Amesbury. “Wait till I get you out in the bush. I’ll get my money’s worth out of you chaps.”
“‘See-saw, Margery Daw,Johnnie shall have a new master;He shall have but a penny a day,Because he can’t work any faster.’”
“‘See-saw, Margery Daw,Johnnie shall have a new master;He shall have but a penny a day,Because he can’t work any faster.’”
“‘See-saw, Margery Daw,
Johnnie shall have a new master;
He shall have but a penny a day,
Because he can’t work any faster.’”
He stretched his long arms, yawned, untangled his ungainly legs from the knot intowhich he had twisted them, and rose to his feet, remarking:
“Do you see where the sun is, fellows? It’s time to be going. You can lash these traps of yours on the top of my flat sled. Ahmik and I left our flat sleds just below here.”
“My criky!” exclaimed Paul. “The sun’s setting. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
In accordance with Amesbury’s suggestion all of their things, save their guns, were lashed on one of the long, narrow toboggans upon which he and Ahmik hauled their provisions and camp outfit, and the four turned toward the post, in single file, Paul and Dan highly elated with the prospect of presently turning homeward.
Tammas, Samuel, and Amos, who had spent the day caribou hunting, but had killed nothing, were gathered around the stove engaged in a heated argument as to whether a caribou would or would not charge a man when at close quarters, when Paul and Dan entered with the visitors.
“Weel! Weel!” exclaimed Tammas, rising. “If ’tis no Charley Amesbury and John Buck wi’ the laddies!”
Amesbury and Ahmik were old visitors at the post. Every one knew them and gave them a most hearty welcome. Even Chuck, who was mixing biscuit for supper, wiped his dough-debaubed right hand upon his trousers, that he might offer it to the visitors, and Jerry, who lived with his family in a little nearby cabin, and had seen them pass, came over to greet them.
Amesbury warned the lads to say nothing of their plan to the post folk. “I’ll break the news gently to Davy MacTavish when the time is ripe for it,” said he. “You fellows keep right at your work as though you were to stay here forever.” And therefore no mention was made of the arrangement to Tammas and the others.
During the days that followed Amesbury and Ahmik made some purchases at the post shop, including the provisions necessary for the return journey to their trapping grounds. They had no debt here, and therefore bartered pelts to pay for their purchases. Their trading completed, Amesbury produced two particularly fine marten skins, and laid them upon the counter. “I’ve got everything I need,” said he, “but I don’t want to carry these back with me. How much’ll you give?”
“Trade or cash?” asked MacTavish, examining them critically.
“Trade. Give me credit for ’em. I may want something more before I go.”
“Ten dollars each.”
“Not this time. They’re prime, andthey’re worth forty dollars apiece in Winnipeg.”
“This isn’t Winnipeg.”
“Give them back. They’re light to pack, and I guess I’ll take them to Winnipeg.”
But MacTavish was gloating over them. They were glossy black, remarkably well furred, the flesh side clean and white.
“They are pretty fair martens,” he said finally, as though weighing the matter. “I may do a little better; say fifteen dollars.”
“I’ll take them to Winnipeg.”
“You can’t get Winnipeg prices here.”
“No, but I don’t have to sell them here. I thought if you’d give me half what they’re worth I’d let you have them. You can keep them for twenty dollars each. Not a cent less.”
“Can’t do it, but I’ll say as a special favor to you eighteen dollars.”
“Hand them back. I’m not an Indian.”
“You know I’d not give an Indian over five dollars.”
“I know that, but I don’t ask for a debt.You see I’m pretty free to do as I please. Hand ’em back.”
But the pelts were too good for MacTavish to let pass him, and after a show of hesitancy he placed them upon the shelf behind him and said reluctantly:
“They’re not worth it, but I’ll allow you twenty dollars each for them. But it’s a very special favor.”
“Needn’t if you don’t want them. I wouldn’t bankrupt the company for the world.”
“I’ll take them.”
The bargain concluded, Amesbury strolled away, humming:
“‘A diller, a dollar,A ten o’clock scholar,What makes you come so soon?You used to come at ten o’clock,But now you come at noon,’”
“‘A diller, a dollar,A ten o’clock scholar,What makes you come so soon?You used to come at ten o’clock,But now you come at noon,’”
“‘A diller, a dollar,
A ten o’clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o’clock,
But now you come at noon,’”
and MacTavish glared after him.
It was a busy week at the post. Day after day picturesque Indians came in, haulinglong, narrow toboggans, pitching their tepees near by, and crowding the shop during daylight hours bartering away their early catch of pelts for necessary and unnecessary things.
Paul and Dan kept steadily at their tasks. Amesbury made no further reference to the arrangement he had made with them until New Year’s eve, when he strolled over to the woodpile toward sundown, where they were hard at work, humming, as he watched them make the last cut in a stick of wood:
“‘If I’d as much money as I could spend,I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend,Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;’I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend.’”
“‘If I’d as much money as I could spend,I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend,Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;’I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend.’”
“‘If I’d as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend,
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;’
I never would cry ‘old chairs to mend.’”
When they laid down the saw to place another stick on the buck, he said:
“Never mind that. You chaps come along with me, and we’ll pay our respects to Mr. MacTavish.”
“Oh, have you told him we were going? I was almost afraid you’d forgotten it!” exclaimed Paul exultantly.
“Never a word. Reserved the entertainment for an audience, and you fellows are to be the audience. Come along; he’s in his office now,” and Amesbury strode toward the office, Paul and Dan expectantly following.
MacTavish glanced up from his desk as they entered, and nodding to Amesbury, who had advanced to the center of the room, noticed Paul and Dan near the door.
“What are you fellows knocking off work at this time of day for? Get back to work, and if you want anything, come around after hours.”
“They’ve knocked off for good,” Amesbury answered for them, his eyes reflecting amusement. “They’re going trapping with me up Indian Lake way. I’m sorry to deprive you of them, but I guess I’ll have to.”
“What!” roared MacTavish, jumping to his feet. “Are you inducing those boys to desert? What does this nonsense mean?”
“Yes, they’re going. Sorry you feel so badly at losing their society, but I don’t see any way out of it.”
“Well, they’re not going.” MacTavish spoke more quietly, but with determination, glowering at Amesbury. “They have a debt here and they will stay until it is worked out. They’ve signed articles to remain here until the debt is worked out, and I will hold them under the articles. You fellows go back to your work.”
“We’re not going to work for you any more,” said Paul, his anger rising. “Mr. Amesbury has told you we’re going with him, and we are.”
“Go back to your work, I say, or I’ll have you flogged!” MacTavish was now in a rage, and he made for the lads as though to strike them, only to find the ungainly figure of Amesbury in the way.
“Tut! Tut! Big Jack Blunderbuss trying to strike the little Tiddledewinks! Fine display of courage! But not this time. No pugilistic encounters with any one but me while I’m around, and my hands have an awful itch to get busy.”
“None of your interference in the affairs of this post!” bellowed MacTavish. “You’rebreeding mutiny here, and I’ve a mind to run you off the reservation.”
“Hey diddle diddle,” broke in Amesbury, who had not for a moment lost his temper, and who fairly oozed good humor. “This isn’t seemly in a man in your position, MacTavish. Now let’s be reasonable. Sit down and talk the matter over.”
“There’s nothing to talk over with you!” shouted MacTavish, who nevertheless resumed his seat.
“Well, now, we’ll see.” Amesbury drew a chair up, sat down in front of MacTavish, and leaning forward assumed a confidential attitude. “In the first place,” he began, “the lads owe a debt, you say, and you demand that it be paid.”
“They can’t leave here until it is paid! They can’t leave anyhow!” still in a loud voice.
“No, no; of course not. That’s what we’ve got to talk about. I’ll pay the debt. Now, how much is it?”
“That won’t settle it. They both signed on here for at least six months, at three dollarsa month, and they’ve got to stay the six months.”
“Now you know, MacTavish, they are both minors and under the law they are not qualified to make such a contract with you. Even were they of age, there isn’t a court within the British Empire but would adjudge such a contract unconscionable, and throw it out upon the ground that it was signed under duress. You couldn’t hire Indians to do the work these lads have done under twelve dollars a month. In all justice you owe them a balance, for they’ve more than worked out their debt.”
“I’m the court here, and I’m the judge, and I’m going to keep these fellows right here.”
“Wrong in this case. There’s no law or court here except the law and the court of the strong arm. Now I’ve unanimously elected myself judge, jury and sheriff to deal with this matter. In these various capacities I’ve decided their debt is paid and they’re going with me. As their friend and your friend, however, I’ve suggested for the sake of goodfeeling that they pay the balance you claim is due you under the void agreement, and I offer to make settlement in full now. I believe you claim twelve dollars due from each—twenty-four dollars in all?”
It was plain that Amesbury had determined to carry out the plan detailed, with or without the factor’s consent, and finally MacTavish agreed to release Paul and Dan, and charge the twenty-four dollars which he claimed still due on their debt against the forty dollars credited to Amesbury for the two marten skins. He declared, however, that had he known Amesbury’s intention he would not have accepted a pelt from him, nor would he have sold Amesbury the provisions necessary to support him and the lads on their journey to Indian Lake.
“You can never trade another shilling’s worth at this post,” announced MacTavish as the three turned to the door, “not another shilling’s worth.”
“Now, now, MacTavish,” said Amesbury, smiling, “you know better. I’ve a credit here that I’ll come back to trade out, andI’ll have some nice pelts that you’ll be glad enough to take from me.”
“Not a shilling’s worth,” repeated the factor, whose anger was not appeased when he heard Amesbury humming, as he passed out of the door:
“‘A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar,What made you come so soon?You used to come at ten o’clock,But now you come at noon.’”
“‘A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar,What made you come so soon?You used to come at ten o’clock,But now you come at noon.’”
“‘A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar,
What made you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o’clock,
But now you come at noon.’”
It was to be expected that MacTavish would refuse them shelter for the night, but he made no reference to it, probably because in his anger he forgot to do so, and the following morning, when his wrath had cooled, he astonished Paul and Dan when he met them with, for him, a very cheery greeting.
On New Year’s morning Amesbury and Ahmik visited the Indian encampment, and with little difficulty secured from their Indian friends two light toboggans for Paul and Dan to use in the transportation of their equipment.
The day was spent in taking part in snowshoe obstacle races, rifle matches, and many contests with the Indian visitors, and the evening in final preparations for departure. In early morning, before the bell called the post folk to their daily task, they passed out of the men’s house for the last time. Tammas, Amos and Samuel were sorry to lose their young friends and assistants, but glad of their good fortune.
“I’ll be missin’ ye, laddies. God bless ye,” said Tammas.
“Aye, God bless ye,” repeated Samuel.
“Hi ’opes you’ll ’ave a pleasant trip. Tyke care of yourselves,” was Amos’s hearty farewell.
They turned their faces toward the vast dark wilderness to the westward, redolent with mystery and fresh adventure. Presently the flickering lights of the post, which a few weeks before they had hailed so joyously, were lost to view.
Therewas yet no hint of dawn. Moon and stars shone cold and white out of a cold, steel-blue sky. The moisture of the frozen atmosphere, shimmering particles of frost, hung suspended in space. The snow crunched and creaked under their swiftly moving snowshoes.
They traveled in single file, after the fashion of the woods. Amesbury led, then followed Ahmik, after him Paul, with Dan bringing up the rear. Each hauled a toboggan, and though Paul’s and Dan’s were much less heavily laden than Amesbury’s and Ahmik’s, the lads had difficulty in keeping pace with the long, swinging half-trot of the trapper and Indian.
Presently they entered the spruce forest of a river valley, dead and cold, haunted by weird shadows, flitting ghostlike hither andthither across ghastly white patches of moonlit snow. Now and again a sharp report, like a pistol shot, startled them. It was the action of frost upon the trees, a sure indication of extremely low temperature.
Dawn at length began to break—slowly—slowly—dispersing the grotesque and ghostlike shadows. As dawn melted into day, the real took the place of the unreal, and the frigid white wilderness that had engulfed them presented its true face to the adventurous travelers.
Scarce a word was spoken as they trudged on. Amesbury and Ahmik kept the silence born of long life in the wilderness where men exist by pitting human skill against animal instinct, and learn from the wild creatures they stalk the lesson of necessary silence and acute listening. Dan, too, in his hunting experiences with his father, had learned to some degree the same lesson, and Paul had small inclination to talk, for he needed all his breath to hold the rapid pace.
Rime had settled upon their clothing, and dawn revealed them white as the snow overwhich they passed. The moisture from their eyes froze upon their eyelashes, and now and again it was found necessary to pick it off, painfully, as they walked.
The sun was two hours high when Amesbury and Ahmik suddenly halted, and when Paul and Dan, who had fallen considerably in the rear, overtook them, Ahmik was cutting wood, while Amesbury, lighting a fire, was singing:
“‘Polly put the kettle on,Polly put the kettle on,Polly put the kettle on,And let’s drink tea.’”
“‘Polly put the kettle on,Polly put the kettle on,Polly put the kettle on,And let’s drink tea.’”
“‘Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
And let’s drink tea.’”
“How are you standing it, fellows?” he asked, looking up.
“Not bad, sir,” answered Dan.
“I’m about tuckered out, and as empty as a drum!” exclaimed Paul.
“Pretty hard pull for raw recruits,” said Amesbury, laughing. “But wait till tomorrow! Cheer up! The worst is yet to come.”
“I hope it won’t be any harder than this,” and Paul sat wearily down upon his toboggan.
“No,” encouraged Amesbury, “better snowshoeing, if anything. But there’s the wear and tear. You’ll have a hint of it tonight, and know all about it tomorrow.”
“I finds th’ snowshoein’ not so bad today,” said Dan, “but I’m thinkin’ now I knows what you means. I had un bad last year when I goes out wi’ Dad. ’T were wonderful bad, too. I were findin’ it wonderful hard t’ walk with th’ stiffness all over me when I first starts in th’ mornin’, but th’ stiffness wears off after a bit, an’ I’m not mindin’ un after.”
“That’s it. You’re on,” laughed Amesbury, as he chipped some ice from a frozen brook to fill the kettle for tea.
“Very hard, you find him,” broke in Ahmik, joining in Amesbury’s laugh. “You get use to him quick. Walk easy like Mr. Amesbury and me soon. No hard when use to him.”
Ahmik was growing more talkative upon acquaintance, and drawing out of the natural reticence of his race with strangers, as is the way of Indians when they learn to know and like one.
It was a hard afternoon for Paul, and he had to summon all his grit and fortitude to keep going without complaint until the night halt was finally made, but he did his share of the camp work, nevertheless, with a will, and when the tent was pitched and wood cut he sat down more weary than he had ever been in his life.
Amesbury and Ahmik traveled in true Indian fashion when Indians make flying trips without their families. They had neither tent nor tent stove to protect them. The experienced woodsman can protect himself, even in sub-Arctic regions, from the severest storm and cold, so long as he has an axe. Sometimes he resorts to temporary shelters, with fires, sometimes to burrows in snowdrifts, or to such other methods as the particular conditions which he has to face suggest or demand.
Paul and Dan, however, had their tent, tent stove and other paraphernalia. The tent they pitched upon the snow, stretching it, by means of the ridge rope, between two convenient trees. When it was finally in place Danbanked snow well up upon all sides save the opening used for an entrance.
While Dan was thus engaged Paul broke spruce boughs for a floor covering and bed, Ahmik cut wood for the stove, and Amesbury unpacked the outfit and set the stove in place upon two green log butts three feet long and six inches thick. This he did that the stove might not sink into the snow when a fire was lighted and the snow under the stove began to melt.
The telescope pipe in place, Amesbury put a handful of birch bark in the stove, broke some small, dry twigs upon it, lighted the bark, as it blazed filled the stove with some of Ahmik’s neatly split wood, and in five minutes the interior of the tent was comfortably warm.
Paul spread the tarpaulin upon the boughs which he had arranged, stowed their camp things neatly around the edge of the interior, and night camp was ready. Though rather crowded, the tent offered sufficient accommodation for the four.
A candle was lighted, and Amesbury installedhimself as cook. A kettle of ice was placed upon the stove to melt and boil for tea. A frying pan filled with thick slices of salt pork was presently sizzling on the stove. Then he added some salt and baking powder to a pan of flour, mixed them thoroughly, and poured enough water from the kettle of melting ice to make a dough.
The pork, which had now cooked sufficiently, was taken from the pan and placed upon a tin dish, and the dough, stretched into thin cakes large enough to fill the circumference of the pan, was fried, one at a time, in the bubbling pork grease that remained. In the meantime tea had been made.
“All ready. Fall to,” announced Amesbury.
“I feels I’m ready for un,” said Dan.
“I can eat two meals,” declared Paul.
“I’m interested to see what the day’s work did for you chaps. Now if you can’t eat, Ahmik and I will feel that we didn’t walk you fast enough today, and we’ll have to do better tomorrow, eh, Ahmik?” Amesbury’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Ugh! Big walk tomorrow. Very far. Very fast,” and Ahmik grinned.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Paul. “If we have to walk any farther or faster tomorrow than we did today, I’ll just collapse. I’m so stiff now I can hardly move.”
“That’s always the case for a day or two when a fellow starts out for the first time on snowshoes and does a full day’s work. It won’t last long, but we’ll take it a little slower tomorrow, to let you get hardened to it,” Amesbury consoled.
When they stopped to boil the kettle the following day Paul was scarcely able to lift his feet from the snow. Sharp pains in the calves of his legs and in his hips and groins were excruciating, and he sat down upon his toboggan very thankful for the opportunity to rest.
“How is it? Pretty tired?” asked Amesbury, good-naturedly.
“A little stiff—and tired,” answered Paul, whose pride would not permit him to admit how hard it was for him to keep up.
“We’ll take a little easier gait this afternoon.I didn’t realize we were hitting it off so hard as we were this morning.”
“Thank you.” Paul wished to say “Don’t go slow on my account,” but he realized how utterly impossible it would be for him to keep the more rapid pace.
When luncheon was disposed of and they again fell into line, the pain was so intense that he could scarcely restrain from crying out. But he kept going, and saying to himself:
“I won’t be a quitter. Iwon’tbe a quitter.” He began to lag wofully, however, in spite of his determination and grit, and the slower pace which Amesbury had set. Thus they traveled silently on for nearly an hour, when all at once Amesbury stopped, held up his hand as a signal to the others to halt and remain quiet. Dropping his toboggan rope he stole stealthily forward and was quickly lost to view.
Presently a rifle shot rang out, and immediately another. A moment later Amesbury strode back for his toboggan, where the others were awaiting him, humming as he came:
“‘His body will make a nice little stew,And his giblets will make me a little pie, too.’”
“‘His body will make a nice little stew,And his giblets will make me a little pie, too.’”
“‘His body will make a nice little stew,
And his giblets will make me a little pie, too.’”
“Come along, fellows,” he called. “Two caribou the reward of vigilance. We’ll skin ’em.”
Just within the woods, at the edge of an open, wind-swept marsh, they left their toboggans, and a hundred yards beyond lay the carcasses of the two caribou Amesbury had killed.
“There was a band of a dozen,” he explained, as they walked out to the game. “I thought we could use about two of them very nicely.”
“Good!” remarked Ahmik, drawing his knife to begin the process of skinning at once.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Amesbury, “unless you chaps would like to help here, suppose you pitch the tent. We’ll not go any farther today.”
“That’s bully!” exclaimed Paul, who had been at the point of declaring his inability to walk another mile.
“Everything’s bully,” declared Amesbury, “and fresh meat just now is the bulliest thing could have come our way. All right, fellows; you get camp going. You’d find skinning pretty hard work in this weather, but Ahmik and I don’t mind it.”
“My, but I’m glad we don’t have to go any farther today,” said Paul when he and Dan returned to make camp. “I’m just done for. I can hardly move my feet.”
“Does un pain much?” asked Dan, sympathetically.
“You bet it does,” and Paul winced.
“Where is un hurtin’ most now?”
“Here, and here,” indicating his hips, groins and calves.
“Lift un feet—higher.”
“Oh! Ouch!”
“Why weren’t you sayin’ so, now? ’Tis sure th’ snowshoe ailment, an’ not just stiffness. Mr. Amesbury’d not be goin’ on, an’ you havin’ that.”
“I thought it was just stiffness, and would wear off if I kept going. Besides, I didn’t want to be a baby and complain.”
“’Tis no stiffness. ’Tis th’ snowshoe ailment, an’ ’twould get worse, an’ no better, with travelin’. ’Tis wonderful troublesome sometimes. Dad says if you gets un, stop an’ camp where you is, an’ bide there till she gets better. ’Tis th’ only way there is, Dad says, t’ cure un.”
“I never heard of it before.”
“Now I’ll be pitchin’ th’ tent, an’ you sits on th’ flat-sled an’ keeps still.”
“Oh, I’d freeze if I sat down. I’d rather help.”
They had just got the tent up and a roaring fire in the stove when Amesbury and Ahmik came for toboggans upon which to haul the meat to camp.
“I’m thinkin’,” said Dan, “we’ll have t’ be bidin’ here a bit. Paul’s havin’ th’ snowshoe ailment bad.”
“What’s the trouble, Paul?” asked Amesbury.
Paul explained.
“Why, you’re suffering frommal de raquet. Dan’s right; we must stay here till you’re better—a day or two will fix that.Mustn’t try to travel withmal de raquet. It’s a mighty uncomfortable companion.”
At the end of two days, however, Paul was in fairly good condition again, and the journey was resumed without further interruption, save twice they were compelled by storms to remain a day in camp.
Two weeks had elapsed since leaving the post when finally, late one afternoon, Amesbury shouted back to the lads:
“Come along, fellows. We’re here at last.”
Ahmik had stopped and was shoveling snow with one of his snowshoes from the door of a low log cabin, half covered with drifts. It was situated in the center of a small clearing among the fir trees which looked out upon the white frozen expanse of South Indian Lake.
“This is our castle,” Amesbury announced as Paul and Dan joined him. “Here we’re to live in luxurious comfort. That’s the southern extremity of Indian Lake. What do you think of it?”
“’Tis a wonderful fine place t’ live in if th’ trappin’s good,” said Dan.
“It looks mighty good to me. What a dandy place it must be in summer!” Paul exclaimed.
Ahmik now had the door cleared and they entered. The cabin contained a single square room. At one side was a flat-topped sheet-iron stove, similar in design to the tent stove commonly in use in the north, but of considerably larger proportions and heavier material. Near it was a rough table, in the end opposite the door stood a rough-hewn bedstead, the bed neatly made up with white spread and pillow cases. A shelf of well-thumbed books—theBible,Shakespeare,Thomas à Kempis, Milton’sParadise Lost, Bunyan’sPilgrim’s Progress,Wordsworth’s Poems,Robinson Crusoe,Mother Goose’s Melodies,Aesop’s Fables,David Copperfield, and some random novels and volumes of travel and adventure. On one end of a second table, evidently used as a writing desk, were neatly piled old magazines and newspapers, on the other end lay some sheet music and a violin, and in the center were writing materials.
The chairs, like all of the furniture, were doubtless the handiwork of Amesbury himself. Everything in the room was spotlessly clean and in order. The setting sun sent a shaft of sunlight through a window, giving the room an air of brightness, and enhancing its atmosphere of homely comfort.
When the fire which Amesbury lighted in the stove began to crackle, he asked:
“Well, fellows, how do you like my den? Think you can be comfortable here for three or four months?”
“’Tis grand, sir,” said Dan.
“Mr. Amesbury, it’s splendid!” declared Paul.
Both lads had been long enough from home, and had endured sufficient buffeting of the wilderness to measure by contrast with their recent experiences the attractions of Amesbury’s cabin, and it appealed to them as little short of luxurious.
“Not splendid, but good enough for a trapper. Hang up your things; you’ll find pegs. Make yourselves at home now. Sit down and rest up. Ahmik will take care ofthe stuff outside,” and as Amesbury went about the preparation of supper he sang: