When Bill was gone Bob went to work at once getting some traps that were hanging in the tilt in good working order. He set them and sprang them one after another, testing every one critically. They were practically all new ones, and Douglas, after his careful, painstaking manner, had left them in thorough repair. These were some additional traps that no place had been found for on the trail. There were only about twenty of them and Bob decided that he would set them along the shores of a lake beyond the tilt, where there were none, and look after them on the Saturday mornings that he would be lying up there. The next morning he put them on his toboggan, and shouldering his gun he started out.
Not far away he saw the first marten track in the edge of the spruce woods near the lake. Farther on there were more. This was very satisfactory indeed, and he observed to himself,
"The's a wonderful lot o' footin', and 'tis sure a' fine place for martens."
He went to work at once, and one after another the traps were set, some of them in a little circular enclosure made by sticking spruce boughs in the snow, to which a narrow entrance was left, and in this entrance the trap placed and carefully concealed under loose snow and the chain fastened to a near-by sapling. In the centre of each of the enclosures a bit of fresh partridge was placed for bait, to reach which the animal would have to pass over the trap. Where a tree of sufficient size was found in a promising place he chopped it down, a few feet above the snow, cut a notch in the top, and placed the trap in the notch, and arranged the bait over it in such a way that the animal climbing the stump would be compelled to stand upon the trap to secure the meat.
All the marten traps were soon set, but there still remained two fox traps. These he took to a marsh some distance beyond the lake, as the most likely place for foxes to be, for while the marten stays amongst the trees, the fox prefers marshes or barrens. Here, in a place where the snow was hard, he carefully cut out a cube,making a hole deep enough for the trap to set below the surface. A square covering of crust was trimmed thin with his sheath knife, and fitted over the trap in such a way as to completely conceal it. The chain was fastened to a stump and also carefully concealed. Then over and around the trap pieces of ptarmigan were scattered. This he knew was not good fox bait, but it was the best he had.
"Now if I were only havin' a bit o' scent 'twould help me," he commented as he surveyed his work.
Foxes prefer meat or fish that is tainted and smells bad, and the more decomposed it is, the better it suits them. Bob had no tainted meat now, so he used what he had, in the hope that it might prove effective. A few drops of perfumery, or "scent," as he called it, would have made the fresh meat that he used more attractive to the animals, but unfortunately he had none of that either.
As he left the marsh and crossed from a neck of woods to the lake shore he saw two moving objects far out upon the ice. He dropped behind a clump of bushes. They were caribou.
His gun would not reach them at that distance, and he picked up a dried stick and broke it.They heard the noise and looked towards him. He stood up, exposing himself for the fraction of a second, then concealed himself behind the bushes again. Caribou are very inquisitive animals, and these walked towards him, for they wanted to ascertain what the strange object was that they had seen. When they had come within easy range he selected the smaller one, a young buck, aimed carefully at a spot behind the shoulders, and fired. The animal fell and its mate stood stupidly still and looked at it, and then advanced and smelled of it. Even the report of the gun had not satisfied its curiosity.
It would have been an easy matter for Bob to shoot this second caribou, but the one he had killed was quite sufficient for his needs, and to kill the other would have been ruthless slaughter, little short of murder, and something that Bob, who was a true sportsman, would not stoop to. He therefore stepped out from his cover and revealed himself. Then when the animal saw him clearly, a living enemy, it turned and fled.
Bob removed the skin and quartered the carcass. These he loaded upon his toboggan and hauled to his tilt. The meat was suspended from the limb of a tree outside, where animalscould not reach it and where it would freeze and keep sweet until needed. A small piece was taken into the tilt for immediate use, and some portions of the neck placed in the corner of the tilt where they would decompose somewhat and thus be rendered into desirable fox bait. The skin was stretched against the logs of the side of the shack farthest from the stove, to dry. This would make an excellent cover for Bob's couch and be warm and comfortable to sleep upon. The sinew, taken from the back of the animal, was scraped and hung from the roof to season, for he would need it later to use as thread with which to repair moccasins.
Now there was little to do for two or three days, and Bob began for the first time to understand the true loneliness of his new life. The wilderness was working its mysterious influence upon him. It seemed a long, long while since Bill had left him, and he recalled his last Sunday at Wolf Bight as one recalls an event years after it has happened. Sometimes he longed passionately for home and human companionship. At other times he was quite content with his day to day existence, and almost forgot that the world contained any one else.
Early the next week he visited the traps. In one he found a Canada jay that had tried to filch the bait. In another a big white rabbit which had been caught while nibbling the young tops of the spruce boughs with which the trap was enclosed. A single marten rewarded him. The pelt was not prime, as it was yet early in the season, but still it was fairly good and Bob was delighted with it.
The fox traps had not been disturbed, but a fox had been feeding upon the caribou head and entrails, where they had been left upon the ice, and one of the traps was taken up and reset here. The others he also put in order, and returned to the tilt with the rabbit and marten. The former, boiled with small bits of pork, made a splendid stew, and the skin was hung to dry, for, with others it could be fashioned into warm, light slippers to wear inside his moccasins when the colder weather came.
The marten pelt was removed from the body by splitting it down the inside of the hind legs to the trunk, and then pulling it down over the head, turning it inside out in the process. In the tilt were a number of stretching boards, that Douglas had provided, tapered down from severalinches wide at one end until they were narrow enough at the other end to slip snugly into the nose of the pelt. Over one of these, with the flesh side out, the skin was tightly drawn and fastened. Then with his knife Bob scraped it carefully, removing such fat and flesh as had adhered to it, after which he placed it in a convenient place to dry.
Bob felt very much elated over this first catch of fur, and was anxious to get at the real trapping. It was only Tuesday, and Bill would not be at the river tilt until Friday of the following week, but he decided to start back the next morning and set all his traps. So on Wednesday morning, with a quarter of venison on his flat sled, he turned down over the trail.
Everything went well. Signs of fur were good and Bob was brimming over with anticipation when a week later he reached the river.
Bill did not arrive until after dark the next evening, and when he pushed the tilt door open he found Bob frying venison steak and a kettle of tea ready for supper.
"Ho, Bob, back ahead o' me, be un? Where'd ye get th' deer's meat?"
"Knocked un over after you left me. 'Tisfine t' be back an' see you, Bill. I've been wonderful lonesome, and wantin' t' see you wonderful bad."
"An' I was thinkin' ye'd be gettin' lonesome by now. You'll not be mindin' bein' alone when you gets used to un. It's all gettin' used t' un."
"An' what's th' signs o' fur? Be there much marten signs?"
"Aye, some. Looks like un goin' t' be some. An' be there much signs on th' Big Hill trail? Dick says there's a lot o' footin' his way."
"Ihasone marten," said Bob proudly, "an' finds good signs."
"Unhasone a'ready! An' be un a good un?"
"Not so bad."
"Well, you be startin' fine, gettin' th' first marten an' th' first deer."
Bill had taken off his adikey and disposed of his things, and they sat down to eat and enjoy a long evening's chat.
With every week the cold grew in intensity, and with every storm the snow grew deeper, hiding the smaller trees entirely and reaching up towards the lower limbs of the larger ones. The little tilts were covered to the roof, and only ahole in the white mass showed where the door was.
The sun now described a daily narrowing arc in the heavens, and the hours of light were so few that the hunters found it difficult to cover the distance between their tilts in the little while from dawn to dark. On moonlight mornings Bob started long before day, and on starlight evenings finished his day's work after night. His cheeks and nose were frost-bitten and black, but he did not mind that for he was doing well. Two weeks before Christmas he brought to the river tilt the fur that he had accumulated. There were twenty-eight martens, one mink, two red foxes, one cross fox, a lynx and a wolf. These last two animals he had shot. Bill was already in the tilt when he arrived, and complimented him on his good showing.
Christmas fell on Wednesday that year, and Bill brought word that Dick and Ed were coming up to spend the day with him and Bob. They would reach the tilt on Tuesday night and use the remainder of the week in a caribou hunt, as there were good signs of the animals a little way back in the marshes and they were in need of fresh meat.
"An' I'll not try t' be gettin' here on Friday," said Bill. "I'll be waitin' till Tuesday."
"I'll be doin' th' same, but I'll be here sure on a Tuesday, an' maybe Monday," answered Bob.
So it was arranged that they should have a holiday, and all be together again. It gave Bob a thrill of pleasure when he thought of meeting Dick and Ed and proudly exhibiting his fur to have them examine and criticise the skins and compliment him. It would make a break in the monotonous life.
The day after Bob left the river tilt on his return round, the great dream with which he had started out from Wolf Bight became a reality. He caught a silver fox. It was almost evening when he turned into a marsh where the trap was set. He had caught nothing in it before, and he was thinking seriously of taking it up and placing it farther along the trail. But now in the half dusk, as he approached, something moved. "Sure 'tis a cross," said he. When he came closer and saw that it was really a silver he could not for a moment believe his good fortune. It was too good to be true. When he had killed it and taken it out of the trap he hurried to thetilt hugging it closely to his breast as though afraid it would get away.
In the tilt he lighted a candle and examined it. It was a beauty! It was worth a lot of money! He patted it and turned it over. Then—there was no one to see him and question his manhood or jibe at his weakness—he cried—cried for pure joy. "Tis th' savin' o' Emily an' makin' she well—an' makin' she well!" He had prayed that he would get a silver, but his faith had been weak and he had never really believed he should. Now he had it and his cup of joy was full. "Sure th' Lard be good," he repeated to himself.
It was starlight two evenings later when he neared his last tilt. Clear and beautiful and intensely cold was the silent white wilderness and Bob's heart was as clear and light as the frosty air. When the black spot that marked the roof of the almost hidden shack met his view he stopped. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the stovepipe. Some one was in the tilt! He hesitated for only a moment, then hurried forward and pushed the door open. There, smoking his pipe sat Micmac John.
"Evenin', Bob," said Micmac.
"Evenin', John. An' where'd you be comin' from now?"
"Been huntin' t' th' suth'ard. Thought I'd drop in an' see ye."
"Glad t' see ye, John."
After an awkward pause Bob asked:
"What un do wi' th' stove, John?"
"What stove?"
"From th' river tilt. Ye took un, didn't ye?"
"No, I didn't take no stove. I weren't in th' river tilt, an' don't know what yer talkin' about," lied the half-breed.
"Some one took un an' we was layin' it t' you. Now I wonders who 'twere."
"Well,Iwouldn't take it. Ye ought t' knownIwouldn't do a thing like that," insisted Micmac, with an air of injured innocence. "Maybe th' Mingen Injuns took it. There's been some around an' they says they'll take anything they find, an' fur too, if they find any in th' tilts.These are their huntin' grounds an' outsiders has no right on 'em. They gave me right t' hunt down t' th' suth'ard."
"Who may th' Mingen Injuns be, now?"
"Mountaineers as belong Mingen way up south, an' hunts between this an' th' Straits."
"I were thinkin' 'twere th' Nascaupees took th' stove if you didn't take un."
"Th' Nascaupees are back here a bit t' th' west'ard. I saw some of 'em one day when I was cruisin' that way an' I made tracks back fer I didn't want t' die so quick. They'll kill anybody they see in here, an' burn th' tilts if they happen over this way an' see 'em. Ye have t' be on th' watch fer 'em all th' time."
"I'll be watchin' out fer un an' keep clear if I sees their footin'," said Bob as he went out to bring in his things.
What Micmac said about the Nascaupees disturbed him not a little. Bob was brave, but every man, no matter how brave he may be, fears an unseen danger when he believes that danger is real and is apt to come upon him unexpectedly and at a time when no opportunity will be offered for defense. It was evident that these Indians were close at hand, and that he wasin daily and imminent danger of being captured, which meant, he was sure, being killed. But he was here for a purpose—to catch all the fur he could—and he must not lose his courage now, before that purpose was accomplished. He must remain on his trail until the hunting season closed. He must be constantly upon his guard, he thought, and perhaps after all would not be discovered. No, he wouldnotlet himself be afraid.
When he returned to the tilt Micmac John asked:
"Gettin' much fur?"
"Not so bad," he replied. "I has one silver, an' a fine un, too."
The half-breed showed marked interest at once.
"Let's see him. Got him here?"
"No, I left un in th' third tilt. That's where I caught un."
"Where's yer other fur?"
"I took un all down t' th' river tilt There's a cross among un an' twenty-eight martens."
"Um-m."
Micmac John knew well enough the fur had been taken to some other tilt, for when he arrived here early in the afternoon his first care wasto look for it, but not a skin had he found, and he was disappointed, for it was the purpose of his visit. Bob, absolutely honest and guileless himself, in spite of Dick's constant assertion that Micmac was a thief and worse, was easily deceived by the half-breed's bland manner. Unfortunately he had not learned that every one else was not as honest and straightforward as himself. Micmac's attempt upon his life he had ascribed to a sudden burst of anger, and it was forgiven and forgotten. The selfish enmity, the blackness of heart, the sinister nature that will never overlook and will go to any length to avenge a real or fancied wrong—the characteristics of a half-breed Indian—were wholly beyond his comprehension. He had never dissembled himself, and he did not know that the smiling face and smooth tongue are often screens of deception.
"We'll be havin' supper now," suggested Bob, lifting the boiling kettle off the stove and throwing in some tea. "I'm fair starved."
After they had eaten Micmac filled his pipe and lounged back, smoking in silence for some time, apparently deep in thought. Finally he asked, "When ye goin' back t' th' river, Bob?"
"I'm not thinkin t' start back till Wednesdayan' maybe Thursday, an' reach un Monday or Tuesday after. Bill won't be gettin' there till Tuesday, an' Dick an' Ed expects t' be there then t' spend Christmas an' hunt deer."
"Hunt deer?"
"They're needin' fresh meat, an' deer footin's good in th' meshes."
"The's fine signs to th' nuth'ard from th' second lake in, 'bout twenty mile from here. You could get some there. If ye ain't goin' back till Wednesday why don't ye try 'em? Ye'd get as many as ye wanted," volunteered Micmac.
"Where now be that?"
"Why just 'cross th' first mesh up here, an' through th' bush straight over ye'll come to a lake. Cross that t' where a dead tree hangs out over th' ice. Cut in there an' ye'll see my footin'; foller it over t' th' next lake, then turn right t' th' nuth'ard. The's some meshes in there where th' deer's feedin'. I seen fifteen or twenty, but I didn't want 'em so I let 'em be."
"An' could I make un now in a day?"
"If ye walk sharp an' start early."
"I thinks I'll be startin' in th' mornin' an' campin' over there Sunday, an' Monday I'll be there t' hunt. Can't un come 'long, John?"
"No, I'd like t' go but I got t' see my traps. I'll have t' be leavin' ye now," said Micmac, rising.
"Not t'-night?"
"Yes, it's fine moonlight an' I can make it all right."
"Ye better stay th' night wi' me, John. There'll be no difference in a day."
"No. I planned t' be goin' right back I seen ye. Good evenin'."
"Good evenin', John."
Micmac John started directly south, but when well out of sight of the tilt suddenly swung around to the eastward and, with the long half-running stride of the Indian, made a straight line for the tilt where Bob had left his silver fox. The moon was full, and the frost that clung to the trees and bushes sparkled like flakes of silver. The aurora faintly searched the northern sky. A rabbit, white and spectre-like, scurried across the half-breed's path, but he did not notice it. Hour after hour his never tiring feet swung the wide snow-shoes in and out with a rhythmic chug-chug as he ran on.
It was nearly morning when at length he slackened his pace, and with the caution of the lifelong hunter approached the tilt as he would havestalked an animal. He made quite certain that the shack was untenanted, then entered boldly. He struck a match and found a candle, which he lighted. There was the silver fox, where Bob had left it. It was dry enough to remove from the board and he loosened it and pulled it off. He examined it critically and gloated over it.
"As black an' fine a one as I ever seen!" he exclaimed. "It'll bring a big price at Mingen. That boy'll never see it again, an' I'll clean out th' rest o' th' fur too, at th' river. Old Campbell'll be sorry when I get through with 'em, he let that feller hunt th' path. He's a fool, an' if he gives me th' slip he'll go back an' say th' Mingen Injuns took his fur. I fixed that wi' my story all right. I'll take th' lot t' Mingen an' get cash fer 'em, an' be back t' th' Bay with open water with 'nuff martens so's they won't suspect me."
He started a fire and slept until shortly after daylight. Then had breakfast and started down the trail towards the river at the same rapid pace that he had held before.
It was not quite dark when he glimpsed the tilt, and approached it with even more caution than he had observed above.
"He don't know enough to lie," said he to himself, referring to Bob, "but it's best t' take care, fer one o' th' others might be here."
When he was satisfied that the tilt was unoccupied he entered boldly and appropriated every skin of fur he found—not only all of Bob's, but also a few martens Bill had left there. No time was lost, for any accident might send Bill or one of the others here at an unexpected moment. The pelts were packed quickly but carefully into his hunting bag and within twenty minutes after his arrival he was retreating up the trail at a half run.
Some time after dark he reached the first tilt above the river, where he spent the night. Short cuts and fast travelling brought him on Sunday night to the tilt at the end of the trail where he had left Bob. He made quite certain that the lad had really gone on his caribou hunt, and then went boldly in and made himself as comfortable as he could for the night without a stove, for Bob had taken the stove with him, to heat his tent.
"If he comes back t'-night and finds me here," he said, "I'll just tell him I changed my mind an' came back t' go on th' deer hunt. I'll lie t' himabout what I got in my bag an' he'll never suspicion; he don't know enough."
Micmac John's work was not yet finished. He had arranged a full and complete revenge. Bob's hunt for caribou would carry him far away from the tilt and into a section where no searching party would be likely to go. The half-breed's plan was now to follow and shoot the lad from ambush. If by chance any one ever should find the body—which seemed a quite improbable happening—Bob's death would no doubt be laid at the door of the Nascaupee Indians.
Micmac John deposited the bag of stolen pelts in a safe place in the tilt, intending to return for them after his bloody mission was accomplished, and several hours before daylight on Monday morning started out in the ghostly moonlight to trail Bob to his death.
The trail that Bob had made lay open and well-defined in the snow, and hour after hour the half-breed followed it, like a hound follows its prey.
Early in the morning the sky clouded heavily and towards noon snow began to fall. It was a bitterly cold day. Micmac John increased his pace for the trail would soon be hidden and he was not quite sure when he should find the camp. From the lakes the trail turned directly north and for several miles ran through a flat, wooded country. After a while there were wide open marshes, with narrow timbered strips between. An hour after noon he crossed a two mile stretch of this marsh and in a little clump of trees on the farther side of it came so suddenly upon the tent that he almost ran against it.
The snow was by this time falling thickly and a rising westerly wind was sweeping the marsh making travelling exceedingly difficult, and completely hiding the trail beyond the trees.
The tent flaps were fastened on the outside, and Bob was away, as Micmac John expected he would be, searching for caribou.
"There's no use tryin' t' foller him in this snow," said he to himself, "I'd be sure t' miss him. But I'll take the tent an' outfit away on his flat sled an' if he don't have cover th' cold'll fix him before mornin'. There'll be no livin' in it over night with th' wind blowin' a gale as it's goin' to do with dark. My footin' 'll soon be hid an' he can't foller me. I can shoot him easy enough if he does."
It was the work of only a few minutes to strike the tent and pack it and the other things, which included the stove, an axe, blanket and food, on the toboggan.
The half-breed was highly elated when he started off with his booty. The storm had come at just the right time. The elements would work a slower but just as sure a revenge as his gun and at the same time cover every trace of his villainy. He laughed as he pictured to himself Bob's look of mystification and alarm when he returned and failed to find the tent, and how the lad would think he had made a mistake in the location and the desperate search for the campthat would follow, only to end finally in the snow and cold conquering him, as they were sure to do, and the wolves perhaps scattering his bones.
"That's a fine end t' him an' he'll never be takin' trails away frommeagain," he chuckled.
The whole picture as he imagined it was food for his black heart and he forgot his own uncomfortable position in the delight that he felt at the horrible death that he had so cleverly and cruelly arranged for Bob.
Micmac John retraced his steps some eight miles to the wide stretch of timber land. There he halted and pitched camp. The wind shrieked through the tree tops and swept the marshes in its untamed fury, but he was quite warm and contented in the tent. The storm was working his revenge for him, and he was quite satisfied that it would do the work well.
The men that Bob Gray had come in contact with and associated with all his life were the honest, upright people of the Bay. He had never known a man that would dishonestly take a farthing's worth of another's property or that would knowingly harm a fellow being. The Bay folk were constantly helping their more needy neighbours and lived almost as intimatelyas brothers. When any one was in trouble the others came to offer sympathy and frequently deprived themselves of the actual necessaries of life that their neighbours might not suffer. Sometimes they had their misunderstandings and quarrels, but these were all of a momentary character and quickly forgotten.
There was little wonder then that Bob had failed to read Micmac John's true character, and it could hardly be expected that he would suspect the half-breed of trying to injure him. Children of these far-off, thinly populated lands in many respects develop judgment and mature in thought at a much younger age than in more thickly settled and more favoured countries. One reason for this is the constant fight for existence that is being waged and the necessity for them to take up their share of the burden of life early. Another reason is doubtless the fact that their isolated homes cut them off from the companionship of children of their own age and their associates are almost wholly men and women grown. This was the case with Bob and in courage, thoughtfulness of the comfort of others and physical endurance he was a man, while in guile he was a mere baby. He believed thatMicmac John was like every other man he knew and was a good neighbour.
When men have lived long in the wilderness without fresh meat they have a tremendous longing for it. Bob knew that neither Dick nor Ed had tasted venison since they reached their hunting grounds, for they had not been as fortunate as he, and that some of the fresh-killed meat would be a great treat to them and one they would appreciate. Therefore when Micmac John told him how easily caribou could be killed a day's journey to the northward, he thought that it would make a nice Christmas surprise for his friends if he hauled a toboggan load of venison down to the river tilt with him. True they had planned a hunt, but that would take place after Christmas and he wanted to make them happy on that day.
So after Micmac John left him on Friday night he prepared for an early start to the caribou feeding grounds on Saturday morning.
We have seen the route he took across the lakes and timbered flats and marshes to the place where he pitched his camp in the little clump of diminutive fir trees almost twenty miles from his tilt. It was evening when he reached there andup to this time, to his astonishment, he had seen no signs of caribou. A few miles beyond the marsh he saw a ridge of low hills running east and west and decided that the feeding grounds of the animals must lie the other side of them.
He banked the snow around the tent to keep out the wind, broke an abundant supply of green boughs for a bed, and cut a good stock of wood for the day of rest. Two logs were placed in a parallel position in the tent upon which to rest the stove that it might not sink in the deep snow with the heat. Then it was put up, and a fire started, and he was very comfortably settled for the night.
The unfamiliar and unusually bleak character of the country gave him a feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction when he arose on Sunday morning and viewed his surroundings. It was quite different from anything he had ever experienced before and he had a strong desire to go out at once and look for the caribou, and if no signs of them were found to turn back on Monday to the tilt. But then he asked himself, would his mother approve of this? He decided that she would not, and, said he: "'Twould behuntin' just as much as t' go shootin' and th' Lard would be gettin' angry wi' me too."
That kept him from going, and he spent the day in the tent drawing mind pictures of the little cabin home that he longed so much to see and the loved ones that were there. The thought of little Emily, lying helpless but still so patient, brought tears to his eyes. But all would be well in the end, he told himself, for God was good and had given him the silver fox he had prayed for that Emily might go and be cured.
What a proud and happy day it would be for him when with his greatest hopes fulfilled, the boat ground her nose again upon the beach below the cabin from which he had started so full of ambition that long ago morning in September. How his father would come down to shake his hand and say: "My stalwart lad has done bravely, an' I'm proud o' un." His mother, all smiles, would run out to meet him and take him in her arms and praise and pet him, and then he would hurry in to see dear, patient little Emily on her couch, and her face would light up at sight of him and she would hold out her hands to him in an ecstasy of delight and call: "Oh, Bob! Bob! my fine big brother has come backto me at last!" Then he would bring in his furs and proudly exhibit the silver fox and hear their praises, and perhaps he would have another silver fox by that time. After a while Douglas Campbell would come over and tell him how wonderfully well he had done. With his share of the martens he would pay his debt to the company, and he and Douglas would let the mail boat doctor sell the silver fox and other skins for them, and Emily would go to the hospital and after a little while come back her old gay little self again, to romp and play and laugh and tease him as she used to do. With fancy making for him these dreams of happiness, the day passed after all much less tediously than he had expected.
On Monday morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, Bob started out to look for the caribou, leaving the tent as Micmac John found it. He made the great mistake of not taking with him his axe, for an axe is often a life saver in the northern wilderness, and a hunter should never be without one. He crossed the marsh and then the ridge of low hills to the northward, finally coming out upon a large lake. It was now midday, the snow had commencedfalling, and to continue the hunt further was useless.
"'Tis goin' t' be nasty weather an' I'll have t' be gettin' back t' th' tent," said he regretfully as he realized that a severe storm was upon him.
Reluctantly he retraced his steps. In a little while his tracks were all covered, and not a landmark that he had noted on his inward journey was visible through the blinding snow. He reached the ridge in safety, however, and crossed it and then took the direction that he believed would carry him to the camp, using the wind, which had been blowing from the westward all day, as his guide. Towards dark he came to what he supposed was the clump of trees where he had left his tent in the morning, but no tent was there.
"'Tis wonderful strange!" he exclaimed as he stood for a moment in uncertainty.
He was quite positive it was the right place, and he looked for axe cuttings, where he had chopped down trees for fire-wood, and found them. So, this was the place, but where was the tent? He was mystified. He searched up and down every corner of the grove, but foundno clue. Could the Nascaupees have found his camp and carried his things away? There was no other solution.
"'Th' Nascaupees has took un. The Nascaupees has sure took un," he said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone.
His situation was now desperate. He had no axe with which to build a temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire. The nearest cover was his tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed hopeless. Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must keep moving or freeze to death.
With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the gathering darkness. He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and each time it was more difficult to rise.
There was always a strong inclination to lie alittle where he fell and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant death, and urged him up again to further action.
Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted before their very eyes.
Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight. It was not far—he was almost there. In a little while he would see his father and mother and Emily—Emily—Emily was sick. He had something to make her her well—make her well—a silver fox—that would do it—yes, that would do it—a silver fox would make her well—dear little Emily.
From the distance there came over the frozen world a wolf's howl, followed by another and another. The wolves were giving the cry of pursuit. There must be many of them and they were after caribou or game of some sort. Thiswas the only impression the sound made upon his numbed senses.
Daylight was coming. He was very sleepy—very, very sleepy. Why not go to sleep? There was no reason for walking when it was so nice and warm here—and he was so weary and sleepy. There were trees all around and a nice white bed spread under them. He stumbled and fell and did not try to get up. Why should he? There was plenty of time to go home. It was so comfortable and soft here and he was so sleepy.
Then he imagined that he was in the warm tilt with the fire crackling in the stove. He cuddled down in the snow, and said the little prayer that he never forgot at night.
"Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep,I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep,If-I-should-die-before-I-wakeI-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take.An'-God-make-Emily-well."
"Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep,I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep,If-I-should-die-before-I-wakeI-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take.An'-God-make-Emily-well."
The wolves were clamouring in the distance. They had caught the game that they were chasing. He could just hear them as he fell asleep.
The sun broke with the glory of a new world over the white wilderness. The wolf howls ceased—and all was still.
For some reason Micmac John could not sleep. A little while he lay awake voluntarily, trying to contrive a plan to follow should he be found out. If, after he returned to the tilt for the pelts, there should not be sufficient snow to cover his trail, for instance, before the searching party came to look for Bob—and it surely would come, headed by Dick Blake—he would be in grave danger of being discovered. Why had he not thought of all this before? He was afraid of Dick Blake, and Dick was the one man in the world, perhaps, that he was afraid of. Would Dick shoot him? he asked himself. Probably. If he were found he would have to die.
Life is sweet to a strong, healthy man brought face to face with the reality of death. In his more than half savage existence Micmac John had faced death frequently, and sometimes daily, and had never shrunk from it or felt a tremour of fear. He had held neither his own nor the life of other men as a thing of much value. The factwas that never before had he given one serious thought to what it meant to die. Like the foxes and the wolves, he had been an animal of prey and had looked upon life and death with hardly more consideration than they, and with the stoical indifference of his savage Indian ancestors.
But for some inexplicable reason this night the white half of his nature had been awakened and he found himself thinking of what it meant to die—to cease to be, with the world going on and on afterwards just as though nothing had happened. Then the teachings of a missionary whom he had heard preach in Nova Scotia came to him. He remembered what had been said of eternal happiness or eternal torment—that one or the other state awaited the soul of every one after death. Then a great terror took possession of him. If Bob Gray died, as he certainly must in this storm,hewould be responsible for it, andhissoul would be consigned to eternal torment—the terrible torment to last forever and forever, depicted by the missionary. He had committed many sins in his life, but they were of the past and forgotten. This was of the present. He could already, in his frenzied imagination seeDick Blake, the avenger. Dick would shoot him. That was certain—and then—eternal torment.
The wind moaned outside, and then rose to a shriek. He sprang up and looked wildly about him. It was the shriek of a damned soul! No, he had been dozing and it was only a dream, and he lay back trembling.
For a long while he could not go to sleep again. Fear had taken absolute and complete possession of him—the fear of the eternal damnation that the missionary had so vividly pictured. It was a picture that had been received at the time without being seen and through all these years had remained in his brain, covered and hidden. This day's work had suddenly and for the first time drawn aside the screen and left it bare before his eyes displaying to him every fearful minute outline. He was a murderer and he would be punished. There was no thought of repentance for sins committed—only fear of a fate that he shrunk from but which confronted him as a reality and a certainty—as great a certainty as his rising in the morning and so near at hand. He got up and looked out. The wind blew clouds of snow into his face. He could not see the tree that he knew was ten feet away. Itwas an awful night for a man to be out without shelter.
Micmac John lay down again and after a time the tired brain and body yielded to nature and he slept.
The instincts of the half-breed, keen even in slumber, felt rather than heard the diminishing of wind and snow as the storm subsided with the approach of morning, and he arose at once. The rest had quieted his nerves, and he was the stolid, revengeful Indian again. After a meagre breakfast of tea and jerked venison he took down the tent and lashed the things securely upon the toboggan and ere the first stars began to glimmer through the cloud rifts he was hurrying away in the stillness of the night.
When the sky finally cleared and the moon came out, cold and brilliant, there was something uncanny and weird in its light lying upon earth's white shroud rent here and there by long, dark shadows across the trail. There was an indefinable mystery in the atmosphere. Micmac John, accustomed as he was to the wilderness, felt an uneasiness in his soul, the reflex perhaps of the previous night's awakening, that he could not quite throw off—a sense of impendingdanger—of a calamity about to happen. The trees became mighty men ready to strike at him as he approached and behind every bush crouched a waiting enemy. His guilty conscience was at work. The little spirit that God had placed within his bosom, to tell him when he was doing wrong, was not quite dead.
He increased his speed as daylight approached travelling almost at a run. Suddenly he stopped to listen. From somewhere in the distance behind him a wolf cry broke the morning silence. In a little while there were more wolf cries, and they were coming nearer and nearer. The animals were doubtless following some quarry. Was it Bob they were after? A momentary qualm at the thought was quickly replaced by a feeling of satisfaction. That, he tried to argue with himself, would cover every clue to what had happened and was what he had hoped for. He hurried on.
All at once a spasm of fear brought him to a halt. Could it be himself the wolves were trailing! The old horror of the night came back with all its reality and force. A clammy sweat broke out upon his body. He looked wildly about him for a retreat, but there was none. The wolveswere gaining upon him rapidly and were very close now. There was no longer any doubt thathewas their quarry. They were trailinghim. Micmac John was in a narrow, open marsh, and the wolves were already at the edge of the woods that skirted it a hundred yards behind. A little distance ahead of him was a big boulder, and he ran for it. At that moment the pack came into view. He stopped and stood paralyzed until they were within thirty yards of him, then he turned mechanically, from force of habit, and fired at the leader, which fell. This held them in check for an instant and roused him to action. He grabbed an axe from the toboggan and had time to gain the rock and take a stand with his back against it.
As the animals rushed upon the half breed he swung the axe and split the head of one. This temporarily repulsed them. He held them at bay for a time, swinging his axe at every attempted approach. They formed themselves into a half circle just beyond his reach, snapping and snarling at him and showing their ugly fangs. Another big gray creature, bolder than the rest, made a rush, but the swinging axe split its head, just as it had the others. Theyretreated a few paces, but they were not to be kept back for long. Micmac John knew that his end had come. His face was drawn and terrified, and in spite of the fearful cold and biting frost, perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
It was broad daylight now. Another wolf attacked from the front and fell under the axe. A little longer they parleyed. They were gradually growing more bold and narrowing the circle—coming so close that they were almost within reach of the swinging weapon. Finally a wolf on the right, and one on the left, charged at the same time, and in an instant those in front, as though acting upon a prearranged signal, closed in, and the pack became one snarling, fighting, clamouring mass.
When the sun broke over the eastern horizon a little later it looked upon a circle of flat-tramped, blood-stained snow, over which were scattered bare picked human bones and pieces of torn clothing. A pack of wolves trotted leisurely away over the marsh.
In the woods not a mile distant two Indian hunters were following the trail that led to Bob's unconscious body.