XX
A LETTER FROM THE GREAT DOCTOR
THE Jug was lonely enough after the departure of David and Andy in September. Margaret and Jamie missed them, perhaps, more than Thomas, who was accustomed to the solitude of the trails. Margaret was quite sure the place would have been well-nigh unbearable but for Doctor Joe, who went about his work whistling or singing snatches of song, and who always had a smile or a joke when he breezed into the cabin. And his evening stories were something to look forward to.
Doctor Joe was bustling about from morning until night, these days, preparing for his winter’s work. There was no end of work to be done about the cabin, that all might be made “ship-shape,” as he said, “and snug for any storm that might blow.”
Thomas was as patient as ever a man with a broken leg could be. But it was quite natural that he should wish to be up and about. A hundred times during these weeks he asked Doctor Joe if it were not time to take the “lashin’s” off his leg, and declared that he was “weary of dawdlin’ there in bed.” His restlessness was not to be wondered at, for never before in all his life had Thomas Angus “dawdled” in bed for a single day. Thomas Angus had always been an uncommonly strong and healthy man, for which he was duly thankful.
Never once after David and Andy departed did Jamie utter a word of complaint about the mist in his eyes. They had gone forth to do great deeds. They would meet, up there in that lonely land of mystery, many a bitter hardship, and they would have “plenty o’ grit, and keep their hearts stout, like a man’s,” for they had promised their father and Jamie they would. Why, then, should he complain? He, too, must keep plenty o’ grit, and a stout heart, and be brave and patient.
Perhaps, too, Jamie was becoming accustomed to the mist, as one will, in time, become accustomed to anything. Perhaps the abounding hope of youth helped him—and with Jamie it was the hope that one day he would see as well as ever he had—for was not the great doctor to work a wonderful cure—when summer came again? Jamie’s faith never wavered. He entertained no doubt that David and Andy and Indian Jake would meet with success, and bring back with them the furs necessary to meet the expense of the journey to New York. He never failed to ask for this in his prayers. Oh, that the faith of childhood, simple, abiding, unquestioning, might never be shattered! What a blessed consolation is faith! What a bulwark of strength in time of need!
Jamie often asked Margaret to describe the mountains to him as she saw them from the cabin windows. It was a vast satisfaction to have the assurance that they were still there, big and brave and strong, standing guard over the world beyond the Bay. And sometimes he would ask her to watch for the moment when the light from the setting sun tipped their highest peaks with glory, and tell him when God reached down to kiss the world good night.
“Now that leg!” announced Doctor Joe one day. “We’ll take the splints off and see what it looks like.”
“I’m wonderful glad t’ have un took off,” said Thomas, his face brightening visibly.
Doctor Joe laughed, as he went to work, and presently the bandages and splints were removed, and he surveyed the leg.
“I never saw a better job!” he exclaimed. “Straight and fine! It won’t be long, Thomas, till you’ll forget you ever had a broken leg!”
“She feels strange,” remarked Thomas.
“Does she, now?” laughed Doctor Joe.
“Aye, she does that! She pricks and hurts, and she wasn’t hurtin’ a bit when th’ lashin’s were on,” said Thomas.
“That’ll soon pass away. It’s the blood circulating,” Doctor Joe explained.
And after that it was not long until Thomas was moving about the cabin on a pair of rude crutches Doctor Joe had made for him, and mightily pleased he was.
“Plenty t’ be thankful for,” declared Thomas. “Here, now I’ll soon have as good a pair o’ legs as ever I had, with Doctor Joe’s mendin’, and if Doctor Joe hadn’t been here ’tis like as not, and liker too, I’d ha’ been crippled for life.”
Late in October winter snapped down upon them in a night. Everywhere the great bay was frozen, and there was no longer the sound of lapping waves upon the beach. Very soon, too, the cheerful voice of Roaring Brook, tumbling headlong over the rocks, was hushed into silence.
Rime filled the air, and the cabin windows became thick-crusted with a frost that never melted that livelong winter. Before the end of November the snow lay a full fathom deep every where, and there was no going abroad now, save upon snowshoes.
But there was wood enough ranked high in the shed to keep the big stove roaring and crackling merrily, and the cabin assumed a greater coziness than ever.
Thomas busied himself making snowshoes for future use, mending dog harness, and attending to innumerable odd jobs for which ordinarily in his busy existence he found small leisure.
“’Tis a blessin’ t’ feel I has th’ time for un without neglectin’ and makin’ a shift of other work,” he declared. Thomas found a blessing and a reason for thankfulness in everything.
Each morning almost before the break of dawn Doctor Joe would steal away into the cold, dreary gloom of the silent forest, and each night, as dusk was settling, they would hear his cheery call as he returned. This was the brightest hour of the day for Jamie and Margaret, aye and Thomas, too.
But following the fur trails from morning till night, and day after day, was hard and wearisome work for Doctor Joe. His success as a trapper was indifferent. He was not born and bred to it as were Thomas and the boys. There were days and days when he returned of nights empty handed, but he always wore a cheerful face and a smile when he entered the lighted cabin, no matter how gloomy it may have been in the dark woods. And if Thomas, perchance, had permitted himself to grow down-hearted, Doctor Joe’s smile and cheerfulness raised his spirits and drove the gloom away. There is no tonic more potent than a smile and a cheerful face. ’Tis a great mender of a sore heart.
Doctor Joe, however, in spite of his brave front, was deeply troubled at his lack of success on the trail. It was of vital importance that sufficient furs should be had to pay the way for Jamie’s operation, and he was not in the least certain of the result of David’s and Andy’s winter hunt, or altogether satisfied as to their safety. He could never quite clear his mind of doubts as to Indian Jake’s responsibility and integrity. So much depended upon the boys and Indian Jake! Jamie’s whole future depended upon them or so Doctor Joe believed. He was watching Jamie’s eyes carefully and constantly, and there was no doubt that the mist was gradually but constantly thickening.
When the northern posts are ice-bound the last autumn mail for the coast is left by the mail boat each year at a post three hundred miles to the southward, and carried thence to its destination by dog sledge. Customarily this mail reaches the Hudson Bay Post in Eskimo Bay on the evening of the twenty-second or twenty-third of December. Doctor Joe was keenly anxious for its arrival this year, for he was confident it would contain the hoped-for reply from the great New York surgeon, and as the time approached he was indeed in a state of nervous expectancy.
There was still the uncertainty as to whether or no the surgeon would be in New York the following summer. Doctor Joe had promised that he would be there, or at least held out such strong hopes that Jamie and Thomas and Margaret were depending upon them as a promise, and with the utmost faith. Doctor Joe felt the responsibility keenly, and as the weeks wore away this feeling of personal responsibility increased. He did not dare to think of Jamie’s future should his plans fail, and when the thought did force itself upon him a strange panic seized him.
Doctor Joe’s anxiety was so keen that he must needs lose no time in receiving the letter that he hoped would come to him, and two days before Christmas, when he came home from the trail in the evening, he announced that he was to go to the Post the following morning.
“How would you like to take the cruise with me, Margaret?” he asked. “You haven’t been away from The Jug in six months.”
“Oh, ’twould be fine!” exclaimed Margaret, delighted at the prospect. “I’d like so much t’ go!”
“Then I’ll drive the dogs over, and take you,” said Doctor Joe. “Your father and Jamie will do very well without you for one day, and I’m not going out on my trail on Christmas eve. Besides, we’re very apt to meet Santa Claus, and we mustn’t miss seeing him, for he may have something for Jamie, and the old rascal would like as not go right on and never leave it, if we don’t remind him.”
Doctor Joe gave a quizzical glance toward Jamie, who was immediately intensely excited.
“Jamie and I’ll do fine alone for one day,” declared Thomas, “though I don’t know how we’d ever do without Margaret longer than that. It never would do to miss old Santa Claus, though, and Margaret must go along.”
“Ask he—ask he—if you sees he, now, t’ bring me a knife!” exclaimed Jamie, vastly excited. “A huntin’ knife! When th’ mist leaves my eyes I’ll have un t’ use when I goes huntin’ with Pop. Tell he that, and he’ll sure give un to me!”
“Very well,” agreed Doctor Joe, “we’ll tell him. But supposing he has no hunting knives? He may be all out of them. Then what shall he bring you?”
“A jackknife,” said Jamie, with prompt decision. “A jackknife that’ll be all my own.”
Accordingly the following morning Doctor Joe made ready the sledge and harnessed the eight big dogs, and when Margaret heard the dogs yelping in eagerness to be away she came running out, all bundled up, her eyes sparkling and face aglow with the prospect of the journey. When she had seated herself in a big box on the rear of the sledge, Doctor Joe wrapped caribou skins about her and tucked her in as snug and warm as could be. Then he seized the front of the komatik, as they called the sledge, jerked it sharply toward him to break it loose from the snow, and as he did so shouted “Oo-isht! Oo-isht!” With a creak the sledge was freed and the dogs, straining at their traces, shot ahead at a gallop down the steep slope to the ice.
The sledge once in motion coasted after the dogs at a mad pace. Doctor Joe, throwing himself upon it, with his feet extending forward and over the side, drove his heels into the snow in rapid succession, while he pulled back with all his might in an effort to retard the speed. Margaret, enveloped by the cloud of snow which Doctor Joe kicked up, clung desperately to the swaying box. It was exciting and thrilling. At the foot of the slope was a mass of ice hummocks, piled up by the tide, and as the dogs and sledge dashed among them the speed slackened. Here, with quick, agile jerks upon the front of the runners, Doctor Joe steered them safely to the smooth white surface of the Bay.
Now the dogs settled to a comfortable trot. Doctor Joe seated himself upon the sledge, and looking back he and Margaret waved their hands gaily to Thomas and Jamie, who were standing at the cabin door, while Thomas told Jamie what was taking place.
It was dusk when the howl of eager dogs announced the return of Doctor Joe and Margaret. Thomas and Jamie hastened to the door, and were in time to greet them as the sledge drew up the incline.
“Oh, we had a fine trip!” exclaimed Margaret enthusiastically, as she threw off the caribou skins and stepped lightly from the box, quite as pleased and excited with her journey and visit to the trading post as any country girl in our land would be with a journey of a hundred miles and a visit to a great city.
“Did you see Santa Claus?” asked Jamie in high expectation.
“Oh, yes, we saw him!” answered Margaret gaily.
“And is he t’ come here?” and Jamie was on tiptoe with excitement.
“He’s t’ come here!” declared Margaret. “He’ll not be passing here, whatever!”
“We told him that he must come here, whatever he did!” called Doctor Joe, who was unharnessing the dogs. “We told him ’twould be a sorry day for him if he passed The Jug without stopping.”
“O-h-h!” breathed Jamie.
And presently, when Doctor Joe had turned the dogs loose and fed them, he came stamping into the cabin all aglow with the good news of a letter from the great doctor, who had written that he would cut the mist away from Jamie’s eyes. That in itself was the greatest Christmas present that could have come to any of them. Jamie asked a hundred questions about it, and they all declared that they were never before in all their lives made so glad of a Christmas eve.
That night, with faith complete, Jamie hung up his stocking, and sure enough on Christmas morning it contained not only the coveted knife but a little package of candy. And to Margaret’s great surprise, for she had not in the least expected to be remembered, Santa Claus had brought her a beautiful knitted sweater to wear about when the cabin was chilly, and she was no less happy with the gift than was Jamie with his.
And Thomas and Doctor Joe were as happy as either of them. Santa Claus must be a very happy old man indeed, for the greatest happiness in the world comes from making others happy. And it is not the worth of a gift in money, either, that counts for value, but the depth of love that goes with it. And after all, every one who does his best to make others happy at Christmas time or at any other time is a Santa Claus.
As the weeks passed the mist in Jamie’s eyes grew so thick that at length he ceased his old pathetic habit of brushing his hand before them to drive it away. It hurt Margaret’s sympathetic heart solely to see him groping for things that were usually near at hand, but which he could not find.
Thomas, who had long since abandoned his crutches, and was as busy as ever, was openly worried over Jamie’s condition, and more than once Margaret discovered Doctor Joe staring long and steadily at Jamie with what she thought was a look of fear in his face, and it startled her. Was it possible, she asked herself, that the blindness might come too soon for the great doctor to work his marvelous cure?
But Doctor Joe said there was no cause for worry, on that score, and for the most part he was outwardly cheerful enough. There was still time, he declared—unless the eyes darkened much more rapidly in the coming weeks than they had during the early winter, and there was no reason to expect that they would.
“It all depends now upon the furs the boys and Indian Jake bring out,” he said, “and they’ll surely bring enough between them to pay expenses. Four hundred dollars will be plenty, and if we have three hundred I’ll take Jamie, anyhow. My little hunt will fetch a hundred, and they’ll be certain to have enough to make up the balance.”
“O, aye, they’ll sure have that much,” and Thomas brightened.
“The boys should be out the first of June, and Jamie and I will go on the first mail boat, the last of the month,” said Doctor Joe. “It all depends on our getting the furs. We must have the furs, and there’s no reason to doubt we’ll have them.”
Jamie had faith, and plenty o’ grit, too. He had no doubt that David and Andy would come home with a fine lot of furs.
And so they all waited and watched hopefully and expectantly for the return of the hunters, never once dreaming of disappointment or failure, or how strangely awry their plans were to go, as so often is the case with the best laid plans.
XXI
THE TRAIL OF THE DESERTER
INDIAN Jake took a straight course down the lake and through the Narrows. Crossing the lower expansion he turned upon the broad white bed of the river. This he followed until he reached a point where the ice, covering the swift flowing current, became unsafe. Here he entered the forest skirting the north bank, and under cover of the trees kept his rapid pace until mid-afternoon.
During the forenoon the storm had been steadily increasing in violence. Traveling had become uncomfortable and difficult, and, choosing a convenient place to pitch his tent, Indian Jake stretched it between two trees. A full ten feet of snow covered the forest floor and with no attempt to clear a camping place he proceeded to make himself comfortable on the surface of the snow.
He first secured the tent around the bottom with long pegs that sunk deep into the snow and held the canvas firm and taut. Then with his ax he cut two green butts of trees, and laying them side by side and a few inches apart just within the tent, erected his tent stove upon them. The green butts would not burn easily, and their ends, extending a considerable distance beyond the stove on each side, would support it and prevent its sinking when the snow beneath melted with the heat. From within the stove he withdrew three lengths of stovepipe, joined them and set them in position, and the stove was ready for a fire.
Before kindling the fire, however, Indian Jake gathered several armfuls of boughs, snapping them from low-hanging limbs with a deft twist of the wrist. These he spread with some care, as a carpet for the tent, and as a protection from the snow beneath. Indian Jake’s shelter now prepared to his satisfaction, he unlashed the toboggan, carried the contents within, and stowed them away with a view to comfort and convenience.
Then taking his ax he devoted himself to chopping firewood of proper length for the stove. Swinging his ax dexterously and industriously for thirty minutes, a sufficient supply was accumulated to serve his needs for several hours. This he piled in neat tiers just within the tent entrance, where it would be at hand when required. With a piece of birch bark for tinder, he now lighted a fire in the stove, and taking his kettle and ax went to the river for water.
When he returned a few minutes later the tent was warm and comfortable. He placed the kettle upon the stove, removed his adiky, and turned his attention to the preparation of dinner. Indian Jake had eaten nothing since early morning, and he was hungry.
Some fried whitefish and pork, some generous pieces of camp bread, and several cups of hot tea made a substantial and satisfying meal. When they were disposed of, the half-breed sliced black tobacco from a plug, filled his pipe, lighted it from the fire with a shaving, and settled himself for luxurious rest.
After the manner of those who are much alone, Indian Jake had the habit of thinking aloud, and now he proceeded to converse audibly with himself.
“Fifteen hundred dollars worth of fur,” said he. “It’s a fine hunt, takin’ it all, with what th’ lads got. I never had half as much fur at one time in my life before. I made a good hunt myself. With theirs it makes a fine lot. But they’re dead, and they’ll never know what I got; I never told ’em. And they’ll never know what I does with any of it.”
He was silent for a time, then continued:
“They was good fellers t’ hunt with. They had a good lot o’ grit, too. It was pretty hard for ’em sometimes, on nasty days, but they stuck to it, and got th’ fur. I had some good times with ’em, too. Had a good time Christmas, surprisin’ ’em with th’ goose and puddin’. I wonder why ’tis I like t’ surprise folks, and get a good time out’n doin’ it. I had one surprise for ’em they’ll never know about. I wonder how they’d have liked that surprise.
“They brought th’ fur down to th’ Narrows tilt when I told ’em to. Th’ little feller wanted me t’ bring mine in too, but I wa’n’t goin’ t’ let ’em know what I had. He kinder suspicioned me, or somethin’. The way it turned out their fur was safe enough. I’d have got th’ fur anyhow when I went up t’ look for ’em.
“If I’d known where their traps were set I could ha’ gone over ’em. They might have some fur in ’em. I could ’a’ struck ’em up and took care of ’em, too, like I did on my trail. ’Twouldn’t have hurt me any to do that much for Tom Angus. He let me hunt his trail. But he’ll find ’em when he comes in next fall.”
After a little silence he mused:
“I wonder how Tom Angus is goin’ t’ take it when they don’t show up.”
Indian Jake’s pipe had gone out. He pushed the ashes down in the bowl, relit it, renewed the fire in the stove, and rising looked out between the tent flaps at the falling snow. Returning to his seat he remarked:
“Likely t’ be a nasty day tomorrow, and I may as well stay here. No use travelin’ in nasty weather. They’s plenty o’ time. Guess I’ll take it easy. Nobody to worry about me, and I’m just as much t’ home here as anywhere. I got grub enough. I may meet up with some o’ th’ Injuns, and I can travel with them.
“Home!” said he, after a silence. “Th’ lads were thinkin’ a big lot about th’ time when they’d go home. Now they’ll never go there. Home’s th’ finest place in th’ world t’ be when a feller has one. Huh! What’s th’ use thinkin’ about that. I’ll be gettin’ homesick for a home I ain’t got. This tent’s a good enough home. It’s got t’ suit me, anyhow. It’s all right.”
The next day it stormed, as Indian Jake had predicted, and he did not leave his camp, but the morning following was clear, and he again set forward.
At midday the half-breed halted to boil the kettle, and making his way toward the river to obtain water, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. The wind was blowing up from the opposite side of the river.
“Smoke!” he exclaimed. “They’s some one camped across the river!”
Cautiously he stole down to the river bank, and from the cover of brush scanned the opposite shore. His sharp eyes quickly detected half hidden by trees and drift, a small log tilt. Smoke was rising from the protruding stovepipe.
“Who can that be trappin’ in there?” Indian Jake asked himself.
As though in answer to his question the tilt door opened, and Uncle Ben Rudder, with kettle and ax, came down to the river, cut open a water hole, filled his kettle and returned to the tilt.
“Th’ old wolverine!” exclaimed Indian Jake when Uncle Ben had disappeared. “What’s he doin’ in here? Tried t’ keep me from huntin’! If he’d had his way Thomas Angus wouldn’t have let me have the Seal Lake trail! Always meddlin’ with other folks’ business! Well, I got th’ trail, and th’ fur too, you old skunk!”
The half-breed grinned triumphantly, and his face was not pleasant to see then.
“He’ll find out somethin’ before I’m through with him,” added Indian Jake, and turning about with his unfilled kettle he cautiously returned under cover of the trees to his toboggan. “Wouldn’t he like t’ run on me now! Wouldn’t he like t’ know about th’ fur I’ve got!”
Indian Jake resumed his journey. To light a fire would be too dangerous, for even with the wind in an opposite direction, a whiff of smoke carried across the river might disclose his presence to Uncle Ben, and Indian Jake had reason to look upon Uncle Ben as an enemy that just at the present time he did not care to encounter.
Camping at night and traveling leisurely by day, Indian Jake continued down the valley of the Nascaupee until, one afternoon, a little way above the place where the river empties into Grand Lake, he fell upon numerous indications of the presence of bears. A careful examination satisfied him that these were made late the previous fall, and that there were at least two, and possibly more bears, hibernating in the immediate vicinity. His Indian instinct to permit no game to escape him was aroused. Presently the bears would come forth from their long winter sleep. They would be hungry, and could easily be trapped. The temptation was too strong to be resisted.
“I’ll have time t’ get away over th’ ice,” he decided. “I can fix up some sort of a canoe while I’m waitin’, and if I get caught by th’ break-up I can make out. Like as not some of th’ Injuns’ll be along anyhow. They’ll let me go along with ’em. I’m thinkin’ I’ll stay here a while and trap bear.”
And so Indian Jake pitched his camp, made himself comfortable, and began the building of deadfalls, in anticipation of the time when the bears would come forth from their dens.
Here in the seclusion of the forest the half-breed was safe enough from discovery. None would pass this way save the Indians who were his friends, and Uncle Ben Rudder, upon whom he looked as an uncompromising enemy. But not until after the break-up in June would Uncle Ben pass down the river and into Grand Lake in his boat. Indian Jake had the advantage of time. He would break camp and be away before June. In any case there was no probability that Uncle Ben would go ashore here, and even though he did, Indian Jake’s tent was sufficiently hidden to escape detection. He took good care that this should be the case, and he also took good care to leave no trace along the river bank that would give hint of his presence, or arouse suspicion that he was in the vicinity.