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

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

UNGAVA BOB

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."

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.

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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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 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.

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."

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.

"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, 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.

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.

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."

"'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.

"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,

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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."

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.

"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.

"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.