Chapter IV: Part 4

Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her,

"An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?"

And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy."

Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the petition,

"An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is."

Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood.

Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to. The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up.

Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked:

"Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?"

"'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year."

"An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?"

"A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then."

"'Tis a long while t' wait--a _terrible_ long while t' be waitin'--t' th' New Year."

"Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up. But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise."

"An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how _wonderful_ lonesome we were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin' lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' _dreadful_ lonesome away off in th' bush this long time! He'll _sure_ be comin' at th' New Year!"

After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve, and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him.

Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence was always with her.

One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked:

"Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind. Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine hunt."

"I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off. I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an' th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she an' make she walk."

"'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be makin' she well at th' hospital."

"But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well."

"Now don't be lettin' _that_ worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th' spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid. He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th' freeze up."

"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th' Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers th' way as is best."

This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off.

All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world, with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast drawing to a close.

Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful--more plentiful than it had been for years--and he was hopeful that by spring he would have enough to pay all his back debt at the company store and be on his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily--beautiful black otters, martens, minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes.

"I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?"

"Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An' Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time together before you an' Bob goes away again."

"In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an' komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he asked his wife.

"We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested, "th' next day's Christmas, Richard."

"Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin' she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin' round last Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he."

Emily looked up wistfully.

"An' you are thinkin' he'll have _time_ t' come here wi' all th' places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!"

"I'll just make un--I'll just _make_ un," said her father. "I'll not let un pass my maid _every_ time."

Emily was awake early the next morning--before daybreak. Her father was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their expectant howls,--and the dogs never howled just like that under any other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett--hoo-ett" as he gave them the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!--ouk! ouk! ouk!"

It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and perhaps--perhaps--Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would bring her.

Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs outside and presently he came in carrying his komatik box, his beard weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost.

"Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year--a _rare_ scoldin'--an' I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un by _this_ Christmas. He'll not be wantin' _another_ such scoldin'."

"Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded now. He's sure doin' th' best he can--I _knows_ he's doin' th' best he can."

"He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maid _two_ year runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin' Bessie were sendin'."

"Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'--an' a paper with some writin'!"

Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out the message.

"Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't a thing t' send."

"Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an' runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit Emily."

"An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily.

"I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help."

"An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea.

"Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in."

"An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way for debt."

"Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis th' way un always runs."

"'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently.

"The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin' Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush."

"Oh, I'm hopin'--I'm hopin' so--for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th' doctor--an' he comes back safe."

"I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an' they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th' nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad."

"Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's relievin' my mind wonderful--relievin'--it--wonderful."

There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness in their hearts when they went to their night's rest.

XIV

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

The kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and Mrs. Gray was setting the breakfast table, when Emily awoke on Christmas morning. Her father was just coming in from out-of-doors bringing a breath of the fresh winter air with him.

"A Merry Christmas," he called to her. "A Merry Christmas t' my maid!"

"And did Santa Claus come?" she asked, looking around expectantly.

"Santa Claus? There now!" he exclaimed, "an' has th' old rascal been forgettin' t' come again? Has you seen any signs o' Santa Claus bein' here?" he asked of Mrs. Gray, as though thinking of it for the first time. Then, turning towards the wall back of the stove, he exclaimed, "Ah! Ah! an' what's _this_?"

Emily looked, and there, sitting upon the shelf, was a doll!

"Oh! Oh, th' dear little thing!" she cried. "Oh, let me have un!"

Mrs. Gray took it down and handed it to her, and she hugged it to her in an ecstasy of delight. Then she held it off and looked at it, and hugged again, and for very joy she wept. It was only a poor little rag doll with face and hair grotesquely painted upon the cloth, and dressed in printed calico--but it was a doll--a _real_ one--the first that Emily had ever owned. It had been the dream of her life that some day she might have one, and now the dream was a blessed reality. Her happiness was quite beyond expression as she lay there on her bed that Christmas morning pressing the doll to her breast and crying. Poverty has its seasons of recompense that more than counterbalance all the pleasures that wealth can buy, and this was one of those seasons for the family of Richard Gray.

Presently Emily stopped crying, and through the tears came laughter, and she held the toy out for her father and mother to take and examine and admire.

A little later Mrs. Gray came from the closet holding a mysterious package in her hand.

"Now what be _this_? 'Twere in th' closet an' looks like somethin' more Santa Claus were leavin'."

"Well now!" exclaimed Richard, "what may _that_ be? Open un an' we'll see."

An investigation of its contents revealed a couple of pounds of sugar, some currants, raisins and a small can of butter.

"Santa Claus were wantin' us t' have a plum puddin' _I'm_ thinkin'," said Mrs. Gray, as she examined each article and showed it to Emily. "An' we're t' have sugar for th' tea and butter for th' bread. But th' puddin's not t' get _all_ th' raisins. Emily's t' have some t' eat after we has breakfast."

Dinner was a great success. There were roast ptarmigans stuffed with fine-chopped pork and bread, and the unwonted luxuries of butter and sugar--and then the plum pudding served with molasses for sauce. That was fine, and Emily had to have two helpings of it. If Bob had been with them their cup of happiness would have been filled quite to the brim, and more than once Emily exclaimed:

"Now if _Bob_ was only here!" And several times during the day she said, "I'm just _wishin'_ t' show Bob my pretty doll--an' won't he be glad t' see un!"

The report from the Mountaineer Indians that no Nascaupees had been seen had set at rest their fears for the lad's safety. The apprehension that he might get into the hands of the Nascaupees had been the chief cause of worry, for they felt full confidence in Bob's ability to cope with the wilderness itself.

The day was so full of surprises and new sensations that when bedtime came Emily was quite tired out with the excitement of it all, and was hardly able to keep awake until the family worship was closed. Then she went to sleep with the doll in her arms.

The week from Christmas till New Year passed quickly. Richard Gray was at home, and this was a great treat for Mrs. Gray and Emily, and with several of their neighbours who lived within ten to twenty miles of Wolf Bight driving over with dogs to spend a few hours--for most of the men were home from their traps for the holidays--the time was pretty well filled up. Emily's doll was a never failing source of amusement to her, and she always slept with it in her arms.

Over at the Post it was a busy week for Mr. MacDonald and his people, for all the Bay hunters and Indians had trading to do, and most of them remained at least one night to gossip and discuss their various prospects and enjoy the hospitality of the kitchen; and then there was a dance nearly every night, for this was their season of amusement and relaxation in the midst of the months of bitter hardships on the trail.

Bessie and her mother had not a moment to themselves, with all the extra cooking and cleaning to be done, for it fell upon them to provide for every one; and it became quite evident to Bessie that she could not get away for her proposed visit to Wolf Bight until the last of the hunters was gone. This would not be until the day after New Year's, so she postponed her request to her father, to take her over, until New Year's day. Then she watched for a favourable opportunity when she was alone with him and her mother. Finally it came late in the afternoon, when he stepped into the house for something, and she asked him timidly:

"Father, I'm wantin' t' go on a cruise t' Wolf Bight--t' see Emily--can't you take me over with th dogs an' komatik?"

"When you wantin' t' go, lass?" he asked.

"I'm wishin' t' be goin' to-morrow."

"I'm t' be wonderful busy for a few days. Can't un wait a week or two?"

"I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait."

"Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake.

"Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?"

"'Tis--Emily--I'm wantin'--t'--see," faltered Bessie, blushing prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly very much interested.

"Bob's a fine lad--a fine lad--an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father teasingly.

"Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O' course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th' lads yet."

"Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself."

"Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good," urged Mrs. Black.

"I wants t' go _so_ much," Bessie pleaded.

"Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin' 'twill be all right," he finally assented.

And it was all right. When the last hunter had disappeared the next morning, the komatik was got ready. A box made for the purpose was lashed on the back end of it, and warm reindeer skins spread upon the bottom for Bessie to sit upon. Then the nine big dogs were called by shouting "Ho! Ho! Ho!" to them, and were caught and harnessed, after which Tom cracked a long walrus-hide whip over their heads, and made them lie quiet until Bessie was tucked snugly in the box, and wrapped well in deerskin robes.

When at last all was ready the father stepped aside with his whip, and immediately the dogs were up jumping and straining in their harness and giving short impatient howls, over eager to be away. Tom grasped the front end of the komatik runners, pulled them sharply to one side to break them loose from the snow to which they were frozen, and instantly the dogs were off at a gallop running like mad over the ice with the trailing komatik in imminent danger of turning over when it struck the ice hummocks that the tide had scattered for some distance out from the shore.

Presently they calmed down, however, to a jog trot, and Tom got off the komatik and ran by its side, guiding the team by calling out "ouk" when he wanted to turn to the right and "rudder" to turn to the left, repeating the words many times in rapid succession as though trying to see how fast he could say them. The head dog, or leader, always turned quickly at the word of command, and the others followed.

It was a very cold day--fifty degrees below zero Mr. MacDonald had said before they started--and Bessie's father looked frequently to see that her nose and cheeks were not freezing, for a traveller in the northern country when not exercising violently will often have these parts of the face frozen without knowing it or even feeling cold, and if the wind is blowing in the face is pretty sure to have them frosted anyway.

Most of the snow had drifted off the ice, and the dogs had a good hard surface to travel upon, and were able to keep up a steady trot. They made such good time that in two hours they turned into Wolf Bight, and as they approached the Grays' cabin broke into a gallop, for dogs always like to begin a journey and end it with a flourish of speed just to show how fast they _can_ go, no matter how slowly they may jog along between places.

The dogs at Wolf Bight were out to howl defiance at them as they approached and to indulge in a free fight with the newcomers when they arrived, until the opposing ones were beaten apart with clubs and whips. It is a part of a husky dog's religion to fight whenever an excuse offers, and often when there is no excuse.

Richard and Mrs. Gray came running out to meet Tom and Bessie, and Bessie was hurried into the cabin where Emily was waiting in excited expectancy to greet her. Mrs. Gray bustled about at once and brewed some hot tea for the visitors and set out a luncheon of bread for them.

"Now set in an' have a hot drink t' warm un up," said she when it was ready. "You must be most froze, Bessie, this frosty day."

"I were warm wrapped in th' deerskins, an' not so cold," Bessie answered.

"We were lookin' for Bob these three days," remarked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea. "We were thinkin' he'd sure be gettin' lonesome by now, an' be makin' a cruise out."

"'Tis a long cruise from th' Big Hill trail unless he were needing somethin'," suggested Tom, taking his seat at the table.

"Aye," assented Richard, "an' I'm thinkin' th' lad'll not be wantin' t' lose th' time 'twill take t' come out. He'll be biding inside t' make th' most o' th' huntin', an' th' fur be plenty."

"That un will," agreed Tom, "an' 'twould not be wise for un t' be losin' a good three weeks o' huntin'. Bob's a workin' lad, an' I'm not thinkin' you'll see he till open water comes."

"Oh," broke in Emily, "an' don't un _really_ think Bob's t' come? I been wishin' _so_ for un, an' 'twould be grand t' have he come while Bessie's here."

"Bessie's thinkin' 'twould too," said Tom, who could not let pass an opportunity to tease his daughter.

They all looked at Bessie, who blushed furiously, but said nothing, realizing that silence was the best means of diverting her father's attention from the subject, and preventing his further remarks.

"Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from the table.

"Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard.

"I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so promisin' I has t' go."

"Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th' night."

"When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom.

"Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a _long_ time," plead Emily. "I've been wishin' t' have she _so_ much. Please be leavin' she a _long_ time."

"Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though I'd like t' bide longer."

"Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily a fortnight," her father suggested.

"I'll take th' lass over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard. "'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be doin' your lass good."

So it was agreed, and Tom drove away.

It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and her presence brightened the cabin very much.

No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with "th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter.

When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now, and Emily was as happy as could be.

Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home, admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the threshold.

Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy burden upon his shoulders.

It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him and cried in agony:

"Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!"

"Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un."

He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child.

Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint, and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried gently to soothe her.

Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief.

At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----" upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the first effects of the shock.

Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step, beginning with the arrival of himself and Dick at the river tilt on Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and passed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller explanation here and there.

When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she raised her head and announced:

"None o' _them_ were ever a part o' Bob's clothes."

"Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her decision.

"None of un were _Bob's_. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes, an'--I--_knows_: I _knows_," she insisted.

"But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said Ed.

"Th' _clothes_ were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my lad is livin'--somewheres--I _feels_ my lad is livin'," she asserted.

Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question.

"Why," she asked, "had he two axes?"

It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe in any of the tilts.

"Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's axe."

The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that Bob still lived. She asserted that he was alive as one states a fact that one knows is beyond question. The circumstantial evidence against her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason, and her conclusions she will hold against the world.

"I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t' do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door.

Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair.

That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs. Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly speak:

"Mother."

She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek.

"Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?"

"Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, lass, an' th' Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he."

"But," she insisted, "he's an angel now _if_ th' wolves killed un?"

"Yes, dear."

"An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves, don't He, mother?"

"Be quiet now, lass."

"But He does?" persisted the child.

"Aye, He does."

"Then if Bob were killed, mother, he'll sure be comin' t' see us. His angel'd never be restin' easy in heaven wi'out comin' t' see us, for he knows how sore we longs t' see un."

The mother drew the child to her heart and sobbed.

XV

IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN

Day after day the Indians travelled to the northward, drawing their goods after them on toboggans, over frozen rivers and lakes, or through an ever scantier growth of trees. With every mile they traversed Bob's heart grew heavier in his bosom, for he was constantly going farther from home, and the prospect of return was fading away with each sunset. He knew that they were moving northward, for always the North Star lay before them when they halted for the night, and always a wilder, more unnatural country surrounded them. Finally a westerly turn was taken, and he wondered what their goal might be.

Cold and bitter was the weather. The great limitless wilderness was frozen into a deathlike silence, and solemn and awful was the vast expanse of white that lay everywhere around them. They, they alone, it seemed, lived in all the dreary world. The icy hand of January had crushed all other creatures into oblivion. No deer, no animals of any kind crossed their trail. Their food was going rapidly, and they were now reduced to a scanty ration of jerked venison.

At last they halted one day by the side of a brook and pitched their wigwam. Then leaving the women to cut wood and put the camp in order, the two Indians shouldered their guns and axes, and made signs to Bob to follow them, which he gladly did.

They ascended the frozen stream for several miles, when suddenly they came upon a beaver dam and the dome-shaped house of the animals themselves, nearly hidden under the deep covering of snow. The house had apparently been located earlier in the season, for now the Indians went directly to it as a place they were familiar with.

Here they began at once to clear away the snow from the ice at one side of the house, using their snow-shoes as shovels. When this was done, a pole was cut, and to the end of the pole a long iron spike was fastened. With this improvised implement Sishetakushin began to pick away the ice where the snow had been cleared from it, while Mookoomahn cut more poles.

Though the ice was fully four feet thick Sishetakushin soon reached the water. Then the other poles that Mookoomahn had cut were driven in close to the house.

Bob understood that this was done to prevent the escape of the animals, and that they were closing the door, which was situated so far down that it would always be below the point where ice would form, so that the beavers could go in and out at will.

After these preparations were completed the Indians cleared the snow from the top of the beaver house, and then broke an opening into the house itself. Into this aperture Sishetakushin peered for a moment, then his hand shot down, and like a flash reappeared holding a beaver by the hind legs, and before the animal had recovered sufficiently from its surprise to bring its sharp teeth into action in self-defense, the Indian struck it a stinging blow over the head and killed it. Then in like manner another animal was captured and killed. It was dangerous work and called for agility and self-possession, for had the Indian made a miscalculation or been one second too slow the beaver's teeth, which crush as well as cut, would have severed his wrist or arm.

There were two more beavers--a male and a female--in the house, but these were left undisturbed to raise a new family, and the stakes that had closed the door were removed.

This method of catching beavers was quite new to Bob, who had always seen his father and the other hunters of the Bay capture them in steel traps. It was his first lesson in the Indian method of hunting.

That evening the flesh of the beavers went into the kettle, and their oily tails--the greatest tidbit of all--were fried in a pan. The Indians made a feast time of it, and never ceased eating the livelong night. This day of plenty came in cheerful contrast to the cheerless nights with scanty suppers following the weary days of plodding that had preceded. The glowing fire in the centre, the appetizing smell of the kettle and sizzling fat in the pan, and the relaxation and mellow warmth as they reclined upon the boughs brought a sense of real comfort and content.

The next day they remained in camp and rested, but the following morning resumed the dreary march to the westward.

After many more days of travelling--Bob had lost all measure of time--they reached the shores of a great lake that stretched away until in the far distance its smooth white surface and the sky were joined. The Indians pointed at the expanse of snow-covered ice, and repeated many times, "Petitsikapau--Petitsikapau," and Bob decided that this must be what they called the lake; but the name was wholly unfamiliar to him. In like manner they had indicated that a river they had travelled upon for some distance farther back, after crossing a smaller lake, was called "Ashuanipi," but he had never heard of it before.

The wigwam was pitched upon the shores of Petitsikapau Lake, where there was a thick growth of willows upon the tender tops of which hundreds of ptarmigans--the snow-white grouse of the arctic--were feeding; and rabbits had the snow tramped flat amongst the underbrush, offering an abundance of fresh food to the hunters, a welcome change from the unvaried fare of dried venison.

Bob drew from the elaborate preparations that were made that they were to stop here for a considerable time. Snow was banked high against the skin covering of the wigwam to keep out the wind more effectually, an unusually thick bed of spruce boughs was spread within, and a good supply of wood was cut and neatly piled outside.

The women did all the heavy work and drudgery about camp, and it troubled Bob not a little to see them working while the men were idle. Several times he attempted to help them, but his efforts were met with such a storm of protestations and disapproval, not only from the men, but the women also, that he finally refrained.

"'Tis strange now th' women isn't wantin' t' be helped," Bob remarked to himself. "Mother's always likin' t' have me help she."

It was quite evident that the men considered this camp work beneath their dignity as hunters, and neither did they wish Bob, to whom they had apparently taken a great fancy, to do the work of a squaw. They had, to all appearances, accepted him as one of the family and treated him in all respects as such, and, he noted this with growing apprehension, as though he were always to remain with them.

They began now to initiate him into the mysteries of their trapping methods, which were quite different from those with which he was accustomed. Instead of the steel trap they used the deadfall--wa-neé-gan--and the snare--nug-wah-gun--and Bob won the quick commendation and plainly shown admiration of the Indians by the facility with which he learned to make and use them, and his prompt success in capturing his fair share of martens, which were fairly numerous in the woods back of the lake.

But when he took his gun and shot some ptarmigans one day, they gave him to understand that this was a wasteful use of ammunition, and showed him how they killed the birds with bow and arrow. To shoot the arrows straight, however, was an art that he could not acquire readily, and his efforts afforded Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn much amusement.

"The's no shootin' straight wi' them things," Bob declared to himself, after several unsuccessful attempts to hit a ptarmigan. "Leastways I'm not knowin' how. But th' Injuns is shootin' un fine, an' I'm wonderin' now how they does un."

With no one that could understand him Bob had unconsciously dropped into the habit of talking a great deal to himself. It was not very satisfactory, however, and there were always questions arising that he wished to ask. He had, therefore, devoted himself since his advent amongst the Indians to learning their language, and every day he acquired new words and phrases. Manikawan would pronounce the names of objects for him and have him repeat them after her until he could speak them correctly, laughing merrily at his blunders.

It does not require a large vocabulary to make oneself understood, and in an indescribably short time Bob had picked up enough Indian to converse brokenly, and one day, shortly after the arrival at Petitsikapau he found he was able to explain to Sishetakushin where he came from and his desire to return to the Big Hill trail and the Grand River country.

"It is not good to dwell on the great river of the evil spirits" (the Grand River), said the Indian. "Be contented in the wigwam of your brothers."

Bob parleyed and plead with them, and when he finally insisted that they take him back to the place where they had found him, he was met with the objection that it was "many sleeps towards the rising sun," that the deer had left the land as he had seen for himself, and if they turned back their kettle would have no flesh and their stomachs would be empty.

"We are going," said Sishetakushin, "where the deer shall be found like the trees of the forest, and there our brother shall feast and be happy."

So Bob's last hope of reaching home vanished.

Manikawan's kindness towards him grew, and she was most attentive to his comfort. She gave him the first helping of "nab-wi"--stew--from the kettle, and kept his clothing in good repair. His old moccasins she replaced with new ones fancifully decorated with beads, and his much-worn duffel socks with warm ones made of rabbit skins. Everything that the wilderness provided he had from her hand. But still he was not happy. There was an always present longing for the loved ones in the little cabin at Wolf Bight. He never could get out of his mind his mother's sad face on the morning he left her, dear patient little Emily on her couch, and his father, who needed his help so much, working alone about the house or on the trail. And sometimes he wondered if Bessie ever thought of him, and if she would be sorry when she heard he was lost.

"Manikawan an' all th' Injuns be wonderful kind, but 'tis not like bein' home," he would often say sadly to himself when he lay very lonely at night upon his bed of boughs and skins.

At first Manikawan's attentions were rather agreeable to Bob, but he was not accustomed to being waited upon, and in a little while they began to annoy him and make him feel ill at ease, and finally to escape from them he rarely ever remained in the wigwam during daylight hours.

"I'm wishin' she'd not be troublin' wi' me so--I'm not wantin' un," he declared almost petulantly at times when the girl did something for him that he preferred to do himself.

Mornings he would wander down through the valley attending to his deadfalls and snares, and afternoons tramp over the hills in the hope of seeing caribou.

One afternoon two weeks after the arrival at Petitsikapau he was skirting a precipitous hill not far from camp, when suddenly the snow gave way under his feet and he slipped over a low ledge. He did not fall far, and struck a soft drift below, and though startled at the unexpected descent was not injured. When he got upon his feet again he noticed what seemed a rather peculiar opening in the rock near the foot of the ledge, where his fall had broken away the snow, and upon examining it found that the crevice extended back some eight or ten feet and then broadened into a sort of cavern.

"'Tis a strange place t' be in th' rocks," he commented. "I'm thinkin' I'll have a look at un."

Kicking off his snow-shoes and standing his gun outside he proceeded to crawl in on all fours. When he reached the point of broadening he found the cavern within so dark that he could see nothing of its interior, and he advanced cautiously, extending one arm in front of him that he might not strike his head against protruding rocks. All at once his hand came in contact with something soft and warm. He drew it back with a jerk, and his heart stood still. He had touched the shaggy coat of a bear. He was in a bear's den and within two feet of the sleeping animal. He expected the next moment to be crushed under the paws of the angry beast, and was quite astonished when he found that it had not been aroused.

Cautiously and noiselessly Bob backed quickly out of the dangerous place. The moment he was out and found himself on his feet again with his gun in his hands his courage returned, and he began to make plans for the capture of the animal.

"'Twould be fine now t' kill un an' 'twould please th' Injuns wonderful t' get th' meat," he said. "I'm wonderin' could I get un--if 'tis a bear."

He stooped and looked into the cave again, but it was as dark as night in there, and he could see nothing of the bear. Then he cut a long pole with his knife and reached in with it until he felt the soft body. A strong prod brought forth a protesting growl. Bruin did not like to have his slumbers disturbed.

"Sure '_tis_ a bear an' that's wakenin' un," he commented.

Bob prodded harder and the growls grew louder and angrier.

"He's not wantin' t' get out o' bed," said Bob prodding vigorously.

Finally there was a movement within the den, and Bob sprang back and made ready with his gun. He had barely time to get into position when the head of an enormous black bear appeared in the cave entrance, its eyes flashing fire and showing fight. Bob's heart beat excitedly, but he kept his nerve and took a steady aim. The animal was not six feet away from him when he fired. Then he turned and ran down the hill, never looking behind until he was fully two hundred yards from the den and realized that there was no sound in the rear.

The bear was not in sight and he cautiously retraced his steps until he saw the animal lying where it had fallen. The bullet had taken it squarely between the eyes and killed it instantly. This was the first bear that Bob had ever killed unaided and he was highly elated at his success.

It was not an easy task to get the carcass out of the rock crevice, but he finally accomplished it and outside quickly skinned the bear and cut the meat into pieces of convenient size to haul away on a toboggan when he should return for it. Then, with the skin as a trophy, he triumphantly turned towards camp.

Night had fallen when he reached the wigwam and Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn had already arrived after their day's hunt. It was a proud moment for Bob when he entered the lodge and threw down the bear skin for their inspection. They spread it out and examined it, and a great deal of talking ensued. Bob, in the best Indian he could command, explained where he had found the "mushku" and how he had killed it, and his story was listened to with intense interest. When he was through Sishetakushin said that the "Snow Brother," as they called Bob, was a great hunter, and should be an Indian; for only an Indian would have the courage to attack a bear in its den single handed. Bob had risen very perceptibly in their estimation. All doubt of his skill and prowess as a hunter had been removed. He had won a new place, and was now to be considered as their equal in the chase.

The following morning the two Indians assisted Bob to haul the bear's meat to camp. No part of it was allowed to waste. In the wigwam it was thawed and then the flesh stripped from the bones, and that not required for immediate use was permitted to freeze again that it might keep sweet until needed. The skull was thoroughly cleaned and fastened to a high branch of a tree as an offering to the Manitou. Sishetakushin explained to Bob that unless this was done the Great Spirit would punish them by driving all other bears beyond the reach of their guns and traps in future.

For several days a storm had been threatening, and that night it broke with all the terrifying fury of the north. The wind shrieked through the forest and shook the wigwam as though it would tear it away. The air was filled with a swirling, blinding mass of snow and any one venturing a dozen paces from the lodge could hardly have found his way back to it again. For three days the storm lasted, and the Indians turned these three days into a period of feasting. A big kettle of bear's meat always hung over the fire, and surrounding it pieces of the meat were impaled upon sticks to roast. It seemed to Bob as though the Indians would never have enough to eat.

Finally the storm cleared, and then it was discovered that the ptarmigans and rabbits, which had been so plentiful and constituted their chief source of food supply, had disappeared as if by magic. Not a ptarmigan fluttered before the hunter, and no rabbit tracks broke the smooth white snow beneath the bushes.

The jerked venison was gone and the only food remaining was the bear meat. A hurried consultation was held, and it was decided to push on still farther to the northward in the hope of meeting the invisible herds of caribou that somewhere in those limitless, frozen barrens were wandering unmolested.

XVI

ONE OF THE TRIBE

If Bob Gray had held any secret hope that the Indians would eventually listen to his plea to guide him back to the Big Hill trail it was mercilessly swept away by the next move, for again they faced steadily towards the north. Whenever he thought of home a lump came into his throat, but he always swallowed it bravely and said to himself:

"'Tis wrong now t' be grievin' when I has so much t' be thankful for. Bill'll be takin' th' silver fox an' other fur out, and when father sells un 'twill pay for Emily's goin' t' th' doctor. Th' Lard saved me from freezin', an' I'm well an' th' Injuns be wonderful good t' me. Maybe some time they'll be goin' back th' Big Hill way--maybe 'twill be next winter--an' then I'll be gettin' home."

In this manner the hope of youth always conquered, and his desperate situation was to some extent forgotten in the pictures he drew for himself of his reunion with the loved ones in the uncertain "Sometime" of the future.

On and on they travelled through the endless, boundless white, over wind-swept rocky hills so inhospitably barren that even the snow could not find a lodgment on them, or over wide plains where the few trees that grew had been stunted and gnarled into mere shrubs by winter blasts. On every hand the mountains began to raise their ragged austere heads like grim giant sentinels placed there to guard the way. Finally they turned into a pass, which brought them, on the other side of the ridge it led through, to a comparatively well-wooded valley down which a wide river wound its way northward. The trees were larger than any Bob had seen since leaving the Big Hill trail, and this new valley seemed almost familiar to him.