CHAPTER XIV
A LONELY CHRISTMAS
DAN had been accustomed to work and exposure all his life, and he found his new employment, on the whole, not disagreeable. Paul’s experiences after they had gone adrift had to some extent prepared him, also, for the tasks he was now called upon to perform, and at the end of a week he became fairly well reconciled to his position.
Aside from giving them a curt order now and again, Factor MacTavish rarely spoke to either of them. He invariably treated them as ordinary menials—as he treated the unskilled half-breed servants—useful auxiliaries to the post life, just as the dogs were useful auxiliaries, and save for the fact that he did not kick or beat them, he gave them little more consideration than he gave the dogs.
In accordance with the factor’s instructions, James Benton, the chief clerk, or “clark” as he called himself, supplied each of them with two suits of heavy underwear; a kersey cloth adikey—an Eskimo garment which was pulled over the head like a shirt and was supplied with a hood—an outer adikey made like the other but of smooth cotton cloth, to shed the snow; three pairs of duffel socks made from heavy woolen cloth; a pair of deerskin moccasins made by an Indian woman; a pair of moleskin leggings; and warm mittens; and each was given a pair of bearspaw snowshoes, without which it would have been quite impossible to have walked in the deep snow.
Each outfit, the clerk informed them, was valued at eighteen dollars, and each boy was charged with this amount on the company’s books. They were each to receive their board and three dollars a month wages, the three dollars not to be paid them in money but to be credited to their account until the debt of eighteen dollars was balanced.
Though they had arrived in mid-October, and had begun work at once, Factor MacTavish argued that until they had become accustomed to the duties required of them they would be of little value, and therefore decreed that the munificent wage of three dollars a month should not begin until November. Therefore, they were told, they were virtually bound to the service of the company, with no freedom to leave the post, until the following May, when, if no other purchases were made in the meantime, their debt would be balanced and they would be free to go where they pleased.
“Now if you want the outfit, and want to stay, you’ll have to agree to these terms in writing,” said the clerk. “If you don’t sign a written agreement you’ll have to leave the reservation at once.”
Thus they were forced to become the victims of a system of peonage, for they had no choice but to sign the agreement.
The lads felt the injustice of this treatment keenly. They were well aware that the value of their work would be many times greater than the amount of wages allowed them, but they were wholly at the mercy of the factor.
“It’s an outrage!” exclaimed Paul when he and Dan were alone. “We earn a lot more than three dollars a month. Why Father used to allow me a hundred dollars a month for spending money.”
“Yes,” said Dan, “we earns anyway ten dollars a month. He’s a wonderful hard man. But we’ll have t’ put up with un, I’m thinkin’.”
“He’s got us here,” complained Paul, “and he knows we can’t get away, and he’s going to make all he can out of us. The old skinflint!”
“He’s sure a hard un,” admitted Dan, “but we’ll have t’ put up with un. Dad says that kind o’ man always gets what’s comin’ to un some time, an’ what’s comin’ to un ain’t what they likes, neither.”
“And he pretends he’s doing us a great favor! The old pirate!”
“They’s no use thinkin’ about un. Dad says when th’ wind’s ag’in ye, don’t get worked up about un, an’ cross. Take un cheerful, an’ be happy anyway, an’ she’ll shift around fair after awhile.”
So they gave no hint of discontent, but went cheerfully about the tasks assigned them, as though they really enjoyed them, though much of the philosophy of Dan’s “Dad” had to be evoked at times when their spirits flagged, to drive back rising discontent.
But they had enough to eat, and with their new clothing, supplemented by the things they already had, they were warmly enough clad, even when the short days of December came, with biting, bitter cold.
The storm which overtook them on the evening of their arrival at Fort Reliance, continued intermittently for several days. It was the first real storm of winter. Steadily the weather grew colder. By mid-November the bay was frozen solidly as far as eye could reach.
The Indians, save two or three old men and women who did odd chores around the post, had packed their belongings on toboggans in the first lull in the storm, two days after the arrival of Paul and Dan, and the western wilderness had swallowed them in its mysterious depths.
Post life was exceedingly quiet and humdrum, although it possessed something of spice and novelty for the lads, particularly Paul. The dogs always interested him when they were harnessed to the sledge by Jerry, the half-breed Eskimo servant, and he was always glad to be detailed to accompany Jerry and the team when they were engaged in hauling firewood from the near-by forest. The impetuosity and dash of the dogs upon leaving home, and Jerry’s management of them and the sledge, filled Paul with admiration. But Paul was especially fascinated by Jerry’s dexterity in handling the long walrus hide whip, full thirty feet in length. With it Jerry could reach any lagging dog in the team with unerring aim. He could flick a spot no bigger than a dime with the tip of the lash, and he could crack the whip at will with reports like pistol shots.
Under Jerry’s instruction Paul practiced the manipulation of the whip himself, at every opportunity, and he considered it quite an accomplishment when he was able to bring the lash forward and lay it out at full length in front of him. In his early attempts to do this he generally wrapped it around his legs, and occasionally gave himself a stinging blow with the tip end in the back of his neck. But with patient practice he at length found that he could not only strike an object aimed at with considerable skill, but could crack the whip at nearly every attempt.
Jerry was always good natured and indulgent. He taught Paul the knack of managing the dogs and sledge, and at length permitted him to drive the team upon level, easy stretches of trail. On steep down grades, however, where the dogs dashed at top speed and the loaded sledge in its mad rush seemed ever on the point of turning over or smashing against a stump or rock, he had no desire to try his skill and strength.
But these excursions with the dogs were practically the only adventures that came to the boys. Generally they were kept busy at the woodpile, one at either end of a cross-cut saw, cutting the long wood into stove lengths, and splitting it into proper size; or, when the weather was too stormy for out-of-door employment, Paul assisted Tammas in the blacksmith shop while Dan was kept from idleness by Amos in the cooperage.
Paul was always glad to be with Tammas, who had in a sense adopted both lads, and assumed a fatherly interest in their welfare. He was kindness itself, though he never failed to correct them when he deemed it necessary. Under his instruction Paul soon learned a great deal about the handling of tools and the working of iron. The greatest drudgery, it seemed to the boys, that fell to their lot was the weekly duty of cleaning the offices and scrubbing the unpainted furniture and floors to a whiteness satisfactory to the factor.
The day before Christmas dawned bitterly cold. The snow creaked under foot. Everything was covered with frost rime. The atmospheric moisture hung suspended in the air in minute frozen particles. When the sun reluctantly rose, it shone faintly through the gauzy veil of rime, and gave forth no warmth to the starved and frozen earth.
Paul and Dan were assigned to the woodpile for the day. All forenoon they sawed and split, working for the most part in silence, for they were filled with thoughts of other Christmas eves, and the loved ones at home.
“I wonder if we’ll have to work tomorrow?” asked Paul, when they returned to the saw after dinner.
“I’m thinkin’ not,” answered Dan. “Amos were sayin’ they keeps Christmas as a holiday.”
“If we don’t have to, I want to get out in the bush, away from here, anywhere. I’ll be homesick if I spend Christmas in this place. Can’t we go for a hunt back in the timber, and have a camp fire and a good time?”
“’Twould be fine!” agreed Dan. “Now I were thinkin’ of just that myself. I’m wantin’ t’ get off somewheres wonderful bad. I’ve been a bit lonesome all day, thinkin’ of home an what they’s doin’ there, an’ whether they misses me.”
Dan’s voice choked, and for the first time since their acquaintance began Paul saw tears in his eyes. Dan hastily brushed them away with his mittened hand, ashamed of giving way to his feelings, and continued more cheerfully:
“Mother’s like t’ worry a bit, but Dad won’t let she. Dad’ll be tellin’ she we’re all right. Dad’ll not be fearin’ I can’t take care of myself.”
“I’ve been thinking about my father and mother too—and what they’re doing, and whether they miss me much. We always have such a jolly time on Christmas. Mother gave me this watch last Christmas,” and Paul took his fine gold watch from his pocket, caressed it and returned it to its place again. “It’s a nifty one,” he continued. “Father gave me my pony—the black pony I told you about—‘Pluto’ I call him. But Mother was always afraid he’d hurt me, and never let me go riding alone. Old John—he’s the groom—went with me, and he just kept me to a walk. There wasn’t much fun in that and I soon got tired poking along and didn’t go out much. When I get home again, though, I’m going to have fun with Pluto, and Old John can stay at home.”
“Your father must be wonderful rich. I never did be a-horseback, but I has one o’ the smartest punts in Ragged Cove. Dad made un an’ gives un t’ me. I’m thinkin’ I likes a punt better ’n a horse.”
And so they talked on as they worked, until darkness came, and they left the woodpile to fill in the time until the bell called them to supper, giving Tammas and Amos a hand, Paul in the blacksmith shop, Dan in the cooperage.
When at length the clanging bell called them from work, and they sat down to supper, Tammas announced:
“Weel, laddies, ye’ve earned the holiday ye’ll have tomorrow. I’m not given to praisin’ mair than is a just due, but I may say fairly ye’ve weel earned the holiday.”
“We’ll have the holiday, then?” asked Paul eagerly. “Can we do as we want to?”
“Aye, lad, ye may do as ye wishes. There’s t’ be na work on Christmas day.”
“Dan and I were wondering about it. We’ll go hunting, I guess.”
“We’ll be startin’ with daybreak,” said Dan.
“Ye must na be missin’ the plum duff at dinner, laddies.”
“We want to get away. It is too bad to have to miss plum duff, but I guess we’ll have to let it slide, unless Chuck saves some for us.”
“Have na fear o’ that. I’ll see he saves ye a full share. Go huntin’ if ye’ve set your hearts on goin’, laddies.”
They were away at daybreak. The air was still and piercing cold, driving them to a smart trot to keep their blood in circulation. Dan was an old hand on snowshoes and Paul had already become so adept in their use that he jogged along and kept the pace set by Dan with little difficulty.
They took with them their frying pan, their teakettle (a light aluminum pail) and two cups. Their provisions consisted of a small piece of fat pork, some bread, tea, salt and a bottle of black molasses—for here molasses was used to sweeten tea instead of sugar—which Chuck gave them for their dinner. Each carried a share of the equipment slung upon his back in one of their camp bags.
Paul took his shotgun, Dan the axe and Paul’s rifle, for the cartridges for his own rifle were nearly gone. They had no intention of making an extended hunting trip. Their chief object was a pleasant bivouac in the forest, where they could enjoy an open fire and freedom from post restraints.
First they made for the willows that lined the river bank two miles above the post. Tammas had told them they were certain to find large flocks of ptarmigans there, feeding upon the tender tops of the bushes. This proved to be the case, and without difficulty Paul secured a half dozen of the birds with his shotgun.
Not far beyond they halted among the thick spruce trees, and made a rousing camp-fire. Then Dan with the axe built a lean-to facing the fire, while Paul broke spruce boughs with which to thatch it, and for their seat.
These preparations completed, and the ptarmigans plucked, they lounged back upon the boughs under the shelter of the lean-to, to chat about their homes, their plans, and their home-going, until time to cook dinner.
Two of the ptarmigans were fried with pork, and the bread was toasted, for variety, and it is safe to say that nowhere in the wide world was a banquet eaten that Christmas day with keener relish or greater enjoyment than this simple meal in that far-away spruce-clad wilderness.
Dinner eaten and dishes washed, Dan piled fresh wood upon the fire, and the boys spread themselves luxuriously upon the boughs to bask in the warmth. Paul lay gazing into the blaze, quite lost in thought, while Dan played his harmonica.
One of Dan’s favorite tunes was “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Presently he struck up the air, and immediately a melodious tenor voice, singing to the accompaniment of Dan’s music, began:
“Tom he was a piper’s son,
He learned to play when he was young;
But all the tune that he could play,
Was ‘Over the hills and far away.’”
The boys were startled. They had heard no one approach, and they sprang to their feet.
Standing by the fire opposite them was a tall, lank man of middle age. In the hollow of his left arm a rifle rested. He was dressed as a trapper—a fur cap, buckskin capote, buckskin leggins, and moccasins. Beside him stood an Indian, similarly dressed and nearly as tall and lank as himself.
CHAPTER XV
THE TRAPPER FROM INDIAN LAKE
THE stranger laughed at the startled boys, who gazed at him and the Indian in mute surprise. Wrinkles at the corners of his gray-blue eyes indicated habitual good humor. The eyes themselves seemed always to smile, even when his lips did not.
“You were having such a good time,” said he, in a rich, well-modulated voice, “that I disliked to disturb you, but it has been so long since I saw a white face that I had to do it.”
“We’re mighty glad you did,” answered Paul, who instinctively felt that in spite of his rough exterior and dress their visitor was well bred and cultured. “Won’t you sit down?” he continued. “We’re just out from the post enjoying the holiday.”
“Thank you, we will join you, and perhaps return to the post with you, if you don’t mind.” He kicked off his snowshoes, stuck them upright in the snow at the end of the lean-to, the Indian following his example. Then extending his hand to each of the boys he said, by way of introduction:
“My name is Charles Amesbury. I’m trapping back in the Indian Lake country. My friend here is Ahmik, though you will hear them call him John Buck at the post.”
“My name is Paul Densmore.”
“Mine’s Dan’l Rudd.”
“How do?” said the Indian, following his companion’s example and shaking hands.
“You seem to be having a cozy time here,” remarked Amesbury, picking the ice from his beard as rapidly as the heat from the fire loosened it sufficiently.
“We’re having a bully good day. We were getting homesick over at the post, and ran over for the holiday.”
Dan had gone to the river for a kettle of water, and returning put it over the fire.
“We’ll be boilin’ th’ kettle, an’ you’ll have a snack o’ pa’tridge along with a cup o’ tea,” he suggested.
“Thank you. Don’t mind if we do, eh Ahmik?” And Amesbury contentedly stretched his long legs, which seemed very much in the way.
“Ugh. Good,” remarked Ahmik, who was sitting on his heels.
Four of the ptarmigans, as well as some of the pork and bread, remained, and while the water was heating Dan sliced pork in the frying pan, while Paul dismembered the birds, ready for Dan to arrange them in the pan to fry when the pork grease began to bubble. Amesbury, lazily looking on, began to sing:
“Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
Cannot fly, cannot fly;
Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
On Christmas day in the morning.”
The boys laughed, and Paul remarked:
“They can’t fly very far. We clipped their wings on the way out.”
“When did you come from New York, Densmore?”
“Left there last July. How did you know I came from New York?”
“You have the accent, and a New Yorker handles his r’s pretty much as a Londoner handles his h’s; he tacks them on where they don’t belong, and leaves them off where they do. I’m a New Yorker myself, though you’d never suspect it. I outgrew the accent long ago. I haven’t been there for—let me see—more than twenty years—how time flies!”
“From New York!” Paul’s face lighted up with pleasure. “But I thought you said you were a trapper?”
“So I am. I came to this country when I left home, twenty years ago, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“And never been home since! How could you stay away from home for twenty years? And New York too? It seems to me I’ve been away for ages, and it’s only half a year. You bet I’ll go back the first chance.”
Amesbury’s face became grave for an instant.
“It’s too long a story—the story of my coming. I’ll tell you about it, perhaps, some time when I’m not so hungry,” and he smiled. “But how about you? What brought you?”
He listened with manifest interest while Paul related the happenings of the weeks just past, and until Dan finally set the pan of fried ptarmigan between the visitors, interrupting with:
“Tea’s ready, sir. Help yourselves t’ th’ pa’tridges an’ bread.”
And while Dan poured the tea and the two men stirred in molasses from the bottle, Amesbury hummed irrelevantly:
“Heigh ding-a-ding, what shall I sing?
How many holes has a skimmer?
Four and twenty. I’m half starving!
Mother, pray give me some dinner.”
Then, as he took a piece of breast from the pan:
“Well, Densmore, the rest of the story. Don’t mind the interruption. It was important. But so is your story. I’m immensely interested.”
The story and dinner were finished together. Amesbury made no comment at once, then while he cut tobacco from a black plug, and stuffed it into his pipe, he repeated:
“O, that I was where I would be,
Then would I be where I am not!
But where I am I must be,
And where I would be I cannot.
“That reference is to you chaps. I wouldn’t be anywhere else if I could, and I wouldn’t have missed this good Christmas dinner and meeting you fellows right here for worlds.”
Reaching for a hot coal he applied it to his pipe, and the pipe lighted he resumed his reclining position, puffing quietly for a moment, when he remarked:
“Old Davy MacTavish is as hard as they make ’em. The company is all there is in the world for him that’s worth while. He’d cut a man’s soul out and throw it to the dogs, if the company would profit by his doing so. Thank God, the factors aren’t all like him.”
“Bad man,” remarked Ahmik, puffing at his pipe.
Amesbury lapsed into silence, while he smoked and gazed at the fire, apparently in deep reflection. Presently, as though a brilliant thought had occurred to him, he exclaimed enthusiastically:
“I have it! How would you chaps like to leave the post and go up Indian Lake way with me trapping for the winter? I go out to Winnipeg in the spring with my catch, and you might go along, if the wolves don’t eat you up in the meantime, or you don’t freeze to death.”
“Could we? Could we go with you?” asked Paul excitedly.
“’T would be wonderful fine!” exclaimed Dan.
“No reason why you can’t. I’m up there all alone, and I need a couple of chaps like you to use for dumb-bells, or to kick around when I want exercise, or suffer from ennui.”
“We’ll be wonderful glad o’ th’ chance t’ go with you,” said Dan, “and t’ be doin’ things t’ help when you’s sick an’ sufferin’, but I’s not likin’ t’ be kicked, sir. Is ‘ownwe’ a bad ailment, sir?”
“Pretty bad sometimes, but I’ll try and control myself and not kick you very hard,” explained Amesbury, looking very grave about his lips but with eyes betraying merriment.
“Oh, Dan,” exclaimed Paul, laughing outright, “ennui isn’t a sickness. Mr. Amesbury is just joking.”
Dan did not understand the joke, but he smiled uncertainly, nevertheless.
“We’ll hit the trail, then, the day after New Year’s. How’ll that suit you?” asked Amesbury.
“Can’t go too soon to suit us,” said Paul.
“Now I’m thinkin’,” suggested Dan, “th’ master’ll not be lettin’ us leave th’ post. I were so glad t’ be goin’ I forgets we has a debt an’ we signed papers t’ work un out, an’ he’ll sure not let us go till we works un out.”
“That’s so,” admitted Paul in a tone of deep disappointment.
“How much did you say the debt amounted to?” asked Amesbury.
“Eighteen dollars for each of us,” answered Paul, “but we’ve been here working two months with wages, and that takes off six dollars from each debt, so the first of the month our debts’ll each be down to twelve dollars.”
“Good arithmetic; worked it out right the first time,” Amesbury nodded in approval. “Now if you each pay the old pirate twelve dollars, how much will you owe him and how long can he hold you at the post?”
“Why the debt would be squared and he couldn’t keep us at all.”
“Right again.”
“But we has no money to pay un,” broke in Dan.
“Just leave all that to me,” counseled Amesbury. “I’ll attend to his case.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Amesbury,” and Paul grasped the trapper’s hand.
“’Tis wonderful kind of you,” said Dan.
“Don’t waste your words thanking me,” cautioned Amesbury. “Wait till I get you out in the bush. I’ll get my money’s worth out of you chaps.”
“‘See-saw, Margery Daw,
Johnnie shall have a new master;
He shall have but a penny a day,
Because he can’t work any faster.’”
He stretched his long arms, yawned, untangled his ungainly legs from the knot into which he had twisted them, and rose to his feet, remarking:
“Do you see where the sun is, fellows? It’s time to be going. You can lash these traps of yours on the top of my flat sled. Ahmik and I left our flat sleds just below here.”
“My criky!” exclaimed Paul. “The sun’s setting. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
In accordance with Amesbury’s suggestion all of their things, save their guns, were lashed on one of the long, narrow toboggans upon which he and Ahmik hauled their provisions and camp outfit, and the four turned toward the post, in single file, Paul and Dan highly elated with the prospect of presently turning homeward.