"Micmac John knew his end had come""Micmac John knew his end had come"
"Micmac John knew his end had come"
A week passed and Christmas eve came. The weather continued clear and surpassingly fine. It was ideal weather for trapping, with no new snow to clog the traps and interfere with the hunters in their work. The atmosphere was transparent and crisp, and as it entered the lungs stimulated the body like a tonic, giving new life and buoyancy and action to the limbs. The sun never ventured far from the horizon now and the cold grew steadily more intense and penetrating. The river had long ago been chained by the mighty Frost King and over the earth the snow lay fully six feet deep where the wind had not drifted it away.
A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt. They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there, but the shack was empty.
"We'll be havin' th' tilt snug an' warm for th' lads when they comes," said Dick, as he wentbriskly to work to build a fire in the stove "You get some ice t' melt for th' tea, Ed. Th' lads'll be handy t' gettin' in now, an' when they comes supper'll be pipin' hot for un."
Ed took an axe and a pail to the river where he chopped out pieces of fine, clear ice with which to fill the kettle. When he came back Dick had a roaring fire and was busy preparing partridges to boil.
Pretty soon Bill arrived, and they gave him an uproarious greeting. It was the first time Bill and Ed had met since they came to their trails in the fall, and the two friends were as glad to see each other as though they had been separated for years.
"An' how be un now, Bill, an' how's th' fur?" asked Ed when they were seated.
"Fine," replied Bill. "Fur's been fine th' year. I has more by now 'an I gets all o' last season, an' one silver too."
"A silver? An' be he a good un?"
"Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un much."
"Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too—about th' best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets arare lot o' fur that year—a rare lot—but I'm not catchin' all of un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns."
"An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill.
"Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in Dick. "Sure Bill's heard un—leastways he must 'a' heard un."
"No, I never heard un," said Bill.
"An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no truth in un."
"'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns. Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o' Injuns comes this way these days."
"What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill.
"I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," asserted Ed, assuming a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th' mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now, an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I finds a whole barrel o' flourmissin' an' comes out at un. They owns up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t'onemeal—now ye mind,onemeal. When un eats abarrelo' flour t'onemeal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like, an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like I scares un—scares un bad. I wereoneman alone, an' wi' a bold face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I has a flat sled load o' martens from un—handy t' a hundred an' fifty—an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none. Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it."
Bill laughed and remarked,
"'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare folk?"
"A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn," asserted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation.
"Bob's late comin'," remarked Dick. "'Tis gettin' dark."
"He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th' night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange."
They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that Bob was not coming that night.
"'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length. "An' he brought down his fur last trip—a fine lot."
"Where be un?" asked Dick.
Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine too!"
"Gone!" Dick and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?"
"Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis gone now!"
The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for awhile in silence. Finally Dick spoke:
"'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin' somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un."
"We must find un an' run that devil Injundown," exclaimed Ed, reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un, neither."
"'Twill be no use goin' now," said Dick, with better judgment. "Th' moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi' daylight we must be goin'."
Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down. We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he assented. Then he gritted his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi' Bob."
The remainder of the evening was spent in putting forth conjectures as to what had possibly befallen Bob. They were much concerned but tried to reassure themselves with the thought that he might have been delayed one tilt back for the night, and that Micmac John had done nothing worse than steal the fur. Nevertheless their evening was spoiled—the evening they had looked forward to with so much pleasure and their minds were filled with anxious thoughts when finally they rolled into their blankets for the night.
Christmas morning came with a dead, searching cold that made the three men shiver as they stepped out of the warm tilt long before dawnand strode off in single file into the silent, dark forest. After a while daylight came, and then the sun, beautiful but cheerless, appeared above the eastern hills to reveal the white splendour of the world and make the frost-hung fir trees and bushes scintillate and sparkle like a gem-hung fairy-land. But the three men saw none of this. Before them lay a black, unknown horror that they dreaded, yet hurried on to meet. The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts were weighted with a nameless dread.
Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when Dick said laconically:
"No smoke. He's not here."
"An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed.
"No footin' t' mark un at all," assented Dick. "What's happened has happened before th' last snow."
"Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened."
Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the remainder of that dayand all the next day kept up their tireless, silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy they dreaded.
At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead, and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!" Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur in it.
"Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun been doin'? Now why did heleaveth' fur? 'Tis strange—wonderful strange."
Dick noted the evidences of an open fire having been kindled upon the earthen floor. "That fire were made since th' stove were taken," he said. "Micmac John left th' fur an' made th' fire. He's been stoppin' here a night after Bob left wi' th' stove. But why were Bob leavin' wi' th' stove? An' where has he gone? An' why has th' Injun been leavin' th' fur here an' not comin' for un again? We'll have t' be findin' out."
They started immediately to search for some clue of the missing lad, each taking a different direction and agreeing to meet at night in thetilt. Everywhere they looked, but nothing was discovered, and, weary and disheartened, they turned back with dusk. Dick returned across the first lake above the tilt. As he strode along one of his snow-shoes pressed upon something hard, and he stopped to kick the snow away from it. It was a deer's antler. He uncovered it farther and found a chain, which he pulled up, disclosing a trap and in it a silver fox, dead and frozen stiff. He straightened up and looked at it.
"A Christmas present for Bob an' he never got un," he said aloud. "Th' lad's sure perished not t' be findin' his silver."
Here was a discovery that meant something. Bob had been setting traps in that direction, and might have a string of traps farther on. Possibly he had gone to put them in order when the storm came, and had been caught in it farther up, and perished. Anyway it was worth investigation. When Dick returned with the fox and the trap to the tilt he told the others of his theory and it was decided to concentrate their efforts in that direction in the morning.
Accordingly the next day they pushed farther to the westward across the second lake, and at apoint where a dead tree hung out over the ice found fresh axe cuttings. A little farther on they saw one or two sapling tops chopped off. These were in a line to the northward, and they took that direction. Finally they came upon a marsh, and heading in the same northerly course across it, came upon the tracks of a pack of wolves. Looking in the direction from which these led, Dick stopped and pointed towards a high boulder half a mile to the eastward.
"Now what be that black on th' snow handy t' th' rock?" he asked.
"'Tis lookin' t' me like a flat sled," said Ed.
"We'll have a look at un," suggested Dick, who hurried forward with the others at his heels. Suddenly he stopped, and pointed at the beaten snow and scattered bones and torn clothing, where Micmac John had fought so desperately for his life. The three men stood horror stricken, their faces drawn and tense. This, then, was the solution of the mystery! This was what had happened to Bob! Pretty soon Dick spoke:
"Th' poor lad! Th' poor lad! An' th' wolves got un!"
"An' his poor mother," said Ed, choking. "'Twill break her heart, she were countin' so onBob. An' th' little maid as is sick—'twill kill she."
"Yes," said Bill, "Emily'll be mournin' herself t' death wi'out Bob."
These big, soft-hearted trappers were all crying now like women. No other thought occurred to them than that these ghastly remains were Bob's, for the toboggan and things on it were his.
After a while they tenderly gathered up the human remains and placed them upon the toboggan. Then they picked up the gun and blood spattered axe.
"Now here be another axe on th' flat sled," said Dick. "What were Bob havin' two axes for?"
"'Tis strange," said Ed.
"He must ha' had one cached in here, an' were bringin' un back," suggested Bill, and this seemed a satisfactory explanation.
"I'll take some pieces o' th' clothes. His mother'll be wantin' somethin' that he wore when it happened," said Dick, as he gathered some of the larger fragments of cloth from the snow.
Then with bowed heads and heavy hearts they silently retraced their steps to the tilt, hauling the toboggan after them.
At the tilt they halted to arrange their future course of action.
"Now," said Dick, "what's t' be done? 'Twill only give pain th' sooner t' th' family t' go out an' tell un, an' 'twill do no good. I'm thinkin' 'tis best t' take th' remains t' th' river tilt an' not go out with un till we goes home wi' open water."
"No, I'm not thinkin' that way," dissented Ed. "Bob's mother 'll be wantin' t' know right off. 'Tis not right t' keep it from she, an' she'll never be forgivin' us if we're doin' it."
"They's trouble enough down there that theyknowsof," argued Dick. "They'll be thinkin' Bob safe 'an not expectin' he till th' open water an' we don't tell un, an' between now an' then have so much less t' worry un, and be so much happier 'an if they were knowin'. Folks lives only so long anyways an' troubles they has an' don't know about is troubles they don't have, or th' same as not havin' un, an' their lives is that much happier."
"I'm still thinkin' they'll be wantin' t' know," insisted Ed. "They'll be plannin' th' whole winter for Bob's comin' an' when they's expectin' him an' hears he's dead, 'twill be worse'n hearin' before they expects un. Leastways, they'll begettin' over un th' sooner they hears, for trouble always wears off some wi' passin' time. 'Tis our duty t' go an' tell unnow, I'm thinkin'."
"What's un think, Bill?" asked Dick.
"I'm thinkin with Ed, 'tis best t' go," said Bill, positively.
"Well, maybe 'tis—maybe 'tis," Dick finally assented. "Now, who'll be goin'? 'Twill be a wonderful hard task t' break th' news. I'm thinkin' my heart'd be failin' me when I gets there. Ed, would unmindgoin'?"
Ed hesitated a moment, then he said:
"I'm fearin' t' tell th' mother, but 'tis for some one t' do. 'Tis my duty t' do un—an' I'll be goin'."
It was finally arranged that Ed should begin his journey the following morning, drawing the remains on a toboggan, and taking otherwise only the tent, a tent stove, and enough food to see him through, leaving the remainder of Bob's things to be carried out in the boat in the spring. Dick undertook the charge of them as well as Bob's fur. Ed was to take the short cut to the river tilt and thence follow the river ice while Dick and Bill sprang Bob's traps on the upper end of his path.
"But," said Bill, after this arrangement was made, "Bob's folks be in sore need o' th' fur he'd be gettin' an' when Ed comes back, I'm thinkin' 'twould be fine for us not t' be takin' rest o' Saturdays but turnin' right back in th' trails. Ed can be doin' one tilt o' your trail, Dick, an' so shortenin' your trail one tilt so you can do two o' mine an' I'll shorten Ed two tilts an' dothreeo' Bob's. I'd be willin' t' workSundaysan' I'm thinkin' th' Lard wouldn't be findin' fault o' me for doin' un seem' Emily's needin' th' fur t' go t' th' doctor. 'Tis sure th' Lard wouldn't be gettin' angry wi' me forthat, for He knows how bad off Emily is."
This generous proposal met with the approval of all, and details were arranged accordingly that evening as to just what each was to do until the furring season closed in the spring.
This was Saturday, December the twenty-eighth. On Sunday morning Ed bade good-bye to his companions and began the long and lonely journey to Wolf Bight with his ghastly charge in tow.
Late on the afternoon of the day that Bob fell asleep in the snow, he awoke to new and strange surroundings. His first conscious moments brought with them a sense of comfortable security. His mind had thrown off every feeling of responsibility and he knew only that he was warm and snugly tucked into bed and that the odour of spruce forest and wood smoke that he breathed was very pleasant. He lay quiet for a time, with his eyes closed, in a state of blissful, half consciousness, vaguely realizing these things, but not possessing sufficient energy to open his eyes and investigate them or question where he was.
Slowly his mind awoke from its lethargy and then he began to remember as a dim, uncertain dream, his experience of the night before. Gradually it became more real but he recalled his failure to find the tent, the fearful groping in the snow, and his struggle for life against the stormas something that had happened in the long distant past.
"But how could all this ha' been happenin' t' me now?" he asked himself, for here he was snug in the tent—or perhaps he had reached the tilt and did not remember.
He opened his eyes now for the first time to see and satisfy himself as to whether it was the tent or the tilt he was in, and what he saw astonished and brought him to his senses very quickly.
He recognized at once the interior of an Indian wigwam. In the centre a fire was burning and an Indian woman was leaning over it stirring the contents of a kettle. On the opposite side of the fire from her sat a young Indian maiden of about Bob's own age netting the babiche in a snow-shoe, her fingers plying deftly in and out. The woman and girl wore deerskin garments of peculiar design. The former was fat and ugly, the latter slender, and very comely, he thought, from her sleek black hair to her feet encased in daintily worked little moccasins. At that moment she glanced towards him and said something to her companion, who turned in his direction also.
"Where am I?" he asked wonderingly and with some alarm.
They both laughed and jabbered then in their Indian tongue but he could not understand a word they said. The girl lay aside the snow-shoe and babiche and, taking up a tin cup, dipped some hot broth from the kettle and offered it to him. He accepted it gladly for he was thirsty and felt unaccountably weak. The broth contained no salt or flavouring of any kind, but was very refreshing. When he had finished it he put the cup down and attempted to rise but this movement brought forth a flood of Indian expostulations and he was forced to lie quiet again.
It was very evident that he was either considered an invalid too ill to move or was held in bondage. He had never heard that Indian captives were tucked into soft deerskin robes and fed broth by comely Indian maidens, however, and if he were a prisoner it did not promise to be so very disagreeable a captivity.
On the whole it was very pleasant and restful lying there on the soft skins of which his bed was composed, for he still felt tired and weak. He took in every detail of his surroundings. Thewigwam was circular in form and of good size. It was made of reindeer skins stretched over poles very dingy and black, with an opening at the top to permit the smoke from the fire in the centre to escape. Flat stones raised slightly above the ground served as a fireplace, and around it were thickly laid spruce boughs. Some strips of jerked venison hung from the poles above, and near his feet he glimpsed his own gun and powder horn.
Bob could see at once that these Indians were much more primitive than those he knew at the Bay and, unfamiliar as he was with the Indian language, he noticed a marked difference in the intonation and inflection when the woman spoke.
"Now," said Bob to himself, "th' Nascaupees must ha' found me an' these be Nascaupees. But Mountaineers an' every one says Nascaupees be savage an' cruel, an' I'm not knowin' what un be. 'Tis queer—most wonderful queer."
He had no recollection of lying down in the snow. The last he could definitely recall was his fearful battling with the storm. There was a sort of hazy remembrance of something that he could not quite grasp—of having gone tosleep somewhere in a snug, warm bed spread with white sheets. Try as he would he could not explain his presence in this Indian wigwam, nor could he tell how long he had been here. It seemed to him years since the morning he left the tilt to go on the caribou hunt.
So he lay for a good while trying to account for his strange surroundings until at last he became drowsy and was on the point of going to sleep when suddenly the entrance flap of the wigwam opened and two Indians entered—the most savage looking men Bob had ever seen—and he felt a thrill of fear as he beheld them. They were very tall, slender, sinewy fellows, dressed in snug fitting deerskin coats reaching half way to the knees and decorated with elaborately painted designs in many colours. Their heads were covered with hairy hoods, and the ears of the animal from which they were made gave a grotesque and savage appearance to the wearers. Light fitting buckskin leggings, fringed on the outer side, encased their legs, and a pair of deerskin mittens dangled from the ends of a string which was slung around the neck. One of the men was past middle age, the other a young fellow of perhaps twenty.
The older woman said something to them and they began to jabber in so high a tone of voice that Bob would have thought they were quarrelling but for the fact that they laughed good-naturedly all the time and came right over to where he lay to shake his hand. They had a good deal to say to him, but he could not understand one word of their language. After greeting him both men removed their outer coats and hoods, and Bob could not but admire the graceful, muscular forms that the buckskin undergarments displayed. Their hair was long, black and straight and around their foreheads was tied a thong of buckskin to keep it from falling over their faces.
They laughed at Bob's inability to understand them, and were much amused when he tried to talk with them. Every effort was made to put him at ease.
When the men were finally seated, the girl dipped out a cup of broth and a dish of venison stew from the kettle which she handed to Bob; then the others helped themselves from what remained. There was no bread nor tea, and nothing to eat but the unflavoured meat.
It was quite dark now and the fire cast weird,uncanny shadows on the dimly-lighted interior walls of the wigwam. The Indians sitting around it in their peculiar dress seemed like unreal inhabitants of some spirit world. Bob's coming to himself in this place and amongst these people appealed to him as miraculous—supernatural. He could not understand it at all. He began to plan an escape. When they were all asleep he could steal quietly out and make his way back to the tilt. But, then, he reasoned, if they wished to detain him they could easily track him in the snow in the morning; and, besides, he did not know where his snow-shoes were and without them he could not go far. Neither did he know how far he was from the tilt. After the Indians had found him they may have carried him several days' journey to their camp and whether they had gone west or north he had no way of finding out.
It was, therefore, he realized, an unquestionably hopeless undertaking for him to attempt to reach his tilt alone, and he finally dismissed the idea as impracticable. Perhaps in the morning he could induce them to take him there. That, he concluded, was the only plan for him to follow. So far they had been very kind and hecould see no reason why they should wish to detain him against his will.
The Indians were indeed Nascaupee Indians, but instead of being the ruthless cut-throats that the Mountaineers and the legends of the coast had painted them, they were human and hospitable, as all our eastern Indians were before white men taught them to be thieves and drove and goaded them—by the white man's own treachery—to acts of reprisal and revenge.
These Nascaupees, living as they did in a country inaccessible to the white ravishers, had none but kindly motives in their treatment of Bob and had no desire to do him harm. On the morning that Bob fell in the snow Shish-e-tá-ku-shin—Loud-voice—and his son Moó-koo-mahn—Big Knife—had left their wigwam early to hunt. Not far away they crossed Bob's trail. Their practiced eye told them that the traveller was not an Indian, for the snow-shoes he wore were not of Indian make, and also, from the uncertain, wobbly trail, they decided that he was far spent. So they followed the tracks and within a few minutes after Bob had fallen found him. They carried him to the wigwam and rubbed his frosted limbs and face until it was quite safe towrap him in the deerskins in the warm wigwam.
They did not know who he was nor where he came from, but they did know that he needed care and several days of quiet. He was a stranger and they took him in. These poor heathens had never heard of Christ or His teachings, but their hearts were human. And so it was that Bob found himself amongst friends and was rescued from what seemed certain death.
When morning came Bob tried in every conceivable way to make them understand that he wished to be taken back, but he found it a quite hopeless task. No signs or pantomime could make them comprehend his meaning, and it appeared that he was doomed to remain with them. The shock of exposure had been so great that he was still very weak and not able to walk, as he quickly realized when he tried to move about, and he was compelled to remain within in the company of the women, in spite of his desire to go out and reconnoitre.
Ma-ni-ka-wan, the maiden, took it upon herself to be his nurse. She brought him water to bathe his face, which was very sore fromfrostbite, and gave him the choicest morsels from the kettle, and made him as comfortable as possible.
At first he held a faint hope that when Bill missed him at the tilt, a search would be made for him and his friends would find the wigwam. But as the days slipped by he realized that he would probably never be discovered. There came a fear that the news of his disappearance would be carried to Wolf Bight and he dreaded the effect upon his mother and Emily.
But there was one consolation. Emily could go to the hospital now and be cured. Bill would find the silver fox skin and his share of that and the other furs would pay not only his own but his father's debts, he felt sure, as well as all the expense of Emily's treatment by the doctor—and a good surplus of cash—how much he could not imagine and did not try to calculate—for the doctor had said that silver foxes were worth five hundred dollars in cash. This thought gave him a degree of satisfaction that towered so far above his troubles that he almost forgot them.
In a little while he was quite strong and active again. Finally a day came when the Indians made preparations to move. The wigwam wastaken down and with all their belongings packed upon toboggans, and under the cold stars of a January morning, they turned to the northward, and Bob had no other course than to go with them even farther from the loved ones and the home that his heart so longed to see.
Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise and confusion that always followed him no less than his little thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side. He had helped Emily to pass the time less wearily, often sitting for hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her, or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come back from the fishing, and then she would realize that he was really gone away, and would turn her face to the wall,that her mother might not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness.
Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her,
"An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?"
And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy."
Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their resthe would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the petition,
"An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is."
Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood.
Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to. The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up.
Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she wouldthink of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked:
"Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?"
"'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year."
"An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?"
"A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then."
"'Tis a long while t' wait—aterriblelong while t' be waitin'—t' th' New Year."
"Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up. But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid is,—an' see his mother—an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise."
"An Bob knew how lonesome we were—howwonderfullonesome we were—he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin' lonesome hisself. He must be gettin'dreadfullonesome away off in th' bush this long time! He'llsurebe comin' at th' New Year!"
After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve, and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then—only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him.
Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence was always with her.
One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked:
"Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind. Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine hunt."
"I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off. I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an' th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she an' make she walk."
"'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be makin' she well at th' hospital."
"But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital—an' if she don't go—th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well."
"Now don't be lettin'thatworry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th' spring, if that be His way o' curin she—IknowsHe will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid. He'd not belettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin'—Heneverwould do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way aforenowif th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th' freeze up."
"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th' Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers th' way as is best."
This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that burden on her heart—a burden that would not be shaken off.
All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world, with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast drawing to a close.
Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful—more plentiful than it had been for years—and he was hopeful that by spring he would have enough to pay all his back debt atthe company store and be on his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily—beautiful black otters, martens, minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes.
"I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?"
"Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An' Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time together before you an' Bob goes away again."
"In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an' komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he asked his wife.
"We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested, "th' next day's Christmas, Richard."
"Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin' she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin'round last Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he."
Emily looked up wistfully.
"An' you are thinkin' he'll havetimet' come here wi' all th' places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!"
"I'll just make un—I'll justmakeun," said her father. "I'll not let un pass my maideverytime."
Emily was awake early the next morning—before daybreak. Her father was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their expectant howls,—and the dogs never howled just like that under any other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett—hoo-ett" as he gave them the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!—ouk! ouk! ouk!"
It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and perhaps—perhaps—Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would bring her.
Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs outside and presently hecame in carrying his komatik box, his beard weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost.
"Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year—ararescoldin'—an' I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un bythisChristmas. He'll not be wantin'anothersuch scoldin'."
"Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded now. He's sure doin' th' best he can—Iknowshe's doin' th' best he can."
"He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maidtwoyear runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin' Bessie were sendin'."
"Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'—an' a paper with some writin'!"
Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out the message.
Letter to Emily. "to dear emily. Wishin mery Chrismas from Bessie"
"Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't a thing t' send."
"Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an' runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit Emily."
"An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked Mrs. Gray.
"Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily.
"I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help."
"An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea.
"Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in."
"An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way for debt."
"Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis th' way un always runs."
"'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently.
"The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin' Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush."
"Oh, I'm hopin'—I'm hopin' so—for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th' doctor—an' he comes back safe."
"I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an' they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th' nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad."
"Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's relievin' my mind wonderful—relievin'—it—wonderful."
There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness in their hearts when they went to their night's rest.