VII
IN THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS
THE boys were awakened in the morning by Indian Jake entering the tent with a kettle of water for the tea. The candle was lighted, and the half-breed, in better humor, or at least more talkative than on the previous evening, greeted them with a cheerful enough:
“Mornin’, lads.”
“Mornin’,” said they, and David added: “Did much snow fall?”
“Just a light fall, and it’s clear and fine, and the wind’s about gone.”
There was no time for dawdling in bed, and the two lads sprang up and made their simple toilet. Already the tent was warm, and they rolled their sleeping bags and tied them into neat bundles, and then sat by the cozy, crackling stove while Indian Jake fried the pork and made the tea.
“Will we get to the rapids today, Jake?” asked David, when finally Indian Jake, after removing the pan of pork from the fire and placing it before them on the ground, poured tea into the tin cups they held out to him.
“If the wind don’t come contrary to us,” said Indian Jake, dipping a piece of bread into the pan and bringing it forth dripping with hot grease. “It’s a long pull from the mouth of the river ag’in’ th’ current, but we’ll try for it. We’ll be losin’ no time, leastways, for there’s no time t’ be lost if we gets t’ Seal Lake before th’ freeze up, with our late start.”
“We’ll work hard for it, whatever,” declared David. “’Twould be a bad fix t’ be caught by th’ ice before we gets to Seal Lake.”
“That it would,” agreed Indian Jake. “But you lads are goin’t’ find the work gettin’ there harder’n any work you ever had t’ do.”
The first hint of dawn was in the East when they broke camp and set forward upon their journey again. The air was brisk and frosty, but when the sun rose it shone warm and mellow, and the snow melted and trickled in glistening rivulets which ran down everywhere over the rocks to join the river. That day they reached the rapids, and then followed many days of tedious, back-breaking toil as they ascended into the higher country—days when the boys needed all the grit that was in them, and stout hearts, too.
Sometimes Indian Jake and David pulled the boat at the end of a rope, while Andy, with an oar as a rudder, or standing in the bow with a long pole, steered it away from the shore and prevented its running afoul of rocks. Thus they traversed a brook for some miles, when it became necessary to circumvent a section of the river where it thundered down through the hills in a great white torrent no boat could stem.
From the head of the brook there was a carry, or portage, as they called it, of nearly two miles. Over this portage the boat must needs be hauled foot by foot, overland. Several round sticks were cut for rollers, and the boat drawn over them by David and Indian Jake, while Andy attended to placing the rollers and keeping them in position.
Then the provisions and other equipment were carried on their backs to the place where the boat was to be launched. Indian Jake bore tremendous burdens, with his voyageur’s tumpline, which is the Indian’s way. And David and Andy, with combined shoulder and head straps, staggered after him with as heavy loads as they could carry, and did their best. Even then it was necessary to make three journeys over the trail before the last pack was delivered at the place where the boat had been carried. A whole day was occupied in transferring the boat, and the larger part of another day in transferring the goods, but Indian Jake cheered the lads with the assurance that it was the longest portage, and therefore the hardest work they would encounter on the journey.
“I’m glad enough of that,” declared David. “I’m about scrammed, and I’m feelin’ like I couldn’t go much farther till I rests.”
“That’s just like I feels, too,” admitted Andy.
“We’ll make camp here for the night,” said Indian Jake, “because ’tis the best place to camp we’ll come to before dark finds us. But every time we feels weary we can’t stop to rest. Travelers must keep goin’ often enough when they’re tired. There’ll be tired days enough, too, before we reach Seal Lake, and there’ll be tireder days on th’ fur trails in th’ winter, and you lads promised you’d keep your grit.”
“Aye,” admitted David, shamed by the rebuff, “we promised, and we’ll be keepin’ our grit. I was forgettin’, when I made complaint.”
“And I was forgettin’, too,” said Andy.
Indian Jake never complained, and never admitted he was tired, and never again did he hear complaint from either David or Andy, though often enough they were almost too weary of evenings to eat their supper.
Whether Indian Jake appreciated their self-restraint and sturdy tenacity, or accepted it as a matter of course, he never commented upon it or uttered a word of approval, though he presently began to treat them more as companions and veterans than as novices. Sometimes he even asked David’s opinion upon some point, and when he did this David felt vastly complimented, for there was no better woodsman in the country than Indian Jake.
The nights were growing frosty. The ground was hard frozen, and the bowlders at the water’s edge were coated with ice. But the river itself, too active to submit so early to the shackles of approaching winter, went rushing along in its course, now quietly, with a deep, dark, sullen current, now thundering over rocks in wild, tempestuous rapids that made the heart thrill with its force and power. Day and night the rush of waters was in the cars of the travelers, but withal it was a pleasant sound. They thought of the river as a mighty living thing, and as a companion, despite the toil it demanded of them.
“Th’ river roarin’ out there makes me solemn, like,” remarked Andy one evening after they had eaten supper and sat by the crackling stove while Indian Jake quietly puffed at his pipe.
“How, now, does she make you solemn?” asked David.
“I were thinkin’ how she keeps rushin’ on an’ roarin’ that way, always,” Andy explained. “She were goin’ that way before we were born, and she’ll keep goin’ that way after we’re dead, no matter how old we lives t’ be. She’ll keep goin’, and goin’, and goin’, and there’s never like t’ be an end t’ her goin’ till th’ world comes to an end. And I were thinkin’ how much she’ll see that none of us’ll ever see. Other folks’ll be comin’ in here t’ trap just like we’re comin’ now—after we’re dead—and we won’t know it, but th’ river will.”
“And there’s no end t’ th’ water that feeds her,” added David. “I wonders where it all comes from.”
“I wonders, now,” mused Andy.
“There’s no doubtin’, now, she’s been runnin’ like that since th’ Lard made th’ world,” continued David. “’Tis hard t’ understand where all th’ water comes from.”
“I’m thinkin’, now,” and Andy’s voice was filled with awe, “th’ Lard made un that way, and fixed un so there’d never be lack o’ water. I wonders, now, if th’ Lard keeps watchin’ her all th’ time, and if she’d go dry if He didn’t keep lookin’ out for un.”
“Th’ Lard watches un all th’ time,” said David. “There’s no doubtin’ that. Th’ Lard watches out for everything, and He even knows what we’re thinkin’ this minute.”
“I wonders if He does, now?” and Andy’s eyes were filled with wonder. “Do you think, Jake, th’ Lard made th’ river, and keeps watch that she’s always got plenty o’ water?”
Indian Jake shifted uneasily, and reaching over to snuff the candle, grunted:
“Hugh! I think sometimes the devil made her, th’ way we have t’ fight her t’ get up t’ Seal Lake.”
“’Tweren’t th’ devil!” objected Andy, horrified at the suggestion. “’Twere th’ Lard made she. We couldn’t get t’ Seal Lake without she, though she is a bit hard t’ go up sometimes.”
“Pop says th’ Lard makes it hard for us t’ master th’ good things He makes for us,” said David. “That’s so we’ll know how good they are after we masters un.”
“You lads’ll be gettin’ homesick, and you talks about such things,” broke in Indian Jake, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “It’s time t’ turn in.”
And so the days of toil continued, until one morning they entered a lake, and David gave a shout of joy and announced to Andy that the work of long carries and hauling the boat through rapids was at an end.
“We’re ’most to th’ Narrows tilt,” said he. “This is th’ lower end of Seal Lake, and just above here is th’ Narrows.”
And so it proved. When presently the lake narrowed down into a short strait and directly opened into a far extending expanse of water, David pointed excitedly to the eastern shore, some four hundred yards above, with the exclamation:
“There ’tis, Andy! There ’tis! See un?”
And a few minutes later the boat’s prow grounded upon a sandy beach at the point David had indicated and at the mouth of a small river which emptied into Seal Lake at the head of the Narrows, and there in the edge of the forest that bordered the beach nestled the little log hut they called a “tilt.”
“Here we are at last,” said Indian Jake, who was in an amiable state of mind, “and I take it you lads are glad enough t’ be here.”
“’Tis fine!” exclaimed Andy.
“’Tis that,” seconded David, “and fine t’ get here ahead o’ th’ freeze-up.”
“Now we’ll tidy th’ place up and get it ready to stop in,” said Indian Jake, “and store our outfit away.”
Even Andy had to stoop to enter the low door, though, within, the ceiling was amply high for Indian Jake to stand erect. The room was about ten feet square, and was fitted with low bunks on two sides. It contained a sheet-iron tent stove, with the pipe, which answered the double purpose of pipe and chimney, extending up through the roof.
They set about at once to make the place hospitable and comfortable. Rubbish was cleared away and the earthen floor swept clean with a handful of twigs, which answered well enough in lieu of a broom. Then fragrant balsam and spruce boughs were spread upon the bunks for a bed, and finally the outfit was carried up from the boat and conveniently disposed of, and a fire kindled in the stove.
The relaxation after the long, hard journey, was doubly acceptable. The wood crackling in the stove, the spicy perfume of balsam, and the sense of a secure retreat, gave the tilt an air of coziness and comfort the boys had not experienced since leaving The Jug. This was to be their headquarters and their home for many months, and their place of rest and relaxation.
David brought a kettle of water from the lake and set it on for dinner, while Indian Jake turned some flour into a pan, and began dexterously mixing dough for hot bread.
“We made good time,” he remarked good-naturedly, as he fitted a cake of dough into the frying pan. “It’s the second day of October, and the lake won’t fasten for another week, whatever. There’s some geese about yet, and we’ll get some of ’em. They’ll make a good change now and again, later on.”
“That’ll be fine!” exclaimed David.
“We’ll do all th’ huntin’ we can in daylight,” said Indian Jake, “and of evenings get our stretchin’ boards in shape for the time when we’ll need ’em. And I expect there’ll be some pa’tridges—”
Indian Jake suddenly paused in his work to listen. He had but a moment to wait, when there broke forth startlingly near a heart-rending howl. It rose and fell in mournful cadence, dying finally in a long-drawn “Woo-oo-oo,” so near that it sent the blood tingling in shivering waves up the spines of the boys.
VIII
ANDY’S BEAR HUNT
“WOLVES!” said Indian Jake, resuming his cooking with unconcern. “They must be the other side of the little river, or they’d smell our smoke. The wind’s blowin’ up from that way.”
“Are they like t’ trouble us?” asked Andy anxiously.
“They’ll keep clear of us, never fear,” declared David stoutly. “I’d like t’ get a shot at un once.”
“They’re likely under cover o’ th’ woods,” said Indian Jake. “But you might have a look and see.”
David took his rifle and went cautiously out of the door, but presently returned to report that the wolves, which were still crying, were, as Indian Jake had supposed, hidden in the woods on the opposite side of the river.
“They won’t bother us,” said Indian Jake. “Wolves are mostly too much afraid of the man smell to be troublesome. We might go after ’em, but they’re hard t’ get at, and we wouldn’t stand much chance of seein’ ’em.”
“Will they be like t’ come at us on th’ trails?” asked Andy.
“Not much fear of that,” reiterated Indian Jake. “Mostly they follows the caribou, and keeps clear of men. Slice some pork, Davy; and Andy, you put the tea over. The water’s boilin’.”
“I’m wonderin’, now, how many of un there is,” said Andy as he made the tea.
“Two was all that sounded,” explained Indian Jake. “One was a good piece off, and called lonesome, like he wanted company, and the other that answered was handy by. They’ll likely be gettin’ together.”
When dinner was eaten, Indian Jake lighted his pipe with a shaving which he whittled and ignited at the vent in the stove door, and while David and Andy washed the dishes, busied himself with an examination of the stretching boards which Thomas had used the previous year. These were of different sizes, and properly shaped to fit the pelts of martens, foxes and other animals hunted along the trails.
Hunters remove the skins from the animals whole and draw them tightly over the board with the fleshy side of the pelt on the outside. It is then scraped with a knife until all adhesions of flesh and fat are removed, and the board, with the skin still upon it, is hung from the ceiling until the pelt is thoroughly dried. When properly cured and in condition for packing, it is removed from the board and placed with other pelts, as they accumulate, in a clean bag, which is usually suspended from a rafter, where neither moisture nor animals can attack it.
Pelts dry quickly, and therefore comparatively few boards, assorted to suit the size and form of the various animals, are sufficient for the hunter’s purpose.
It was discovered that Thomas had left in the tilt an ample supply for his own use, but now both Indian Jake and David must be equipped.
“We’ll be needin’ a few more,” said Indian Jake, “and we better make ’em while we has time. I’ll cut two or three dry butts, and split ’em, and whenever we have time we can work ’em down.”
“I’ll go along and help,” David volunteered, for he and Andy had finished their dish-washing, “but there’ll be no need o’ your comin’, Andy. You can ’bide here in th’ tilt and rest up.”
“I’m rested,” declared Andy, resenting the imputation that he was in greater need of rest than David. “I’ll take my gun and see if there’s any pa’tridges around. They’ll go fine for supper, now, an’ I finds any.”
“They will that,” assented Indian Jake. “And see, now, that you bring some back.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Andy, proudly taking down his gun, and slinging his ammunition bag over his shoulder. “We’ll have pa’tridges for supper, whatever.”
Andy had hunted partridges and rabbits, and such small game as could be found in the woods near The Jug, since he was nine years old and strong enough to hold a gun to his shoulder. His father gave him an old trade gun—a muzzle-loading piece—when he was ten years of age. It was a gun which had been cut down because of a defect near the muzzle, and with its shortened barrel was quite light enough for him to aim with ease. Later on Thomas had permitted him to use the rifle which he now carried, and he had become an excellent rifle shot. The lads of The Labrador begin early to learn their trade, and to love it, too.
It was no new experience, therefore, for Andy to be alone in the woods, and as he stole quietly through the trees he felt a deal of confidence in his ability as a hunter and that he should make good his boast to bag enough partridges for supper.
A little distance from the tilt he turned down to the lake shore, lined here by scrubby willow brush, in the hope of finding willow ptarmigans, white grouse of the North, feeding upon the tender ends of the willows. But unrewarded he finally turned back again into the deeper spruce woods, and had gone but a little way when a small flock of spruce grouse rose from the ground and, unconscious of danger and quite fearless, took refuge in a tree. At easy range Andy had no difficulty in clipping the heads from five of the birds with his rifle bullets before the remaining ones took flight.
“I knew I’d get un!” exclaimed Andy exultantly, gathering up the game. “Now we’ll have a fine supper.”
He drew a stout buckskin thong from his pocket, and at intervals of about two inches made five slip nooses. Through each of these he passed the legs of a bird, and drawing tight the ends of the thong, made them secure. Tying the thong firmly around his waist, his game thus carried made no burden, and left his hands free.
“Now,” said he, “I’ll see what Seal Lake looks like.”
A little to the right of where Andy had killed the partridges rose a naked, rocky hill, and turning toward it he quickly began ascending. A hundred feet up its side he passed the last scrubby spruce tree. On the central plateau of Labrador the tree line seldom rises far above the base of the hills. It was a steep, rocky climb, but Andy was accustomed to scrambling over rocks, and in a few minutes he had gained the summit.
Turning toward the lake he discovered its far-reaching waters extending a full half-hundred miles to the westward. Its extreme end was hidden in the boundless forest which, punctured by rocky, snow-clad hills, rolled away as far as his eye could reach. For a considerable distance to the northward he could trace, like a silver thread, the sparkling waters of the Nascaupee. To the southeast lay piled in massive grandeur an array of great white mountains. On the sides of some of them high mica cliffs reflected the sun like disks of burnished silver.
Near by, to the south, a curl of smoke rose above the forest green, and this he knew to be the tilt. Eastward from the tilt splotches of water could be discerned, where the little river ran down to join Seal Lake.
Andy was used to wild nature, but this provided an element of romance new to him. Here at his feet, in all its silent and magnificent grandeur, stretched the great primordial wilderness which had been the scene of his father’s exploits. This, too, was the scene of strange, weird tales of stirring adventures to which he had listened so often. Here men had fought wild beasts. Here men had starved, and here had been enacted heroic deeds, the narrative of which never failed to thrill him. Was he destined to take part in like adventures, and like deeds of heroism?
He was awed by the immensity of the solitudes. A lump came into his throat and tears into his eyes, as he looked away over the vast silence to the horizon. This was God’s land, just as God had made it. No man lived here, or had ever lived here. There was no human habitation within the limitless boundaries of these rolling miles of forest and mountain, save the little tilt from which the curl of smoke was rising, and no other human beings than himself and David and Indian Jake.
Then there came upon Andy a realization of his own smallness and insignificance, and a wave of fear swept over his heart. Here in this boundless wilderness he was to face the rigors of a long, sub-arctic winter, with all its privations and hardships, cut off from all communication with the greater world outside. For many, many months he would have no word from his father or Margaret or Jamie or Doctor Joe, or know how they fared, or whether the mist in Jamie’s eyes was thickening or no. It was not strange then if Andy experienced a sudden longing for home and a touch of homesickness.
But Andy was brave and full of courage, and presently throwing back his head, he laughed, to drive away the fear and the loneliness.
“Huh!” he said, “there’s nothin’ to be scared of. Pop says th’ Lard’ll take care of us, and we does our best t’ take care of ourselves. There’s fur here, and Davy and I must get un, t’ cure Jamie’s eyes, and we will get un, whatever. I’ll have plenty o’ grit, and a stout heart like a man’s, and ’twon’t be so long when we goes home again.”
With this he set out down the hill. His descent was on the opposite side from that which he had ascended, and he came upon steep, rocky cliffs that he must needs circumvent; and so he was picking his way, looking only to his steps and giving too little heed to other matters, when suddenly, as he rounded the last high ledge above the timber line, he was startled by a savage growl. And there, in the edge of the woods, and so near that Andy barely escaped colliding with it, was a great black bear. The animal, no less surprised at Andy’s sudden appearance around the ledge than was Andy at meeting the bear, rose upon its haunches, assuming a distinctly belligerent attitude.
Instinctively Andy sprang aside, and under cover of the trees. The bear, content to be unmolested, made no attempt to follow. Black bears attack only when protecting their young, when wounded, or when driven to bay. Under other conditions they are overwilling to seek safety in retreat.
This bear was no exception to the rule. He had, as yet, no quarrel with Andy. His sole object in displaying teeth and claws was self-protection. So long as Andy evinced no intention of injuring him, he was well content to let Andy go his way, while he went his own.
Perceiving that the bear was not following him, Andy quickly turned about to discover that it had also turned about, and was slowly, and with dignity, retreating.
Then it occurred to Andy that he could never return to the tilt and tell David and Indian Jake that he had encountered a bear and permitted it to escape without ever firing a shot. Indian Jake would gibe him and David would think him a coward, and he would be a coward! He would never be able to face the world again without an inner sense of shame at his cowardice, if he permitted fear to overcome his duty as a hunter! But he was not afraid! He had simply been surprised and startled! At this season the bear would be in prime condition. Its meat was good to eat and its skin was valuable, and no valuable skin must escape.
These thoughts flashed through Andy’s mind in the instant that he realized that the bear had turned about and was passing out of range, and without further hesitation he raised his rifle and fired.
The bullet, not well directed, struck the animal in the flank. With a growl it swung around and began biting at the wound. A second bullet grazed its ear, and Andy, in excitement, permitted the third to go wide of its mark.
The bear, now thoroughly aroused and angered, charged directly at Andy. There were two cartridges remaining in the rifle, and Andy was immediately aware that those two cartridges must be effectively placed. He must kill the bear, or the bear would kill him, for there is no middle ground of compromise with a wounded bear.
There was small time for planning his course of action, and Andy made no plans, but permitted instinct to guide him. He sprang behind a convenient tree, and with the assistance of the tree to steady his aim, sent another bullet at the approaching animal. The shot took effect, but served to retard the bear’s advance for only a moment. Then Andy fired the remaining cartridge. It went wild, and the bear, bellowing with rage, rushed at its enemy and tormentor.