XII
THE TRAGEDY OF THE RAPIDS
The two adventurers marooned on the island ate their first meal of rabbit, grilled over the coals, with keen relish, though they had neither salt to season it nor bread to accompany it.
"It might be worse," remarked Shad, when the meal was finished. "Rabbit is good, and," he continued, lolling back lazily and contentedly before the fire, "there's always some bright spot to light the darkest cloud–we've no dishes to wash. A rinse of the tea pail, a rinse of our cups, and, presto! the thing's done. I detest dish-washing."
"Aye," admitted Bob, "dish-washin' is a putterin' job."
"Yes, that's it; a puttering job," resumed Shad. "But now let's come to the important question of the day. Continued banqueting upon rabbit, I've been told, becomes monotonous, and under any conditions imprisonment is sure to become monotonous sooner or later. I have a hunch it will be sooner in our case. I'm beginning to chafe under bonds already. What are we going to do about it?"
"I'm not knowin' so soon," confessed Bob, "but I'm thinkin' before this day week Dick an' Ed an' Bill will be huntin' around for us, an' they's like t' find us, an' when they does they'll be findin' a way t' help us. They might build up th' place down there with stones, so's t' make a footin' t' land on, an' then 'twill be easy goin' ashore."
"But suppose they don't come around this way and don't find us?"
"Then I'm thinkin' we'll be bidin' here till ice forms."
"Till ice forms! And when will that be?"
"An' she comes on frosty, ice'll begin formin' th' middle of October on th' banks. But th' current's wonderful strong, an' I'll not be expectin' ice t' cross on till New Year, whatever."
"January first! October! November! December! Three months on this god-forsaken bit of rock! Great Jehoshaphat, man! That'll be an eternity! We can't endure it!"
"I'm not thinkin' we'll have to. I'm thinkin' they'll find us in a fortni't, whatever," reassured Bob, rising and picking up the axe. "We'll be needin' a shelter, an' I'm thinkin' I'll build un now."
"And we have no blankets with us!" exclaimed Shad. "Oh, we're going to have a swell time!"
"We'll be fair snug with a shelter, now. I'll be cuttin' th' sticks, an' you breaks boughs."
"All right, Bob, I'll get the boughs," agreed Shad, languidly rising, and as he went to his task singing:
"'Old Noah, he did build an ark,
He made it out of hick'ry bark.
"'If you belong to Gideon's band,
Why here's my heart, and here's my hand,
Looking for a home.
"'He drove the animiles in two by two,
The elephant and the kangaroo.
"'And then he nailed the hatches down,
And told outsiders they might drown.
"'And when he found he had no sail,
He just ran up his own coat tail.
"'If you belong to Gideon's band,
Why here's my heart, and here's my hand,
Looking for a home.'"
A full stomach sometimes wholly changes one's outlook upon the world. Shad was beginning now to view his adventure from a whimsical standpoint, a result induced partially by his dinner, largely by Bob's philosophical attitude.
It was not anticipated the shelter would be required for long, and a comfortable lean-to under the lee of the hill, with back and ends enclosed, and closely thatched with boughs and moss, was considered sufficient. A thick, springy bed of spruce boughs was then arranged, and the temporary home was completed.
Then Bob proceeded to set deadfalls, utilising flat stones and raising them on a figure 4, which he baited with tender birch boughs. Several rabbits were started in the course of the afternoon, giving assurance that the deadfalls would yield sufficient food for their needs, though no results could be expected from them until the following morning.
"Now for supper, Shad, we'll have t' be usin' some shells," he announced. "Supposin' you tries un. I were goin' t' make a bow an' arrows t' save th' shells, but they's nothin' t' feather th' arrows with, an' no string that'd be strong enough for th' bow."
"All right," agreed Shad. "I'll get them;" and within half an hour he returned with a bag of two fat young rabbits.
Their fire was built before the lean-to, and a very small blaze was found sufficient to heat it to a cosy warmth. Here they sat and ate their grilled rabbit and drank their tea, quite as comfortably as they would have done in their tent or tilt, though during the night one or the other found it necessary to rise several times to renew the fire.
Bivouacking in this manner was more or less of an ordinary circumstance in Ungava Bob's life. He looked upon it as the sort of thing to be expected, and as a matter of course. He felt indeed that they were very fortunately situated, and for the present he had small doubt that their imprisonment would prove but a temporary inconvenience.
The deadfalls yielded them the first night three rabbits; another was shot. They had quite enough to eat the next day, and Shad took a brighter view of the matter.
"By Jove!" he laughed, after breakfast, "I wonder what the fellows at home would say if they should see me now, playing the part of Robinson Crusoe?" and then he began to sing:
"'Fare thee well, for I must leave thee.
Do not let the parting grieve thee,
And remember that the best of friends must part,
must part.
Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu,
I can no longer stay with you, stay with you,
I'll hang my harp on a weeping-willow tree,
And may the world go well with thee.'"
But when another morning came, with no sugar remaining for the tea, and no other food than the now monotonous unsalted rabbit, Shad rebelled.
"See here, Bob!" he exclaimed irritably, "I can't eat any more rabbit! It nauseates me to even think of it! We've got to do something."
"We can't help un, now, Shad," answered Bob soothingly. "Rabbit ain't so bad."
"Not once or twice, or even three times in succession–but eternally and forever, I can't go it."
"It does get a bit wearisome, but 'tis a wonderful lot better'n no rabbit, when rabbit's all there is."
"Wearisome! Wearisome! Confound it, Bob, it's disgusting! Now we've got to do something to get ourselves out of here, and that quick."
"I'm not knowin', now, what t' do till th' others comes, an' I'm knowin' they will."
"Come, Bob, let's make a try for that wall down there. Even if the canoe does get away from us, we can make the wall–I know we can."
"No," and Bob shook his head ominously, "I'm ready t' take any fair chanct, Shad, but they wouldn't be even a fair chanet t' make un."
"Oh, bosh!" exclaimed Shad angrily. "I thought you had some nerve."
"'Tisn't a matter o' nerve, Shad; 'tis a matter o' what can be done an' what can't."
"Oh, yes, it can! Anyone with two legs and two hands and two eyes and just a grain of grit can do it."
Bob, quiet and unruffled, grilled his rabbit, refusing to take offence or to be moved at Shad's remarks, evidently intended to goad him into what his experience told him would certainly prove a hopeless and foolhardy venture.
It is a psychological phenomenon that men, denied action and confined to limited and solitary surroundings, become highly irascible. They find cause for offence in every word and every action of their companions, and it is not unusual for men situated as Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge were to lapse into such a state of antagonism toward one another that they cease to converse.
This was the condition into which Shad Trowbridge quickly lapsed. He soon came to ascribe to timidity and cowardice Bob's opposition to his wish to attempt a crossing to the mainland. He was one who chafed under restraint, and one who, when he had once decided upon a course of action, could not brook opposition from another; and though at heart he knew that Bob was fearless and brave, and that his arguments were sound, yet he would not now admit this, even to himself.
Normally Shad was a good fellow, and he would endure hardships cheerfully if the hardships were accompanied by physical activity; but the condition of monotonous existence, accompanied by idleness and inactivity, which they were now experiencing, was too great for him to withstand, and he was prepared to take the most desperate chance to escape from it. When at length the tea and his tobacco were gone, and nothing but the daily ration of unseasoned rabbit remained, the thought of thus continuing indefinitely became unendurable to him.
Ungava Bob, on the contrary, had been accustomed to wilderness solitude all his life. This, and a naturally even disposition, coupled with a philosophical temperament, rendered him capable of overlooking Shad's slurs, and when finally Shad ceased to speak to him, or when spoken to by Bob ceased to acknowledge that he heard, Bob permitted the slight to pass unnoticed.
At length, one day, when Shad had nursed his supposed grievance to a point where he could no longer endure it, he blurted out brutally:
"See here, I've stood this devilish cowardice of yours as long as I'm going to. Do you see where the sun is! It's noon. Now I'll give you until that sun drops half-way to the horizon to decide whether or not you're going across with me. If you say 'No,' I'm going without you, that's all, and you can stay here and eat rabbit, and rot, if you choose."
"Now, Shad," Bob placated, "I knows how you feels, an' it's your judgment ag'in mine. But I'm havin' experience with places like that, an' I knows we can't make th' crossin' an' land. Now don't try un, Shad."
"Don't 'Shad' me–My God, Bob! Look there!" he suddenly broke off.
Shooting past them, half standing in their birch canoe, paddling with the desperation of men facing doom, one with his sound paddle, the other with his broken one, were the Indians that Manikawan had sent adrift.
They were very near the island–so near that every outline of their drawn, terrorstricken faces was visible–but too far away to reach the gravelly point upon which Bob and Shad had found refuge. Indeed, they seemed not to see it, or to see anything but the horrible spectral phantom of the evil spirit that they believed had them in its control.
On–on–on-they sped, ever faster–faster toward the pounding rapids–impotently, though still desperately, wielding their paddles. Bob and Shad stood spellbound and horror-stricken. The Indians were nearing the first white foam! In a moment their canoe would strike it! It was in the foam! It rose for an instant upon a white crest, the Indians' paddles still working–then was swallowed up in the swirling tumult of waves and whirlpools, never to reappear.
Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge stood for a moment in awe-stricken horror. Then they sat down upon the rock on which Shad had sunk when overcome with shock on the day of their escape upon the island.
"Bob," said Shad, at last, "that was the most terrible thing I ever beheld!"
"'Twere awful!" assented Bob.
"It shows us, Bob, what you and I escaped. Bob, I've been very disagreeable lately. Take my hand and forgive me, won't you?"
"'Twere th' rabbit meat, Shad," said Bob, taking Shad's hand. "Rabbit meat be wonderful tryin' t' eat steady. I were knowin', now, you'd be all right again, Shad."
"I think I've been demented, Bob–I'm sure I have–anyway, believe it, and don't hold it against me."
"I'll not be holdin' un ag'in you, Shad. 'Twere natural, and–" Bob ceased speaking and sat staring at the high bank of the mainland. "Manikawan!" he exclaimed, springing up and crossing the island point at a bound.
There she stood, joy, wonder, incredulity, written upon her face. She had believed White Brother of the Snow dead, but here she saw him in flesh and alive, and he had spoken her name.
"White Brother of the Snow! Oh, White Brother of the Snow! The evil spirits did not devour you, but like hungry wolves they have devoured your enemies."
Very quickly Bob explained their predicament, and she listened silently. Then she went to the sloping rock, descended its dangerous angle to the water's edge, and returned.
"White Brother of the Snow and his friend would find no lodgment there," said she. "It is a place of deceit. But White Brother of the Snow knows how to be patient. Let him and his friend wait. The evil spirits cannot reach up for them where they are. When the sun returns again to the high point in the heavens Manikawan will stand here. Wait."
The next instant she was gone.
"What did she say?" asked Shad.
"She were sayin'," explained Bob, "that if we has patience an' waits she'll be back by noon to-morrow, or thereabouts. An' she says if we waits here we'll be safe, but we couldn't be makin' a footin' on th' rock. She's thinkin' o' some way o' gettin' us off, but I'm not knowin' what 'tis, now."
XIII
ON THE TRAIL OF THE INDIANS
None of the three trappers had ever penetrated the region lying between the Big Hill trail and the river. They knew that here, somewhere, Ungava Bob was to lay his new trails, but as to the route the trails were to take they had no information, for this was a circumstance that the local evidences of the existence of fur-bearing animals was to have decided for Bob when he entered the country to make his initial survey of conditions.
Among the Indians who traded at the Eskimo Bay post there was but one, an old man, who had any personal knowledge of the region. When a small boy this Indian had once traversed with his father the now long disused portage trail; and one day when Ungava Bob and Dick Blake met him at the post he had, at their earnest solicitation, described to them the country as he had seen it with the distorted vision of extreme youth, and as his memory, alloyed with the superstitious tales of nearly threescore years, recalled it.
It was, he said, a region of many lakes, over which flitted the phantom canoes of those who had perished in the nearby dwelling place of evil spirits. In the canoes were the ghostly forms of the victims, for ever paddling their phantom crafts around the lakes, vainly striving to escape the torment of mocking, ghoulish spirits which pursued them. Surrounding the lakes were wild marshes and deep black forests, which were peopled by innumerable evil spirits for ever searching for new victims to destroy. Their thunder voices were always to be heard, low and deep, in a terrible frenzy of unceasing anger, ever hungry for men to devour.
In analysing this description Dick Blake eliminated the phantom canoes as the wild creation of imagination, and the thunder voices of evil spirits he set down as nothing more nor less than the roar of the great falls of whose existence the Indians had told.
With this elimination he accepted as fact the statement that the region was sprinkled with many lakes, and that without the assistance of a canoe these lakes and perhaps some wide marshes would have to be circumvented by him and his companions before they came upon the river above the falls, where it was expected the Mingen Indians would be encountered.
While Dick Blake was the first to declare that the Indians must be punished for causing the supposed death of Bob and Shad, he was no more thoroughly in earnest than were his companions.
Normally these trappers were quiet, peace-loving men, who would have shuddered at the thought of causing human bloodshed; but now, moved doubtless to a large extent by a natural desire to avenge an outrage committed upon their friends, they also felt it their plain duty to mete out punishment to the guilty ones, in order to insure themselves and other white trappers against further molestation. Unless this were done there was no guarantee against continued raids upon their tilts, and there would always be the danger, and even probability, that sooner or later they would themselves be attacked and shot from ambush by the emboldened savages.
The trail that Bob had made, leading up from the river tilt and along the creek which flowed from the first lake, was plainly marked; and they proceeded with the long, swinging stride characteristic of the woodsman, rapidly and without a halt, to the point where the trail entered the lake. Here a wide circuit around the lake shore was necessary, and it was nearly noon when they fell again into the trail at the farther end and came upon the first tilt.
"We may's well stop an' boil th' kettle," said Dick, throwing down the light pack of provisions he carried and mopping the perspiration from his forehead, for the mid-day sun was warm. "If we were only havin' a canoe, now, we'd be a rare piece farther. 'Twere a long cruise around the lake."
"Aye," agreed Ed, "a canoe'd ha' saved us a good two hours. We may's well put th' fire on outside; 'twill be warm in th' tilt."
"Now I'm wonderin' what th' Injun lass is up to," said Dick, as they sat down to their simple meal of fried pork and camp bread.
"She's got a canoe. There's her footin' by th' lake, where she makes her landin'."
"They's no tellin' what an Injun's goin' t' do, but I'm not thinkin' 'twill be much harm, t' th' Mingens with just a bow an' arrer, an' that's all she has in th' way o' weapons, so far's I makes out," declared Ed, adding: "She were a wonderful fine-lookin' lass; now, weren't she?"
"That she were," agreed Dick, "wonderful handsome–an' wonderful wild-lookin', too."
"Th' poor lad!" said Ed, after a pause. "He were buildin' th' tilt yonder, thinkin' o' th' good furrin' he were t' have th' winter, an' now he's gone. I'm not knowin', Dick, how t' tell his mother. You'll have t' tell she, Dick; I couldn't stand t' tell she."
"No," objected Dick, "you were goin' an' tellin' she th' time we thinks th' wolves gets Bob, an' you knows how. You'm a wonderful sight better breakin' bad news than me, Ed. I'd just be bawlin' with she, an' she cries; an' she sure will, for 'twill break her heart this time, an' Bob sure gone."
"Maybe none of us'll be havin' th' chanct," broke in Bill. "They may be a big passel o' Mingens, and whilst we catches some of un, th' others won't be sittin' quiet."
"Ed an' me's keepin' a watch for signs," assured Dick, as they arose to continue their journey. "They ain't been no signs so far, exceptin' signs o' th' poor lads an' th' Injun lass, an' she were passin' in th' night, by th' oldness o' her footin'."
"They ain't no danger o' findin' Injuns here, Bill," added Ed. "This is what they calls th' ha'nted country, an' they'd be too scairt o' ghosts an' th' devils they thinks is runnin' round loose here t' risk theirselves."
The long detours made necessary without the assistance of a canoe so far delayed their progress that, though they had not slackened the rapid pace set in the morning, night found them upon the shores of one of the intermediate lakes, with little more than half the distance to the end of the portage trail behind them.
Here they erected a lean-to at the edge of the forest, as a reflector for their camp-fire, and as a protection against a light but chilling breeze that had sprung up with the setting sun; and, all made snug for the night, they cooked and ate their supper.
Then they lighted their pipes and lounged back upon the bed of spruce boughs under the lean-to, speculating upon the morrow, and the probability of an encounter with the Indians.
"What's that, now?" exclaimed Ed suddenly, and cautiously rising and taking a position beyond the glow of the fire, he stood for several minutes gazing intently out upon the waters of the wide lake not yet lighted by the belated moon.
"There 'tis again! Did you make un out, Dick?" he asked, as Dick and Bill, following Ed's example of cautious exit from the range of the fire's glow, joined him.
"No, I weren't makin' nothin' out," answered Dick.
"There were somethin' there on th' water," Ed stated positively, when they presently returned to the lean-to.
"What were it, now? What were it like?" asked Dick.
"I seen un twict, an' 'twere lookin' t' me like a canoe, though I'm not sayin' so for sure," explained Ed.
"I seen un," corroborated Bill, "but whether 'twere a canoe or no, I'm noways sure–'twere so far out."
"If 'twere a canoe, 'twere Injuns," declared Ed, "an' if 'twere Injuns they was seein' our fire, an' they'll be up t' some devilment, now, before day."
"Be you sartin', now, you seen something?" asked Dick, a note of scepticism in his voice.
"Sure an' sartin'," insisted Ed. "'Twere movin', an' I'm thinkin' 'twere a canoe, though I'm noways sure."
"'Twere just a loon or maybe a bunch o' geese," said Dick, still unwilling to believe.
"'Twere movin', an' 'twere lookin' like a canoe t' me," said Bill. "'Twere certain no loon nor geese either. 'Twere too big."
"An' we better be gettin' out o' here, too," advised Ed. "If 'twere Injuns–an' I'm noways sure 'twere or 'tweren't–they seen th' fire, an' th' dirty devils'll be droppin' us off an' we stays here."
"Aye," agreed Dick, "we'll be movin' on. You an' Bill both seein' somethin', they must ha' been somethin' there, though I weren't seein' un."
Weary as they were, the three men hastily shouldered their light packs, and with rifles resting in the hollow of their arms, Ed in the lead, they stole noiselessly away into the forest.
Two hours of rapid travelling, in the light of the now rising moon, brought them to the end of the lake. Here they paused to fall upon their knees and make a critical examination of the shore.
"Here's fresh footin'," Ed finally announced. "A canoe were launched here since sundown. Th' gravel's wet where th' water splashed up. They's one track o' a Injun moccasin, an' from th' smallness of un 'twere a woman."
"'Twere sure a woman," both Bill and Dick agreed.
"An' there's th' same footin' goin' t'other way, but 'tis an older track," Ed continued. "'Twere th' Injun lass we sees to-night goin' back."
"Now I'm wonderin'," said Dick, as they arose, "what she's goin' back for? Maybe now, she's lookin' t' meet us t' help her?"
"Maybe," Ed suggested, laughing, "she's finding a hull passel o' Injuns more'n she wants t' tackle wi' just her bow an' arrer. I were thinkin', now, a bow an' arrer weren't much t' run up ag'in a band o' Injuns with, seein' they has guns."
"Whatever 'tis she's up to," suggested Bill, "'tisn't lookin' for us. She couldn't ha' missed seein' our fire back here on th' shore, an' she'd ha' known who 'twere an' come over if she's wantin' t' see us."
"You're right," agreed Dick. "She must have seen our fire, and if she'd wanted t' see us she'd ha' come over. Now I'm wonderin' why she didn't."
At mid-forenoon the following day the tilt on the last lake, where Manikawan had snatched a few hours' sleep, was reached, and mounting the ridge above, the river was discovered beyond.
At the end of the portage trail the three trappers held a hurried consultation. At length, carefully concealing their packs among the bushes, and with rifles held in position for instant use, they turned noiselessly up along the river bank, following the water closely, and taking almost exactly the course followed the previous morning by Manikawan.
They were a