E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Jeannie Howse,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net/)

Transcriber's Note: Much of the dialogue is dialect. The few spelling mistakes have been kept, including St. Johns for St. John's (Newfoundland).

Three of the men hauled, the other with a pole, kept it clear of the rocks ([See page 45])

EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY—BOY SCOUT EDITION

UNGAVA BOB

A WINTER'S TALE

BY

DILLON WALLACE

AUTHOR OF
THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD

ILLUSTRATED BY

SAMUEL M. PALMER

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

1907
THIRD EDITION

To My Sisters
Annie and Jessie

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

UNGAVA BOB

I[ToC]

HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL"

It was an evening in early September twenty years ago. The sun was just setting in a radiance of glory behind the dark spruce forest that hid the great unknown, unexplored Labrador wilderness which stretched away a thousand miles to the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay and the bleak desolation of Ungava. With their back to the forest and the setting sun, drawn up in martial line stood the eight or ten whitewashed log buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company Post, just as they had stood for a hundred years, and just as they stand to-day, looking out upon the wide waters of Eskimo Bay, which now, reflecting the glow of the setting sun, shone red and sparkling like a sea of rubies.

On a clearing to the eastward of the post between the woods and water was an irregular cluster of deerskin wigwams, around which loitered dark-hued Indians puffing quietly at their pipes, while Indian women bent over kettles steaming at open fires, cooking the evening meal, and little Indian boys with bows shot harmless arrows at soaring gulls overhead, and laughed joyously at their sport as each arrow fell short of its mark. Big wolf dogs skulked here and there, looking for bits of refuse, snapping and snarling ill-temperedly at each other.

A group of stalwart, swarthy-faced men, dressed in the garb of northern hunters—light-coloured moleskin trousers tucked into the tops of long-legged sealskin moccasins, short jackets and peakless caps—stood before the post kitchen or lounged upon the rough board walk which extended the full length of the reservation in front of the servants' quarters and storehouses. They were watching a small sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant. Finally some one spoke.

"'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt."

"Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob."

Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen, where supper had been announced.

Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short, stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of importance.

The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones and small, black, shifting eyes that were set very close together and imparted to the man a look of craftiness and cunning. He was known as "Micmac John," but said his real name was John Sharp. He had drifted to the coast a couple of years before on a fishing schooner from Newfoundland, whence he had come from Nova Scotia. From the coast he had made his way the hundred and fifty miles to the head of Eskimo Bay, and there took up the life of a trapper. Rumour had it that he had committed murder at home and had run away to escape the penalty; but this rumour was unverified, and there was no means of learning the truth of it. Since his arrival here the hunters had lost, now and again, martens and foxes from their traps, and it was whispered that Micmac John was responsible for their disappearance. Nevertheless, without any tangible evidence that he had stolen them, he was treated with kindness, though he had made no real friends amongst the natives.

When the last of the men had closed the kitchen door behind him, Micmac John approached Douglas, who had been standing somewhat apart, evidently lost in his thoughts as he watched the approaching boat, and asked:

"Have ye decided about the Big Hill trail, sir?"

"Yes, John."

"And am I to hunt it this year, sir?"

"No, John, I can't let ye have un. I told Bob Gray th' day I'd let him hunt un. Bob's a smart lad, and I wants t' give he th' chance."

Micmac John cast a malicious glance at old Douglas. Then with an assumed indifference, and shrug of his shoulders as he started to walk away, remarked:

"All right if you've made yer mind up, but you'll be sorry fer it."

Douglas turned fiercely upon him.

"What mean you, man? Be that a threat? Speak now!"

"I make no threats, but boys can't hunt, and he'll bring ye no fur. Ye'll get nothin' fer yer pains. Ye'll be sorry fer it."

"Well," said Douglas as Micmac John walked away to join the others in the kitchen, "I've promised th' lad, an' what I promises I does, an' I'll stand by it."

Bob Gray, sitting at the tiller of his little punt, The Rover, was very happy—happy because the world was so beautiful, happy because he lived, and especially happy because of the great good fortune that had come to him this day when Douglas Campbell granted his request to let him hunt the Big Hill trail, with its two hundred good marten and fox traps.

It had been a year of misfortune for the Grays. The previous winter when Bob's father started out upon his trapping trail a wolverine persistently and systematically followed him, destroying almost every fox and marten that he had caught. All known methods to catch or kill the animal were resorted to, but with the cunning that its prehistoric ancestors had handed down to it, it avoided every pitfall. The fox is a poor bungler compared with the wolverine. The result of all this was that Richard Gray had no fur in the spring with which to pay his debt at the trading store.

Then came the greatest misfortune of all. Emily, Bob's little sister, ventured too far out upon a cliff one day to pluck a vagrant wild flower that had found lodgment in a crevice, and in reaching for it, slipped to the rocks below. Bob heard her scream as she fell, and ran to her assistance. He found her lying there, quite still and white, clutching the precious blossom, and at first he thought she was dead. He took her in his arms and carried her tenderly to the cabin. After a while she opened her eyes and came back to consciousness, but she had never walked since. Everything was done for the child that could be done. Every man and woman in the Bay offered assistance and suggestions, and every one of them tried a remedy; but no relief came.

All the time things kept going from bad to worse with Richard Gray. Few seals came in the bay that year and he had no fat to trade at the post. The salmon fishing was a flat failure.

As the weeks went on and Emily showed no improvement Douglas Campbell came over to Wolf Bight with the suggestion,

"Take th' maid t' th' mail boat doctor. He'll sure fix she up." And then they took her—Bob and his mother—ninety miles down the bay to the nearest port of call of the coastal mail boat, while the father remained at home to watch his salmon nets. Here they waited until finally the steamer came and the doctor examined Emily.

"There's nothing I can do for her," he said. "You'll have to send her to St. Johns to the hospital. They'll fix her all right there with a little operation."

"An' how much will that cost?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"Oh," he replied, "not over fifty dollars—fifty dollars will cover it."

"An' if she don't go?"

"She'll never get well." Then, as a dismissal of the subject, the doctor, turning to Bob, asked: "Well, youngster, what's the outlook for fur next season?"

"We hopes there'll be some, sir."

"Get some silver foxes. Good silvers are worth five hundred dollars cash in St. Johns."

The mail boat steamed away with the doctor, and Bob and his mother, with Emily made as comfortable as possible in the bottom of the boat, turned homeward.

It was hard to realize that Emily would never be well again, that she would never romp over the rocks with Bob in the summer or ride with him on the sledge when he took the dogs to haul wood in the winter. There would be no more merry laughter as she played about the cabin. This was before the days when the mission doctors with their ships and hospitals came to the Labrador to give back life to the sick and dying of the coast. Fifty dollars was more money than any man of the bay save Douglas Campbell had ever seen, and to expect to get such a sum was quite hopeless, for in those days the hunters were always in debt to the company, and all they ever received for their labours were the actual necessities of life, and not always these.

Emily was the only cheerful one now of the three. When she saw her mother crying, she took her hand and stroked it, and said: "Mother, dear, don't be cryin' now. 'Tis not so bad. If God wants that I get well He'll make me well. An' I wants to stay home with you an' see you an' father an' Bob, an' I'd be dreadful homesick to go off so far."

Emily and Bob had always been great chums and the blow to him seemed almost more than he could bear. His heart lay in his bosom like a stone. At first he could not think, but finally he found himself repeating what the doctor had said about silver foxes,—"five hundred dollars cash." This was more money than he could imagine, but he knew it was a great deal. The company gave sixty dollars in trade for the finest silver foxes. That was supposed a liberal price—but five hundred dollars in cash!

He looked longingly towards the blue hills that held their heads against the distant sky line. Behind those hills was a great wilderness rich in foxes and martens—but no man of the coast had ever dared to venture far within it. It was the land of the dreaded Nascaupees, the savage red men of the North, who it was said would torture to a horrible death any who came upon their domain.

The Mountaineer Indians who visited the bay regularly and camped in summer near the post, told many tales of the treachery of their northern neighbours, and warned the trappers that they had already blazed their trails as far inland as it was safe for them to go. Any hunter encroaching upon the Nascaupee territory, they insisted, would surely be slaughtered.

Bob had often heard this warning, and did not forget it now; but in spite of it he felt that circumstances demanded risks, and for Emily's sake he was willing to take them. If he could only get traps, he would make the venture, with his parents' consent, and blaze a new trail there, for it would be sure to yield a rich reward. But to get traps needed money or credit, and he had neither.

Then he remembered that Douglas Campbell had said one day that he would not go to the hills again if he could get a hunter to take the Big Hill trail to hunt on shares. That was an inspiration. He would ask Douglas to let him hunt it on the usual basis—two-thirds of the fur caught to belong to the hunter and one-third to the owner. With this thought Bob's spirits rose.

"'Twill be fine—'twill be a grand chance," said he to himself, "an Douglas lets me hunt un, an father lets me go."

He decided to speak to Douglas first, for if Douglas was agreeable to the plan his parents would give their consent more readily. Otherwise they might withhold it, for the trail was dangerously close to the forbidden grounds of the Nascaupees, and anyway it was a risky undertaking for a boy—one that many of the experienced trappers would shrink from.

The more Bob considered his plan with all its great possibilities, the more eager he became. He found himself calculating the number of pelts he would secure, and amongst them perhaps a silver fox. He would let the mail boat doctor sell them for him, and then they would be rich, and Emily would go to the hospital, and be his merry, laughing little chum again. How happy they would all be! Bob was young and an optimist, and no thought of failure entered his head.

It was too late the night they reached home to see Douglas but the next morning he hurried through his breakfast, which was eaten by candle-light, and at break of day was off for Kenemish, where Douglas Campbell lived. He found the old man at home, and, with some fear of refusal, but still bravely, for he knew the kind-hearted old trapper would grant the request if he thought it were wise, explained his plan.

"You're a stalwart lad, Bob," said Douglas, looking at the boy critically from under his shaggy eyebrows. "An' how old may you be now? I 'most forgets—young folks grows up so fast."

"Just turned sixteen, sir."

"An' that's a young age for a lad to be so far in th' bush alone. But you'll be havin' somethin' happen t' you."

"I'll be rare careful, sir, an' you lets me ha' th' trail."

"An' what says your father?"

"I's said nothin' to he, sir, about it yet."

"Well, go ask he, an' he says yes, meet me at the post th' evenin' an' I'll speak wi' Mr. MacDonald t' give ye debt for your grub. Micmac John's wantin' th' trail, but I'm not thinkin' t' let he have un."

At first Bob's parents both opposed the project. The dangers were so great that his mother asserted that if he were to go she would not have an easy hour until she saw her boy again. But he put forth such strong arguments and plead so vigorously, and his disappointment was so manifest, that finally she withdrew her objections and his father said:

"Well, you may go, my son, an Douglas lets you have th' trail."

"Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand"

So Bob, scarcely sixteen years of age, was to do a man's work and shoulder a man's burden, and he was glad that God had given him stature beyond his years, that he might do it. He could not remember when he had not driven dogs and cut wood and used a gun. He had done these things always. But now he was to rise to the higher plane of a full-fledged trapper and the spruce forest and the distant hills beyond the post seemed a great empire over which he was to rule. Those trackless fastnesses, with their wealth of fur, were to pay tribute to him, and he was happy in the thought that he had found a way to save little Emily from the lifelong existence of a poor crippled invalid. His buoyant spirit had stepped out of the old world of darkness and despair into a new world filled with light and love and beauty, in which the present troubles were but a passing cloud.

"Ho, lad! so your father let ye come. I's glad t' see ye, lad. An' now we're t' make a great hunt," greeted Douglas when the punt ground its nose upon the sandy beach, and Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand to make it fast.

"Aye, sir," said Bob, "he an' mother says I may go."

"Well, come, b'y, an' we'll ha' supper an' bide here th' night an' in th' mornin' you'll get your fit out," said Douglas when they had pulled the punt up well away from the tide.

Entering the kitchen they found the others still at table. Greetings were exchanged, and a place was made for Douglas and Bob.

It was a good-sized room, furnished in the simple, primitive style of the country: an uncarpeted floor, benches and chests in lieu of chairs, a home-made table, a few shelves for the dishes, two or three bunks like ship bunks built in the end opposite the door to serve the post servant and his family for beds, and a big box stove, capable of taking huge billets of wood, crackling cheerily, for the nights were already frosty. Resting upon crosspieces nailed to the rough beams overhead were half a dozen muzzle loading guns, and some dog harness hung on the wall at one side. Everything was spotlessly clean. The floor, the table—innocent of a cloth—the shelves, benches and chests were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and, despite its meagre furnishings the room was very snug and cozy and possessed an atmosphere of homeliness and comfort.

A single window admitted the fading evening light and a candle was brought, though Douglas said to the young girl who placed it in the centre of the table:

"So long as there's plenty a' grub, Bessie, I thinks we can find a way t' get he t' our mouths without ere a light."

The meal was a simple one—boiled fresh trout with pork grease to pour over it for sauce, bread, tea, and molasses for "sweetening." Butter and sugar were luxuries to be used only upon rare festal occasions.

After the men had eaten they sat on the floor with their backs against the rough board wall and their knees drawn up, and smoked and chatted about the fishing season just closed and the furring season soon to open, while Margaret Black, wife of Tom Black, the post servant, their daughter Bessie and a couple of young girl visitors of Bessie's from down the bay, ate and afterwards cleared the table. Then some one proposed a dance, as it was their last gathering before going to their winter trails, which would hold them prisoners for months to come in the interior wilderness. A fiddle was brought out, and Dick Blake tuned up its squeaky strings, and, keeping time with one foot, struck up the Virginia reel.

The men discarded their jackets, displaying their rough flannel shirts and belts, in which were carried sheath knives, chose their partners and went at it with a will, to Dick's music, while he fiddled and shouted such directions as "Sashay down th' middle,—swing yer pardners,—promenade."

Bob led out Bessie, for whom he had always shown a decided preference, and danced like any man of them. Douglas did not dance—not because he was too old, for no man is too old to dance in Labrador, nor because it was beneath his dignity—but because, as he said: "There's not enough maids for all th' lads, an' I's had my turn a many a time. I'll smoke an' look on."

Neither did Micmac John dance, for he seemed in ill humour, and was silent and morose, nursing his discontent that a mere boy should have been given the Big Hill trail in preference to him, and he sat moody and silent, taking no apparent interest in the fun. The dance was nearly finished when Bob, wheeling around the end, warm with the excitement and pleasure of it all, inadvertently stepped on one of the half-breed's feet. Micmac John rose like a flash and struck Bob a stinging blow on the face. Bob turned upon him full of the quick anger of the moment, then, remembering his surroundings, restrained the hand that was about to return the blow, simply saying:

"'Twas an accident, John, an' you has no right to strike me."

The half-breed, vicious, sinister and alert, stood glowering for a moment, then deliberately hit Bob again. The others fell back, Bob faced his opponent, and, goaded now beyond the power of self-restraint, struck with all the power of his young arm at Micmac John. The latter was on his guard, however, and warded the blow. Quick as a flash he drew his knife, and before the others realized what he was about to do, made a vicious lunge at Bob's breast.

II[ToC]

OFF TO THE BUSH

On the left breast of Bob's woollen shirt there was a pocket, and in this pocket was a small metal box of gun caps, which Bob always carried there when he was away from home, for he seldom left home without his gun. It was fortunate for him that it was there now, for the point of the knife struck squarely over the place where the box lay. It was driven with such force by the half-breed's strong arm that it passed clear through the metal, which, however, so broke the blow that the steel scarcely scratched the skin beneath. Before another plunge could be made with the knife the men sprang in and seized Micmac John, who submitted at once without a struggle to the overpowering force, and permitted himself to be disarmed. Then he was released and stood back, sullen and defiant. For several moments not a word was spoken.

Finally Dick Blake took a threatening step towards the Indian, and shaking his fist in the latter's face exclaimed:

"Ye dirty coward! Ye'd do murder, would ye? Ye'd kill un, would ye?"

"Hold on," said Douglas, "'bide a bit. 'Twill do no good t' beat un, though he's deservin' of it." Then to the half-breed: "An' what's ailin' of ye th' evenin', John? 'Twas handy t' doin' murder ye were."

John saw the angry look in the men's eyes, and the cool judgment of Douglas standing between him and bodily harm, and deciding that tact was the better part of valour, changed his attitude of defiance to one of reconciliation. He could not take revenge now for his fancied wrong. His Indian cunning told him to wait for a better time. So he extended his hand to Bob, who, dazed by the suddenness of the unexpected attack, had not moved. "Shake hands, Bob, an' call it square. I was hot with anger an' didn't know what I was doin'. We won't quarrel."

Bob, acting upon the motto his mother had taught him—"Be slow to anger and quick to forgive," took the outstretched hand with the remark,

"'Twere a mighty kick I gave ye, John, an' enough t' anger ye, an' no harm's done."

Big Dick Blake would not have it so at first, and invited the half-breed outside to take a "licking" at his hands. But the others soon pacified him, the trouble was forgotten and dancing resumed as though nothing had happened to disturb it.

As soon as attention was drawn from him Micmac John, unobserved, slipped out of the door and a few moments later placed some things in a canoe that had been turned over on the beach, launched it and paddled away in the ghostly light of the rising moon.

The dancing continued until eleven o'clock, then the men lit their pipes, and after a short smoke and chat rolled into their blankets upon the floor, Mrs. Black and the girls retired to the bunks, and, save for a long, weird howl that now and again came from the wolf dogs outside, and the cheery crackling of the stove within, not a sound disturbed the silence of the night.

As has been intimated, Douglas Campbell was a man of importance in Eskimo Bay. When a young fellow he had come here from the Orkney Islands as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Company. A few years later he married a native girl, and then left the company's service to become a hunter.

He had been careful of his wages, and as he blazed new hunting trails into the wilderness, used his savings to purchase steel traps with which to stock the trails. Other trappers, too poor to buy traps for themselves, were glad to hunt on shares the trails Douglas made, and now he was reaping a good income from them. He was in fact the richest man in the Bay.

He was kind, generous and fatherly. The people of the Bay looked up to him and came to him when they were in trouble, for his advice and help. Many a poor family had Douglas Campbell's flour barrel saved from starvation in a bad winter, and God knows bad winters come often enough on the Labrador. Many an ambitious youngster had he started in life, as he was starting Bob Gray now.

The Big Hill trail, far up the Grand River, was the newest and deepest in the wilderness of all the trails Douglas owned—deeper in the wilderness than that of any other hunter. Just below it and adjoining it was William Campbell's—a son of Douglas—a young man of nineteen who had made his first winter's hunt the year before our story begins; below that, Dick Blake's, and below Dick's was Ed Matheson's.

In preparing for the winter hunt it was more convenient for these men to take their supplies to their tilts by boat up the Grand River than to haul them in on toboggans on the spring ice, as nearly every other hunter, whose trapping ground was not upon so good a waterway, was compelled to do, and so it was that they were now at the trading post selecting their outfits preparatory to starting inland before the very cold winter should bind the river in its icy shackles.

The men were up early in the morning, and Douglas went with Bob to the office of Mr. Charles McDonald, the factor, where it was arranged that Bob should be given on credit such provisions and goods as he needed for his winter's hunt, to be paid for with fur when he returned in the spring. Douglas gave his verbal promise to assume the debt should Bob's catch of fur be insufficient to enable him to pay it, but Bob's reputation for energy and honesty was so good that Mr. McDonald said he had no fear as to the payment by the lad himself.

The provisions that Bob selected in the store, or shop, as they called it, were chiefly flour, a small bag of hardtack, fat pork, tea, molasses, baking soda and a little coarse salt, while powder, shot, bullets, gun caps, matches, a small axe and clothing completed the outfit. He already had a gray cotton wedge-tent. When these things were selected and put aside, Douglas bought a pipe and some plugs of black tobacco, and presented them to Bob as a gift from himself.

"But I never smokes, sir, an' I 'lows he'd be makin' me sick," said Bob, as he fingered the pipe.

"Just a wee bit when you tries t' get acquainted," answered Douglas with a chuckle, "just a wee bit; but ye'll come t' he soon enough an' right good company ye'll find he of a long evenin'. Take un along, an' there's no harm done if ye don't smoke un—but ye'll be makin' good friends wi' un soon enough."

So Bob pocketed the pipe and packed the tobacco carefully away with his purchases.

After a consultation it was decided that the men should all meet the next evening, which would be Sunday, at Bob's home at Wolf Bight, near the mouth of the Grand River, and from there make an early start on Monday morning for their trapping grounds. "I'll have William over wi' one o' my boats that's big enough for all hands," said Douglas. "No use takin' more'n one boat. It's easier workin' one than two over the portages an' up the rapids."

When Bob's punt was loaded and he was ready to start for home, he ran to the kitchen to say good-bye to Mrs. Black and the girls, for he was not to see them again for many months.

"Bide in th' tilt when it storms, Bob, an' have a care for the wolves, an' keep clear o' th' Nascaupees," warned Bessie as she shook Bob's hand.

"Aye," said he. "I'll bide in th' tilt o' stormy days, an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees. I'm not fearful o' th' wolves, for they's always so afraid they never gives un a chance for a shot."

"But do have a care, Bob. An'—an'—I wants to tell you how glad I is o' your good luck, an' I hopes you'll make a grand hunt—I knows you will. An'—Bob, we'll miss you th' winter."

"Thank you, Bessie. An' I'll think o' th' fine time I'm missin' at Christmas an' th' New Year. Good-bye, Bessie."

"Good-bye, Bob."

The fifteen miles across the Bay to Wolf Bight with a fair wind was soon run. Bob ate a late dinner, and then made everything snug for the journey. His flour was put into small, convenient sacks, his cooking utensils consisting of a frying pan, a tin pail in which to make tea, a tin cup and a spoon were placed in a canvas bag by themselves, and in another bag was packed a Hudson's Bay Company four-point blanket, two suits of underwear, a pair of buckskin mittens with a pair of duffel ones inside them, and an extra piece of the duffel for an emergency, six pairs of knit woollen socks, four pairs of duffel socks or slippers (which his mother had made for him out of heavy blanket-like woollen cloth), three pairs of buckskin moccasins for the winter and an extra pair of sealskin boots (long legged moccasins) for wet weather in the spring.

He also laid aside, for daily use on the journey, an adikey made of heavy white woollen cloth, with a fur trimmed hood, and a lighter one, to be worn outside of the other, and made of gray cotton. The adikey or "dikey," as Bob called it, was a seamless garment to be drawn on over the head and worn instead of a coat. The underclothing and knit socks had been purchased at the trading post, but every other article of clothing, including boots, moccasins and mitts, his mother had made.

A pair of snow-shoes, a file for sharpening axes, a "wedge" tent of gray cotton cloth and a sheet iron tent stove about twelve inches square and eighteen inches long with a few lengths of pipe placed inside of it were likewise put in readiness. The stove and pipe Bob's father had manufactured.

No packing was left to be done Sunday, for though there was no church to go to, the Grays, and for that matter all of the Bay people, were close observers of the Sabbath, and left no work to be done on that day that could be done at any other time.

Early on Sunday evening, Dick and Ed and Bill Campbell came over in their boat from Kenemish, where they had spent the previous night. It had been a short day for Bob, the shortest it seemed to him he had ever known, for though he was anxious to be away and try his mettle with the wilderness, these were the last hours for many long weary months that he should have at home with his father and mother and Emily. How the child clung to him! She kept him by her side the livelong day, and held his hand as though she were afraid that he would slip away from her. She stroked his cheek and told him how proud she was of her big brother, and warned him over and over again,

"Now, Bob, do be wonderful careful an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees for they be dreadful men, fierce an' murderous."

Over and over again they planned the great things they would do when he came back with a big lot of fur—as they were both quite sure he would—and how she would go away to the doctor's to be made well and strong again as she used to be and the romps they were to have when that happy time came.

"An' Bob," said Emily, "every night before I goes to sleep when I says my 'Now I lay me down to sleep' prayer, I'll say to God 'an' keep Bob out o' danger an' bring he home safe.'"

"Aye, Emily," answered Bob, "an' I'll say to God, 'Make Emily fine an' strong again.'"

Before daybreak on Monday morning breakfast was eaten, and the boat loaded for a start at dawn. Emily was not yet awake when the time came to say farewell and Bob kissed her as she slept. Poor Mrs. Gray could not restrain the tears, and Bob felt a great choking in his throat—but he swallowed it bravely.

"Don't be feelin' bad, mother. I'm t' be rare careful in th' bush, and you'll see me well and hearty wi' a fine hunt, wi' th' open water," said he, as he kissed her.

"I knows you'll be careful, an' I'll try not t' worry, but I has a forebodin' o' somethin' t' happen—somethin' that's t' happen t' you, Bob—oh, I feels that somethin's t' happen. Emily'll be missin' you dreadful, Bob. An'—'twill be sore lonesome for your father an' me without our boy."

"Ready, Bob!" shouted Dick from the boat.

"Don't forget your prayers, lad, an' remember that your mother's prayin' for you every mornin' an' every night."

"Yes, mother, I'll remember all you said."

She watched him from the door as he walked down to the shore with his father, and the boat, heavily laden, pushed out into the Bay, and she watched still, until it disappeared around the point, above. Then she turned back into the room and had a good cry before she went about her work again.

If she had known what those distant hills held for her boy—if her intuition had been knowledge—she would never have let him go.

III[ToC]

AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR

The boat turned out into the broad channel and into Goose Bay. There was little or no wind, and when the sun broke gloriously over the white-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains it shone upon a sea as smooth as a mill pond, with scarcely a ripple to disturb it. The men worked laboriously and silently at their oars. A harbour seal pushed its head above the water, looked at the toiling men curiously for a moment, then disappeared below the surface, leaving an eddy where it had been. Gulls soared overhead, their white wings and bodies looking very pure and beautiful in the sunlight. High in the air a flock of ducks passed to the southward. From somewhere in the distance came the honk of a wild goose. The air was laden with the scent of the great forest of spruce and balsam fir, whose dark green barrier came down from the rock-bound, hazy hills in the distance to the very water's edge, where tamarack groves, turned yellow by the early frosts, reflected the sunlight like settings of rich gold.

"'Tis fine! 'tis grand!" exclaimed Bob at last, as he rested a moment on his oars to drink in the scene and breathe deeply the rare, fragrant atmosphere. "'Tis sure a fine world we're in."

"Aye, 'tis fine enough now," remarked Ed, stopping to cut pieces from a plug of tobacco, and then cramming them into his pipe. "But," he continued, prophetically, as he struck a match and held it between his hands for the sulphur to burn off, "bide a bit, an' you'll find it ugly enough when th' snows blow t' smother ye, an' yer racquets sink with ye t' yer knees, and th' frost freezes yer face and the ice sticks t' yer very eyelashes until ye can't see—then," continued he, puffing vigorously at his pipe, "then 'tis a sorry world—aye, a sorry an' a hard world for folks t' make a livin' in."

It was mid-forenoon when they reached Rabbit Island—a small wooded island where the passing dog drivers always stop in winter to make tea and snatch a mouthful of hard biscuit while the dogs have a half hour's rest.

"An' here we'll boil th' kettle," suggested Dick. "I'm fair starved with an early breakfast and the pull at the oars."

"We're ready enough for that," assented Bill. "Th' wind's prickin' up a bit from th' east'rd, an' when we starts I thinks we may hoist the sails."

"Yes, th' wind's prickin' up an' we'll have a fair breeze t' help us past th' Traverspine, I hopes."

The landing was made. Bob and Ed each took an axe to cut into suitable lengths some of the plentiful dead wood lying right to hand, while Dick whittled some shavings and started the fire. Bill brought a kettle (a tin pail) of water. Then he cut a green sapling about five feet in length, sharpened one end of it, and stuck it firmly into the earth, slanting the upper end into position over the fire. On this he hung the kettle of water, so that the blaze shot up around it. In a little while the water boiled, and with a stick for a lifter he set it on the ground and threw in a handful of tea. This they sweetened with molasses and drank out of tin cups while they munched hardtack.

Bill's prophecy as to the wind proved a true one, and in the half hour while they were at their luncheon so good a breeze had sprang up that when they left Rabbit Island both sails were hoisted.

Early in the afternoon they passed the Traverspine River, and now with some current to oppose made slower, though with the fair wind, good progress, and when the sun dipped behind the western hills and they halted to make their night camp they were ten miles above the Traverspine.

To men accustomed to travelling in the bush, camp is quickly made. The country here was well wooded, and the forest beneath covered with a thick carpet of white moss. Bob and Bill selected two trees between which they stretched the ridge pole of a tent, and a few moments sufficed to cut pegs and pin down the canvas. Then spruce boughs were broken and spread over the damp moss and their shelter was ready for occupancy. Meanwhile Ed had cut fire-wood while Dick started the fire, using for kindlings a handful of dry, dead sprigs from the branches of a spruce tree, and by the time Bob and Bill had the tent pitched it was blazing cheerily, and the appetizing smell of fried pork and hot tea was in the air. When supper was cooked Ed threw on some more sticks, for the evening was frosty, and then they sat down to luxuriate in its genial warmth and eat their simple meal.

For an hour they chatted, while the fire burned low, casting a narrowing circle of light upon the black wilderness surrounding the little camp. Some wild thing of the forest stole noiselessly to the edge of the outer darkness, its eyes shining like two balls of fire, then it quietly slunk away unobserved. Above the fir tops the blue dome of heaven seemed very near and the million stars that glittered there almost close enough to pluck from their azure setting. With a weird, uncanny light the aurora flashed its changing colours restlessly across the sky. No sound save the low voices of the men as they talked, disturbed the great silence of the wilderness.

Many a time had Bob camped and hunted with his father near the coast, in the forest to the south of Wolf Bight, but he had never been far from home and with this his first long journey into the interior, a new world and new life were opening to him. The solitude had never impressed him before as it did now. The smoke of the camp-fire and the perfume of the forest had never smelled so sweet. The romance of the trail was working its way into his soul, and to him the land seemed filled with wonderful things that he was to search out and uncover for himself. The harrowing tales that the men were telling of winter storms and narrow escapes from wild animals had no terror for him. He only looked forward to meeting and conquering these obstacles for himself. Young blood loves adventure, and Bob's blood was strong and red and active.

When the fire died away and only a heap of glowing red coals remained, Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising with a yawn, suggested:

"I 'lows it's time t' turn in. We'll have t' be movin' early in th' mornin' an' we makes th' Muskrat Portage."

Then they went to the tent and rolled into their blankets and were soon sleeping as only men can sleep who breathe the pure, free air of God's great out-of-doors.

Before noon the next day they reached the Muskrat Falls, where the torrent, with a great roar, pours down seventy feet over the solid rocks. An Indian portage trail leads around the falls and meets the river again half a mile farther up. At its beginning it ascends a steep incline two hundred feet, then it runs away, comparatively level, to its upper end where it drops abruptly to the water's edge. To pull a heavy boat up this incline and over the half mile to the launching place above, was no small undertaking.

Everything was unloaded, the craft brought ashore, and ropes which were carried for the purpose attached to the bow. Then round sticks of wood, for rollers, were placed under it, and while Dick and Ed hauled, Bob and Bill pushed and lifted and kept the rollers straight. In this manner, with infinite labour, it was worked to the top of the hill and step by step hauled over the portage to the place where it was to enter the water again. It was nearly sunset when they completed their task and turned back to bring up their things from below.

They had retraced their steps but a few yards when Dick, who was ahead, darted off to the left of the trail with the exclamation:

"An' here's some fresh meat for supper."

It was a porcupine lumbering awkwardly away. He easily killed it with a stick, and picking it up by its tail, was about to turn back into the trail when a fresh axe cutting caught his eye.

"Now who's been here, lads?" said he, looking at it closely. "None o' th' planters has been inside of th' Traverspine, an' no Mountaineers has left th' post yet."

The others joined him and scrutinized the cutting, then looked for other human signs. Near by they found the charred wood of a recent fire and some spruce boughs that had served for a bed within a day or two, which was proved by their freshly broken ends. It had been the couch of a single man.

"Micmac John, sure!" said Ed.

"An' what's he doin' here?" asked Bill. "He has no traps or huntin' grounds handy t' this."

"I'm thinkin' 'tis no good he's after," said Dick. "'Tis sure he, an' he'll be givin' us trouble, stealin' our fur an' maybe worse. But if I gets hold o' he, he'll be sorry for his meddlin', if meddlin' he's after, an' it's sure all he's here for."

They hurried back to pitch camp, and when the fire was made the porcupine was thrown upon the blaze, and allowed to remain there until its quills and hair were scorched to a cinder. Then Dick, who superintended the cooking, pulled it out, scraped it and dressed it. On either side of the fire he drove a stake and across the tops of these stakes tied a cross pole. From the centre of this pole the porcupine was suspended by a string, so that it hung low and near enough to the fire to roast nicely, while it was twirled around on the string. It was soon sending out a delicious odour, and in an hour was quite done, and ready to be served. A dainty morsel it was to the hungry voyageurs, resembling in some respects roast pig, and every scrap of it they devoured.

The next morning all the goods were carried over the portage, and a wearisome fight began against the current of the river, which was so swift above this point as to preclude sailing or even rowing. A rope was tied to the bow of the boat and on this three of the men hauled, while the other stood in the craft and with a pole kept it clear of rocks and other obstructions. For several days this method of travel continued—tracking it is called. Sometimes the men were forced along the sides of almost perpendicular banks, often they waded in the water and frequently met obstacles like projecting cliffs, around which they passed with the greatest difficulty.

At the Porcupine Rapids everything was lashed securely into the boat, as a precaution in case of accident, but they overcame the rapid without mishap, and finally they reached Gull Island Lake, a broadening of the river in safety, and were able to resume their oars again. It was a great relief after the long siege of tracking, and Ed voiced the feelings of all in the remark:

"Pullin' at th' oars is hard when ye has nothin' harder t' do, but trackin's so much harder, pullin' seems easy alongside un."

"Aye," said Dick, "th' thing a man's doin's always the hardest work un ever done. 'Tis because ye forgets how hard th' things is that ye've done afore."

"An' it's just the same in winter. When a frosty spell comes folks thinks 'tis th' frostiest time they ever knew. If 'twere, th' winters, I 'lows'd be gettin' so cold folks couldn't stand un. I recollects one frosty spell——"

"Now none o' yer yarns, Ed. Th' Lord'll be strikin' ye dead in His anger some day when ye're tellin' what ain't so."

"I tells no yarns as ain't so, an' I can prove un all—leastways I could a proved this un, only it so happens as I were alone. As I was sayin', 'twere so cold one night last winter that when I was boilin' o' my kettle an' left th' door o' th' tilt open for a bit while I steps outside, th' wind blowin' in on th' kettle all th' time hits th' steam at th' spout—an' what does ye think I sees when I comes in?"

"Ye sees steam, o' course, an' what else could ye see, now?"

"'Twere so cold—that wind—blowin' right on th' spout where th' steam comes out, when I comes in I looks an' I can't believe what I sees myself. Well, now, I sees th' steam froze solid, an' a string o' ice hangin' from th' spout right down t' th' floor o' th' tilt, an' th' kettle boilin' merry all th' time. That's what I sees, an'——"

"Now stop yer lyin', Ed. Ye knows no un——"

"A bear! A bear!" interrupted Bob, excitedly. "See un! See un there comin' straight to that rock!"

Sure enough, a couple Of hundred yards away a big black bear was lumbering right down towards them, and if it kept its course would pass a large boulder standing some fifty yards back from the river bank. The animal had not seen the boat nor scented the men, for the wind was blowing from it towards them.

"Run her in here," said Bob, indicating a bit of bank out of the bear's range of vision, "an' let me ashore t' have a chance at un."

The instant the boat touched land he grabbed his gun—a single-barrelled, muzzle loader—bounded noiselessly ashore, and stooping low gained the shelter of the boulder unobserved.

The unsuspecting bear came leisurely on, bent, no doubt, upon securing a drink of water to wash down a feast of blueberries of which it had just partaken, and seemingly occupied by the pleasant reveries that follow a good meal and go with a full stomach. Bob could hear it coming now, and raised his gun ready to give it the load the moment it passed the rock. Then, suddenly, he remembered that he had loaded the gun that morning with shot, when hunting a flock of partridges, and had failed to reload with ball. To kill a bear with a partridge load of shot was out of the question, and to wound the bear at close quarters was dangerous, for a wounded bear with its enemy within reach is pretty sure to retaliate.

Just at the instant this thought flashed through Bob's mind the big black side of the bear appeared not ten feet from the muzzle of his gun, and before the lad realized it he had pulled the trigger.

Bob did not stop to see the result of the shot, but ran at full speed towards the boat. The bear gave an angry growl, and for a moment bit at the wound in its side, then in a rage took after him.

It was not over fifty yards to the boat, and though Bob had a few seconds the start, the bear seemed likely to catch him before he could reach it, for clumsy though they are in appearance, they are fast travellers when occasion demands. Half the distance was covered in a jiffy, but the bear was almost at his heels. A few more leaps and he would be within reach of safety. He could fairly feel the bear's breath. Then his foot caught a projecting branch and he fell at full length directly in front of the infuriated animal.

IV[ToC]

SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS

When Bob went ashore Dick followed as far as a clump of bushes at the top of the bank below which the boat was concealed, and crouching there witnessed Bob's flight from the bear, and was very close to him when he fell. Dick had already drawn a bead on the animal's head, and just at the moment Bob stumbled fired. The bear made one blind strike with his paw and then fell forward, its momentum sending it upon Bob's sprawling legs, Dick laughed uproariously at the boy as he extricated himself.

"Well, now," he roared, "'twere as fine a race as I ever see—as I ever see—an' ye were handy t' winnin' but for th' tumble. A rare fine race."

Bob was rather shamefaced, for an old hunter would scarcely have forgotten himself to such an extent as to go bear hunting with a partridge load in his gun, and he did not like to be laughed at.

"Anyhow," said he, "I let un have un first. An' I led un down where you could shoot un. An' he's a good fat un," he commented kicking the carcass.

Ed and Bill had arrived now and all hands went to work at once skinning the bear.

"Speakin' o' bein' chased by bears," remarked Ed as they worked, "onct I were chased pretty hard myself an' that time I come handy t' bein' done for sure enough."

"An' how were that?" asked Bob.

"'Twere one winter an' I were tendin' my trail. I stops at noon t' boil th' kettle, an' just has th' fire goin' fine an' th' water over when all t' a sudden I hears a noise behind me and turnin' sees a black bear right handy t' me—th' biggest black bear I ever seen—an' makin' fer me. I jumps up an' grabs my gun an' lets un have it, but wi' th' suddenness on it I misses, an' away I starts an' 'twere lucky I has my racquets on."

"Were this in winter?" asked Dick.

"It were in winter."

"Th' bears as I knows don't travel in winter. They sleeps then, leastways all but white bears."

"Well, this were in winter an' this bear weren't sleepin' much. As I was sayin'——"

"An' he took after ye without bein' provoked?"

"An' he did an' right smart."

"Well he were a queer bear—a queer un—th' queerest I ever hear tell about. Awake in winter an' takin' after folks without bein' provoked. 'Tis th' first black bear I ever heard tell about that done that. I knows bears pretty well an' they alus takes tother way about as fast as their legs 'll carry un."

"Now, if you wants me t' tell about this bear ye'll ha' t' stop interruptin'."

"No one said as they wanted ye to."

"Now I'm goin' t' tell un whatever."

"As I were sayin', th' bear he takes after me wi' his best licks an' I takes off an' tries t' load my gun as I runs. I drops in a han'ful o' powder an' then finds I gone an' left my ball pouch at th' fire. It were pretty hard runnin' wi' my racquets sinkin' in th' snow, which were new an' soft an' I were losin' ground an' gettin' winded an' 'twere lookin' like un's goin' t' cotch me sure. All t' onct I see a place where the snow's drifted up three fathoms deep agin a ledge an' even wi' th' top of un. I makes for un an' runs right over th' upper side an' th' bear he comes too, but he has no racquets and th' snow's soft, bein' fresh drift an' down he goes sinkin' most out o' sight an' th' more un wallers th' worse off un is."

"An' what does you do?" asks Bob.

"What does I do? I stops an' laughs at un a bit. Then I lashes my sheath knife on th' end o' a pole spear-like, an' sticks th' bear back o' th' fore leg an' kills un, an' then I has bear's meat wi' my tea, an' in th' spring gets four dollars from th' company for the skin."

In twenty minutes they had the pelt removed from the bear and Dick generously insisted upon Bob taking it as the first-fruits of his inland hunt, saying: "Ye earned he wi' yer runnin'."

The best of the meat was cut from the carcass, and that night thick, luscious steaks were broiled for supper, and the remainder packed for future use on the journey.

Fine weather had attended the voyageurs thus far but that night the sky clouded heavily and when they emerged from the tent the next morning a thick blanket of snow covered the earth and weighted down the branches of the spruce trees. The storm had spent itself in the night, however, and the day was clear and sparkling. Very beautiful the white world looked when the sun came to light it up; but the snow made tracking less easy, and warned the travellers that no time must be lost in reaching their destination, for it was a harbinger of the winter blasts and blizzards soon to blow.

Early that afternoon they came in view of the rushing waters of the Gull Island Rapids, with their big foam crested waves angrily assailing the rocks that here and there raised their ominous heads above the torrent. The greater length of these rapids can be tracked, with some short portages around the worst places. Before entering them everything was lashed securely into the boat, as at the Porcupine Rapids, and the tracking line fastened a few inches back of the bow leaving enough loose end to run to the stern and this was tied securely there to relieve the unusual strain on the bow fastening. Ed took the position of steersman in the boat, while the other three were to haul upon the line.

When all was made ready and secure, they started forward, bringing the craft into the heavy water, which opposed its progress so vigorously that it seemed as though the rope must surely snap. Stronger and stronger became the strain and harder and harder pulled the men. All of Ed's skill was required to keep the boat straight in the treacherous cross current eddies where the water swept down past the half-hidden rocks in the river bed.

They were pushing on tediously but surely when suddenly and without warning the fastening at the bow broke loose, the boat swung away into the foam, and in a moment was swallowed up beneath the waves. The rear fastening held however and the boat was thrown in against the bank.

But Ed had disappeared in the fearful flood of rushing white water. The other three stood appalled. It seemed to them that no power on earth could save him. He must certainly be dashed to death upon the rocks or smothered beneath the onrushing foam.

For a moment all were inert, paralyzed. Then Dick, accustomed to act quickly in every emergency, slung the line around a boulder, took a half hitch to secure it and, without stopping to see whether it would hold or not, ran down stream at top speed with Bob and Bill at his heels.

V[ToC]

THE TRAILS ARE REACHED

Ed had been cast away in rapids before, and when he found himself in the water, with the wilderness traveller's quick appreciation of the conditions, he lay limp, without a struggle. If he permitted the current to carry him in its own way on its course, he might be swept past the rocks uninjured to the still water below. If one struggle was made it might throw him out of the current's course against a boulder, where he would be pounded to death or rendered unconscious and surely drowned. He was swept on much more rapidly than his companions could run and quite hidden from them by the big foam-crested waves.

It seemed ages to the helpless man before he felt his speed slacken and finally found himself in the eddy where they had begun to track. Here he struck out for the river bank only a few yards distant, and, half drowned, succeeded in pulling himself ashore. A few minutes later, when the others came running down, they found him, to their great relief, sitting on the bank quite safe, wringing the water from his clothing, and their fear that he was injured was quickly dispelled by his looking up as they approached and remarking, as though nothing unusual had occurred,

"Bathin's chilly this time o' year. Let's put on a fire an' boil th'kettle."

"I don't know as we got a kettle or anythin' else," said Dick, laughing at Ed's bedraggled appearance and matter-of-fact manner. "We better go back an' see. I hitched th' trackin' line to a rock, but I don't know's she's held."

"Well, let's look. I'm a bit damp, an' thinkin' I wants a fire, whatever."

A cold northwest wind had sprung up in the afternoon and the snow was drifting unpleasantly and before the boat was reached Ed's wet garments were frozen stiff as a coat of mail and he was so chilled through that he could scarcely walk. The line had held and they found the boat in an eddy below a high big boulder. It was submerged, but quite safe, with everything, thanks to the careful lashings, in its place, save a shoulder of bear's meat that had loosened and washed away.

"I thinks, lads, we'll be makin' camp here. Whilst I puts a fire on an' boils th' kettle t' warm Ed up, you pitch camp. 'Twill be nigh sun-down afore Ed gets dried out, an' too late t' go any farther," suggested Dick.

In a few minutes the fire was roaring and Ed thawing out and drinking hot tea as he basked in the blaze, while Dick chopped fire-wood and Bob and Bill unloaded the boat and put up the tent and made it snug for the night.

Heretofore they had found the outside camp-fire quite sufficient for their needs, and had not gone to the trouble of setting up the stove, but it was yet some time before dark, and as the wet clothing and outfit could be much more easily and quickly dried under the shelter of the heated tent than in the drifting snow by the open fire, it was decided to put the stove in use on this occasion. Bob selected a flat stone upon which to rest it, for without this protection the moss beneath, coming into contact with the hot metal, would have dried quickly and taken fire.

When everything was brought in and distributed in the best place to dry, Bob took some birch bark, thrust it into the stove and lighted it. Instantly it flared up as though it had been oil soaked. This made excellent kindling for the wood that was piled on top, and in an incredibly short time the tent was warm and snug as any house. Ed left the open fire and joined Bob and Bill, and in a few minutes Dick came in with an armful of wood.

"Well, un had a good wettin' an' a cold souse," said he, as he piled the wood neatly behind the stove, addressing himself to Ed, who, now quite recovered from his chill, stood with his back to the stove, puffing contentedly at his pipe, with the steam pouring out of his wet clothes.

"'Twere just a fine time wi' th' dip I had ten year ago th' winter comin'," said Ed, ruminatively. "'Twere nothin' to that un."

"An' where were that?" asked Dick.

"I were out o' tea in March, an' handy to havin' no tobaccy, an' I says t' myself, 'Ed, ye can't stay in th' bush till th' break up wi' nary a bit o' tea, and ye'd die wi'out tobaccy. Now ye got t' make th' cruise t' th' Post.' Well, I fixes up my traps, an' packs grub for a week on my flat sled (toboggan) an' off I goes. 'Twere fair goin' wi' good hard footin' an' I makes fine time. Below th' Gull Rapids, just above where I come ashore th' day, I takes t' th' ice thinkin' un good, an' 'twere lucky I has my racquets lashed on th' flat sled an' not walkin' wi' un, for I never could a swum wi' un on. Two fathoms from th' shore I steps on bad ice an' in I goes, head an' all, an' th' current snatches me off'n my feet an' carries me under th' ice, an' afore I knows un I finds th' water carryin' me along as fast as a deer when he gets th' wind."

"An' how did un get out?" asked Bob in open-mouthed wonder.

"'Twere sure a hard fix under th' ice," remarked Bill, equally interested.

"A wonderful hard fix, a wonderful hard fix, under th' ice, an' I were handy t' stayin' under un," said Ed, taking evident delight in keeping his auditors in suspense. "Aye, a wonderful hard fix," continued he, while he hacked pieces from his tobacco plug and filled his pipe.

"An' where were I?" asked Dick, making a quick calculation of past events. "I were huntin' wi' un ten year ago, an' I don't mind ye're gettin' in th' ice."

"'Twere th' winter un were laid up wi' th' lame leg, an' poor Frank Morgan were huntin' along wi' me. Frank were lost th' same spring in th' Bay. Does un mind that?"

"'Twere only nine year ago I were laid up an' Frank were huntin' my trail," said Dick.

"Well, maybe 'twere only nine year; 'twere nine or ten year ago," Ed continued, with some show of impatience at Dick's questioning. "Leastways 'twere thereabouts. Well, I finds myself away off from th' hole I'd dropped into, an' no way o' findin' he. The river were low an' had settled a foot below th' ice, which were four or five feet thick over my head, an' no way o' cuttin' out. So what does I do?"

"An' what does un do?" asked Dick.

"What does I do? I keeps shallow water near th' shore an' holdin' my head betwixt ice an' water makes down t' th' Porcupine Rapids. 'Twere a long an' wearisome pull, an' thinks I, 'Tis too much—un's done for now.' After a time I sees light an' I goes for un. 'Twere a place near a rock where th' water swingin' around had kept th' ice thin. I gets t' un an' makes a footin' on th' rock. I gets out my knife an' finds th' ice breaks easy, an' cuts a hole an' crawls out. By th' time I gets on th' ice I were pretty handy t' givin' up wi' th' cold."

"'Twere a close call," assented Dick, as he puffed at his pipe meditatively.

"How far did un go under th' ice?" asked Bill, who had been much interested in the narrative.

"Handy t' two mile."

For several days after this the men worked very hard from early dawn until the evening darkness drove them into camp. The current was swift and the rapids great surging torrents of angry water that seemed bent upon driving them back. One after another the Horseshoe, the Ninipi, and finally, after much toil, the Mouni Rapids were met and conquered.

The weather was stormy and disagreeable. Nearly every day the air was filled with driving snow or beating cold rain that kept them wet to the skin and would have sapped the courage and broken the spirit of less determined men. But they did not mind it. It was the sort of thing they had been accustomed to all their life.

With each morning, Bob, full of the wilderness spirit, took up the work with as much enthusiasm as on the day he left Wolf Bight. At night when he was very tired and just a bit homesick, he would try to picture to himself the little cabin that now seemed far, far away, and he would say to himself,

"If I could spend th' night there now, an' be back here in th' mornin', 'twould be fine. But when I does go back, the goin' home'll be fine, an' pay for all th' bein' away. An' the Lard lets me, I'll have th' fur t' send Emily t' th' doctors an' make she well."

One day the clouds grew tired of sending forth snow and rain, and the wind forgot to blow, and the waters became weary of their rushing. The morning broke clear and beautiful, and the sun, in a blaze of red and orange grandeur, displayed the world in all its rugged primeval beauty. The travellers had reached Lake Wonakapow, a widening of the river, where the waters were smooth and no current opposed their progress. For the first time in many days the sails were hoisted, and, released from the hard work, the men sat back to enjoy the rest, while a fair breeze sent them up the lake.

"'Tis fine t' have a spell from th' trackin'," remarked Ed as he lighted his pipe.

"Aye, 'tis that," assented Dick, "an' we been makin' rare good time wi' this bad weather. We're three days ahead o' my reckonin'."

How beautiful it was! The water, deep and dark, leading far away, every rugged hill capped with snow, and the white peaks sparkling in the sunshine. A loon laughed at them as they passed, and an invisible wolf on a mountainside sent forth its long weird cry of defiance.

They sailed quietly on for an hour or two. Finally Ed pointed out to Bob a small log shack standing a few yards back from the shore, saying:

"An' there's my tilt. Here I leaves un."

Bill Campbell was at the tiller, and the boat was headed to a strip of sandy beach near the tilt. Presently they landed. Ed's things were separated from the others and taken ashore, and all hands helped him carry them up to the tilt.

There was no window in the shack and the doorway was not over four feet high. Within was a single room about six by eight feet in size, with a rude couch built of saplings, running along two sides, upon which spruce boughs, used the previous year and now dry and dead, were strewn for a bed. The floor was of earth. The tilt contained a sheet iron stove similar to the one Bob had brought, but no other furniture save a few cooking utensils. The round logs of which the rough building was constructed, were well chinked between them with moss, making it snug and warm.

Chart of the Trails.

This was where Ed kept his base of supplies. His trail began here and ran inland and nearly northward for some distance to a lake whose shores it skirted, and then, taking a swing to the southwest, came back to the river again and ended where Dick's began, and the two trappers had a tilt there which they used in common. Between these tilts were four others at intervals of twelve to fifteen miles, for night shelters, the distance between them constituting a day's work, the trail from end to end being about seventy miles long.

The trails which the other three were to hunt led off, one from the other—Dick's, Bill's and then the Big Hill trail, with tilts at the juncture points and along them in a similar manner to the arrangement of Ed's, and each trail covering about the same number of miles as his. Each man could therefore walk the length of his trail in five days, if the weather were good, and, starting from one end on Monday morning have a tilt to sleep in each night and reach his last tilt on the other end Friday night. This gave him Saturday in which to do odd jobs like mending, and Sunday for rest, before taking up the round again on Monday.

It was yet too early by three weeks to begin the actual trapping, but much in the way of preparation had to be done in the meantime. This was Tuesday, and it was agreed that two weeks from the following Saturday Ed and Dick should be at the tilt where their trails met and Bill and Bob at the junction of their trails, ready to start their work on the next Monday. This would bring Dick and Bill together on the following Friday night and Bob and Ed would each be alone, one at either end of the series of trails and more than a hundred miles from his nearest neighbour.

"I hopes your first cruise'll be a good un, an' you'll be doin' fine th' winter, Bob. Have a care now for th' Nascaupees," said Ed as they shook hands at parting.

"Thanks," answered Bob, "an' I hopes you'll be havin' a fine hunt too."

Then they were off, and Ed's long winter's work began.

The next afternoon Dick's first tilt was reached, and a part of his provisions and some of Ed's that they had brought on for him, were unloaded there. Dick, however, decided to go with the young men to the tilt at the beginning of the Big Hill trail, to help them haul the boat up and make it snug for the winter, saying, "I'm thinkin' you might find her too heavy, an' I'll go on an' give a hand, an' cut across to my trail, which I can do handy enough in a day, havin' no pack."

An hour before dark on Friday evening they reached the tilt. Dick was the first to enter it, and as he pushed open the door he stopped with the exclamation:

"That rascal Micmac!"

VI[ToC]