Tighter and tighter grew the grip of winter. As January advanced the days grew longer, and the weather became more bitterly and terribly cold. The great white, limitless wilderness was frozen now into a silence awful in its solemnity. Even the wild creatures of the forest feared the blighting hand of the frost king, and lay quiet in their lairs, and the traps yielded small returns for the tremendous effort put forth by the hunters. It seemed to David and Andy as they plodded the dreary trails during this period that they were the only living things in all the silent, solitary world.
Sudden and terrible, too, were the storms—so terrible that no man could have resisted exposure to them. And sometimes the trappers were held prisoners for days at a time in the tilts, for to have gone forth would have been to go to certain destruction.
This was a trying period. Idleness always breeds discontent, and the trappers chafed, and became moody, when storms interfered with the regular routine of their work. Following the Christmas celebration, Indian Jake lapsed into his customary habit of long, silent broodings, when he seemed to have no wish for companionship and was scarcely aware of the boys’ presence.
“We’ve been goin’ long enough to be at the tilt,” said David
With the end of February and coming of March the cold gradually, though reluctantly, lessened. The animals began again to stir more actively and the traps to yield, as in earlier winter. There were still the storms to contend against, however. They came now with even less warning than formerly, and David and Andy found themselves in many a tight pinch, and had adventures a-plenty, but adventure is the daily portion of the trapper. They suffered with frost-bitten cheeks and noses now and again, but they never thought of this as a hardship. Every one who ventures forth in a Labrador winter expects sooner or later to have frost-bitten cheeks and nose, and seldom is he disappointed.
“I’m wishin’, now, I had my snow glasses here, but they’re down in th’ tilt,” remarked David one bright morning in early April when the snow, reflecting the sun rays, glistened with dazzling brilliancy.
“I’m wishin’ I had mine, too, but I didn’t bring un, either,” said Andy. “’Twas a bit hazy when we left th’ tilt, and I didn’t think I’d need un.”
“’Tis time t’ wear un now, and we mustn’t come out again without un, whether ’tis hazy or no. There’ll be a bad glare on th’ snow out on th’ mesh today,” David predicted.
“’Twon’t be long now till we strikes up th’ traps, will it?” asked Andy.
“Th’ fur’ll be good till th’ end of April, and we’ll strike up th’ end of April, whatever,” said David.
“I’m wonderin’ and wonderin’ how Pop’s leg is, and how th’ mist in Jamie’s eyes is. I’ll be wonderful glad t’ get home,” and there was longing in Andy’s voice.
“I hope Pop’s ’most well, and th’ mist isn’t gettin’ thicker. I been wonderin’ and wonderin’, too.”
“We got a fine lot o’ fur, Davy. Pop’ll be wonderful glad.”
“That he will. We’ve got ’most as much as Pop got last year.”
“With Pop’s share o’ Indian Jake’s, and with what Doctor Joe gets, I’m thinkin’ there’ll be plenty t’ pay for Jamie’s goin’ t’ have th’ great doctor cut th’ mist away and maybe t’ pay for part of next year’s outfit too.”
“Aye, plenty, but I has a wonderful strange feelin’ lately, Andy, about Indian Jake not tellin’ what fur he has. Indian Jake’s fine, though, and I take it ’tis just his way.”
“He don’t talk much, Davy.”
“No, he don’t talk much, and he never tells us what fur he’s gettin’. I wonders why?”
“I wonders why, now?”
Thus discussing Indian Jake’s strange behavior and stranger reticence, and conversing of home, a subject of which they never tired, they traveled on and out upon the dazzling white of the marsh. As David had predicted, the glare was intense, and when they reached the cluster of spruce trees where they were accustomed to boil their kettle for dinner at midday, Andy complained that his eyes pained him badly and he could not see aright.
“We’ll wait a bit, till th’ noon glare is past,” suggested David. “There’s plenty o’ time t’ get back t’ th’ tilt, with th’ long day now. My eyes hurt wonderful bad too.”
So they built up their fire and for an hour lounged upon a seat of spruce boughs they had arranged, holding their eyes closed, while they talked, to relieve them from the intense light reflected by the snow. The rest, however, was of no avail. The pain in their eyes grew steadily worse, and it was becoming more difficult to raise the lids, and presently David announced that they had best return to the tilt as quickly as possible.
“’Tis hard t’ see anything,” said Andy, as they set forth.
“’Tis snowblindness. We’ll go straight for th’ tilt,” suggested David, “and not stop t’ fix th’ traps.”
A wind was springing up and very soon the sky became overcast. In a little while snow began to fall. David in advance, Andy directly behind him, the two walked for a time in silence. At length David stopped.
“Andy, b’y, can you see th’ trail?” he asked. “My eyes is wonderful bad.”
“No,” said Andy, “’tis growing dark t’ me.”
The snow thickened as they plodded along, and the rising wind whirled it about in clouds.
“’Twill be a nasty night,” remarked David at the end of another hour.
“’Twill that,” agreed Andy.
“I’m glad we turned back when we did,” said David.
For a long time neither spoke. Both were stumbling. The pain in their eyes was intense, and it was only with the greatest effort that they could open them for brief intervals.
“We’ve been goin’ long enough t’ be at th’ tilt,” said David, breaking the silence again.
“I were thinkin’ so,” said Andy.
Again they walked on in silence, each with the fear in his heart that they were lost, but neither voicing it until suddenly David stopped with the exclamation:
“We’re not on th’ mesh at all, Andy! We’re on th’ river!”
And sure enough, turning to the right they discovered the thick willow hedge which lined the river bank.
“Th’ snow is so deep on th’ ice I didn’t know th’ difference,” explained David.
“And I didn’t know th’ difference,” said Andy.
“We missed th’ tilt, and—and I’m afraid we’ll have a hard time, between th’ blindness and th’ storm, findin’ it, Andy,” David said, hesitatingly.
“We’ll—we’ll have a hard time,” agreed Andy.
“But,” said David, with hope in his voice, “if we keeps goin’ down th’ river we’ll come t’ th’ Half-way tilt, whatever, and from th’ time we been walkin’ we must have come a long way down th’ river now. If we keeps goin’ we’ll sure come t’ th’ Half-way tilt before dark.”
“We’ll sure come to un if we keeps goin’,” said Andy.
“Keep plenty o’ grit,” cheered David.
“Aye, plenty o’ grit—and a stout heart,” said Andy.
The wind was steadily increasing, and even now driving the snow down the river valley in suffocating clouds, but the two boys kept bravely on. Once Andy fell, and David helped him up, and a little later he stumbled and fell again, and again David helped him to his feet.
“I’m—wonderful—tired,” said Andy.
“’Tis wearisome work,” soothed David.
“’Tis growin’ night,” said Andy.
“Aye, ’tis growin’ night,” David admitted reluctantly.
Again and again Andy stumbled and fell, and presently David relieved him of his rifle and carried both his own and Andy’s.
“I’m—so—sleepy,” breathed Andy.
“Keep your grit, Andy,” David cheered, though his own voice betrayed the overpowering weariness that was stealing over him.
“We’ll—keep—our—grit,” murmured Andy in a strange and scarcely intelligible voice.
Whenever Andy fell now, as he did with growing frequency, David found it necessary to exert his utmost strength to lift the boy to his feet. At length the horrible truth forced itself upon David. Half blind and exhausted, they were hopelessly lost in the wilderness, amidst the terrors of a northern blizzard.
Staggering with weariness and exhaustion, he dragged the half unconscious Andy through the first fortunate opening in the willow brush upon which he stumbled as he blindly groped his way. In doing so he had a vague, forlorn hope that in the shelter of the forest he might succeed in kindling a fire. But here, as everywhere, utter darkness surrounded him, made darker by his attack of snowblindness, and he dared not release for an instant his grip upon Andy’s arm, in fear that he might lose him.
Now, when Andy fell, David, who held his arm, fell with him, and lying there a sense of vast relief stole over David, and he wished to sleep. He could hear the wind shrieking and moaning through the tree tops. It seemed far away, and lying there in the snow beyond its reach he was warm and comfortable, and his eyes were heavy. Suddenly the realization that they must keep moving at whatever cost of effort flashed upon his brain, and rising to his knees he shook Andy, and with desperation called to him to get up, and finally dragged himself and Andy to their feet.
“Keep—your—grit—Andy! We—must—keep our—grit, b’y!” he encouraged.
“Keep—our—grit,” mumbled Andy, and the two staggered forward again.
And then there came before David’s half-closed, blinded eyes what appeared like a dim cloud of fire, rising out of the blackness. Clinging to Andy’s arm, he lurched forward, and stumbled and fell, with Andy by his side, and with the far-away moan of the wind in his ears, like distant unearthly voices. And now he lay still and did not try to rise.
David was vaguely aware of a babel of human voices, and that he was being lifted, and then came a sudden consciousness of warmth, accompanied by the pleasant odor of burning wood.
He attempted to open his eyes, but the effort resulted in such sharp pain that he directly closed them again. Dimly, however, he had seen in the brief interval his eyes were open that Andy was by his side, and the dark forms of Indians bending over them, and the blaze of a fire. Then he fell into the heavy slumber of complete exhaustion.
With returning consciousness the following day David’s first thought was that he was in his bunk in the Namaycush Lake tilt. He could hear the blizzard still raging outside. Vaguely he felt relieved that the storm would not permit him and Andy to venture out upon the trails, and that he might rest a little longer, for he was aware of an unusual lassitude and weariness and a desire to remain in bed.
Then there stole upon him the recollection of the terrible struggle in the blizzard, how Andy had become exhausted, and his own desperate effort to keep Andy upon his feet and to keep moving himself. Dimly he recalled the faint cloud of fire that had suddenly risen before him in the darkness at a moment when he felt his strength exhausted and he sank into the snow, and then the sensation of warmth, the vision of Indians and the echo of voices.
David’s senses were awake now, and sitting up he attempted to look about him. Faintly, as through a smoke, he saw a fire and an Indian woman bending over it. Two Indians sat opposite, smoking, and there were other Indians by the fire. He recognized at once the interior of an Indian wigwam. Then the pain in his eyes compelled him to close them again immediately.
“Beeg snow. Mooch bad,” said one of the Indians good-naturedly, observing that David was awake.
“Where am I?” asked David.
“Sa-peesh tent,” said the Indian.
“Andy! Is Andy all right?” David asked apprehensively.
“Andy sleep mooch,” laughed the Indian. “Heem all right.”
David was vastly relieved by this assurance. He knew Sa-peesh, the old Mountaineer Indian, well, for Sa-peesh had camped at the post each summer for as many years as David could remember, and of all the Indians that came there was the only one who could speak English.
With Sa-peesh’s limited command of English, and the few Indian words that David understood, he presently learned that he and Andy had fallen headlong against the wigwam in the night, that the Indians had thus discovered and rescued them, and that they were quite welcome to remain until they were sufficiently recovered from exhaustion and snowblindness to return to the tilts. He also learned that they were a considerable distance to the eastward of Namaycush Lake, and had doubtless traveled up, instead of, as they had supposed, down, the river.
Satisfied with the assurance that Andy was quite safe, David lay back again upon the bed of boughs, as there was nothing else to do, and as he lay there he recounted to himself the happenings of the previous day.
The cloud of fire that had appeared so suddenly before him, then, was the Indians’ tent, with the firelight filtering through it and he whispered a little prayer of thanksgiving that God had guided him and Andy to it—and that they had kept their grit. Then he heard a movement by his side, and Andy’s voice speaking his name.
“Here I be, Andy!” said David eagerly. “How you feelin’?”
“Not so bad if ’tweren’t for th’ hurt in my eyes. Where are we, Davy?” asked Andy.
“In Sa-peesh’s tent, and away up th’ river instead o’ down,” answered David. “We ran into their tent in th’ dark. ’Twas good we kept our grit, Andy, or we’d ha’ perished before we got here.”
“We did keep our grit, now, didn’t we Davy, and stout hearts, too?” and there was pride and satisfaction in Andy’s voice.
“And now,” continued David, “we’ll be here a week, whatever, before th’ snowblind leaves us, and then in another fortnight ’twill be time t’ strike up th’ traps.”
“But we made a fine hunt, whatever,” said Andy.
“That we did!” agreed David. “A fine hunt, now!”
While the boys were talking Mrs. Sa-peesh was dipping generous portions of boiled venison from a kettle that simmered over the fire, and now Sa-peesh interrupted the boys with an invitation to eat, setting before them, at the same time, the dish of venison, two tin cups and a kettle of tea. And though they could open their eyes only to narrow slits, because of the pain, there was no complaint to be made with their appetite, and they managed well enough.
And thus, miraculously, David and Andy were rescued, and they were safe enough, and comfortable enough, too, in the wigwam with Sa-peesh and Mrs. Sa-peesh, and Mesh-tuk (tree), a young Indian who lived with them and hunted with Sa-peesh, and Amish-ku (beaver) and Ni-pit-se (summer), the two children. A-mish-ku, a lad of twelve, and Ni-pit-se, a maiden of fifteen years, were exceedingly well pleased that they were to have the companionship of David and Andy for so long, and they chattered to the two boys in their wild Indian tongue, and there was a deal of sport for all, learning to pronounce each other’s strange words.
It was Saturday evening that week when Indian Jake reached the Narrows tilt, for he too had been delayed by the storm. He was not in the least astonished or disturbed that the boys did not appear as usual.
“Held up by the storm,” said he to himself. “They’ll be here tomorrow.”
He was somewhat at a loss to account for their non-arrival on Sunday. The storm had continued but two days, and he could think of no good reason why they should have been delayed longer. He slept not the less soundly, however, Sunday night, and on Monday morning as usual set out upon the weekly round of his trail, well satisfied that the boys would appear later.
He was mystified, however, upon returning the following Friday, to discover that David and Andy had not visited the tilt during his absence, and still more mystified when they failed to appear either that evening or Saturday evening.
“Something has happened,” he said, when it grew so late he was assured they would not come. “I’ll go over their trail tomorrow and take a look for them.”
Accordingly, early on Sunday morning he set out with his long, swinging, rapid stride for the Halfway tilt, and making no pause to visit traps, and not following the windings of the trail but taking a straight course, reached there a considerable time before midday. A brief survey was sufficient to satisfy him that the boys had not been there for many days, and without halting to prepare his dinner he continued to the Namaycush Lake tilt.
It was early afternoon of the long April day when the tilt came into view, and as he approached it his sharp eyes took in every detail of the surroundings. There had been no storm since the blizzard in which David and Andy were lost, and the half-breed was quick to discover no track of snowshoes.
“Not here since the storm!” he exclaimed.
The boys’ toboggan leaned against the tilt outside, and within, the half-breed discovered their sleeping bags and other equipment which they usually carried with them. He closed the tilt and set out upon the marsh, but no sign or mark could be found to indicate the course they had taken.
“Lost in the storm,” he said, turning back after an hour’s fruitless search. “No use looking for them any longer. They’ve perished. They’re buried deep enough under the drifts somewhere, and when the thaw comes they’ll be food for foxes and wolves.”
Indian Jake proceeded to kindle a fire in the stove, and, while the kettle was boiling, to examine two marten pelts, which hung from the ceiling. These he took down and stuffed into the bosom of his shirt. Then turning his attention to a search for food, he discovered some fat pork and stale camp bread. He sliced some of the pork into a frying pan and placed it upon the stove. Indian Jake was hungry, for he had eaten nothing since early morning.
When he had disposed of his simple and hastily prepared dinner, the half-breed set out upon his return without delay. When night fell the trail was lighted by a brilliant moon, and he did not stop until near midnight, when he reached the Narrows tilt.
Indian Jake kindled a fire, boiled the kettle, and ate a belated supper. Then he took down a bag suspended from the ceiling, opened it, and drew forth the furs which David and Andy had captured during the winter.
The pelts were in the condition in which they had been cured, the fur side turned in, the fleshy side out, for, as previously explained, in skinning a fur-bearing animal the trapper draws the pelt off whole, necessarily turning it as he draws it down over the head, and it is then stretched upon a properly shaped board, after which all fat and fleshy adhesions are scraped away.
One by one Indian Jake turned down each pelt sufficiently to examine the color and texture of the fur, turned it back again, and laid it on the bunk. Thus he first went over the marten pelts, laying them in three piles, graded as to value and quality. In the same manner he graded the fox and mink pelts. There were also four lynx and the three wolf skins. Indian Jake had previously examined every pelt, to be sure, but never before with the careful criticism he now displayed.
This done he mentally calculated the value, and uttered a huge grunt of satisfaction.
“Worth five hundred dollars—maybe six hundred—at the Bay, and they’d bring nine hundred in Quebec. Good! One more round o’ th’ trail, and I’ll strike up, and go. Won’t be safe t’ wait for the break up. Wish I had my fur here; I’d go in the mornin’!”
The following morning the half-breed left the tilt at the usual hour, gathering his fur at his tilts as he went, and striking up his traps when he had examined them for his week’s catch; and on Friday drew his toboggan as usual to the Narrows tilt.
On Saturday Indian Jake assorted his own furs in the same manner in which he had previously assorted those of David and Andy.
“Ugh!” he grunted. “Thought I’d tell ’em what I had! Wonder what they’d said t’ that!”
And he held up to his admiring gaze a beautiful silver fox skin, shaking it briskly as he did so, that all its glossy luster might appear to advantage.
“Worth six hundred anyhow,” he muttered with satisfaction.
Then he drew out another, shook and examined it in like manner.
“Not so good,” he said. “Worth four hundred, though, at the Post. Even if I hadn’t got these two silvers, it’s the best hunt I ever had. Worth with the silvers about fifteen hundred. And Tom Angus thinks he’ll get a third of it! Ugh!”
The balance of the day was occupied in getting together the things he wished to take with him. The venison had long since been eaten. There was some whitefish, taken upon a second fishing excursion, four rabbits and several partridges. A small amount of flour, salt pork and tea also remained. These he carefully packed. On Sunday morning Indian Jake lashed upon his toboggan all of the provisions, a cotton tent, a tent stove, his sleeping bag and other equipment, and all the furs.
Snow was falling when the half-breed closed the tilt door, and, hauling his well-laden toboggan, turned southward. Presently the thick falling flakes closed upon him, and covered his tracks, and no sign or mark remained to indicate in which direction he had gone. The Narrows tilt and the fur trails were now deserted indeed.
The Jug was lonely enough after the departure of David and Andy in September. Margaret and Jamie missed them, perhaps, more than Thomas, who was accustomed to the solitude of the trails. Margaret was quite sure the place would have been well-nigh unbearable but for Doctor Joe, who went about his work whistling or singing snatches of song, and who always had a smile or a joke when he breezed into the cabin. And his evening stories were something to look forward to.
Doctor Joe was bustling about from morning until night, these days, preparing for his winter’s work. There was no end of work to be done about the cabin, that all might be made “ship-shape,” as he said, “and snug for any storm that might blow.”
Thomas was as patient as ever a man with a broken leg could be. But it was quite natural that he should wish to be up and about. A hundred times during these weeks he asked Doctor Joe if it were not time to take the “lashin’s” off his leg, and declared that he was “weary of dawdlin’ there in bed.” His restlessness was not to be wondered at, for never before in all his life had Thomas Angus “dawdled” in bed for a single day. Thomas Angus had always been an uncommonly strong and healthy man, for which he was duly thankful.
Never once after David and Andy departed did Jamie utter a word of complaint about the mist in his eyes. They had gone forth to do great deeds. They would meet, up there in that lonely land of mystery, many a bitter hardship, and they would have “plenty o’ grit, and keep their hearts stout, like a man’s,” for they had promised their father and Jamie they would. Why, then, should he complain? He, too, must keep plenty o’ grit, and a stout heart, and be brave and patient.
Perhaps, too, Jamie was becoming accustomed to the mist, as one will, in time, become accustomed to anything. Perhaps the abounding hope of youth helped him—and with Jamie it was the hope that one day he would see as well as ever he had—for was not the great doctor to work a wonderful cure—when summer came again? Jamie’s faith never wavered. He entertained no doubt that David and Andy and Indian Jake would meet with success, and bring back with them the furs necessary to meet the expense of the journey to New York. He never failed to ask for this in his prayers. Oh, that the faith of childhood, simple, abiding, unquestioning, might never be shattered! What a blessed consolation is faith! What a bulwark of strength in time of need!
Jamie often asked Margaret to describe the mountains to him as she saw them from the cabin windows. It was a vast satisfaction to have the assurance that they were still there, big and brave and strong, standing guard over the world beyond the Bay. And sometimes he would ask her to watch for the moment when the light from the setting sun tipped their highest peaks with glory, and tell him when God reached down to kiss the world good night.
“Now that leg!” announced Doctor Joe one day. “We’ll take the splints off and see what it looks like.”
“I’m wonderful glad t’ have un took off,” said Thomas, his face brightening visibly.
Doctor Joe laughed, as he went to work, and presently the bandages and splints were removed, and he surveyed the leg.
“I never saw a better job!” he exclaimed. “Straight and fine! It won’t be long, Thomas, till you’ll forget you ever had a broken leg!”
“She feels strange,” remarked Thomas.
“Does she, now?” laughed Doctor Joe.
“Aye, she does that! She pricks and hurts, and she wasn’t hurtin’ a bit when th’ lashin’s were on,” said Thomas.
“That’ll soon pass away. It’s the blood circulating,” Doctor Joe explained.
And after that it was not long until Thomas was moving about the cabin on a pair of rude crutches Doctor Joe had made for him, and mightily pleased he was.
“Plenty t’ be thankful for,” declared Thomas. “Here, now I’ll soon have as good a pair o’ legs as ever I had, with Doctor Joe’s mendin’, and if Doctor Joe hadn’t been here ’tis like as not, and liker too, I’d ha’ been crippled for life.”
Late in October winter snapped down upon them in a night. Everywhere the great bay was frozen, and there was no longer the sound of lapping waves upon the beach. Very soon, too, the cheerful voice of Roaring Brook, tumbling headlong over the rocks, was hushed into silence.
Rime filled the air, and the cabin windows became thick-crusted with a frost that never melted that livelong winter. Before the end of November the snow lay a full fathom deep every where, and there was no going abroad now, save upon snowshoes.
But there was wood enough ranked high in the shed to keep the big stove roaring and crackling merrily, and the cabin assumed a greater coziness than ever.
Thomas busied himself making snowshoes for future use, mending dog harness, and attending to innumerable odd jobs for which ordinarily in his busy existence he found small leisure.
“’Tis a blessin’ t’ feel I has th’ time for un without neglectin’ and makin’ a shift of other work,” he declared. Thomas found a blessing and a reason for thankfulness in everything.
Each morning almost before the break of dawn Doctor Joe would steal away into the cold, dreary gloom of the silent forest, and each night, as dusk was settling, they would hear his cheery call as he returned. This was the brightest hour of the day for Jamie and Margaret, aye and Thomas, too.
But following the fur trails from morning till night, and day after day, was hard and wearisome work for Doctor Joe. His success as a trapper was indifferent. He was not born and bred to it as were Thomas and the boys. There were days and days when he returned of nights empty handed, but he always wore a cheerful face and a smile when he entered the lighted cabin, no matter how gloomy it may have been in the dark woods. And if Thomas, perchance, had permitted himself to grow down-hearted, Doctor Joe’s smile and cheerfulness raised his spirits and drove the gloom away. There is no tonic more potent than a smile and a cheerful face. ’Tis a great mender of a sore heart.
Doctor Joe, however, in spite of his brave front, was deeply troubled at his lack of success on the trail. It was of vital importance that sufficient furs should be had to pay the way for Jamie’s operation, and he was not in the least certain of the result of David’s and Andy’s winter hunt, or altogether satisfied as to their safety. He could never quite clear his mind of doubts as to Indian Jake’s responsibility and integrity. So much depended upon the boys and Indian Jake! Jamie’s whole future depended upon them or so Doctor Joe believed. He was watching Jamie’s eyes carefully and constantly, and there was no doubt that the mist was gradually but constantly thickening.
When the northern posts are ice-bound the last autumn mail for the coast is left by the mail boat each year at a post three hundred miles to the southward, and carried thence to its destination by dog sledge. Customarily this mail reaches the Hudson Bay Post in Eskimo Bay on the evening of the twenty-second or twenty-third of December. Doctor Joe was keenly anxious for its arrival this year, for he was confident it would contain the hoped-for reply from the great New York surgeon, and as the time approached he was indeed in a state of nervous expectancy.
There was still the uncertainty as to whether or no the surgeon would be in New York the following summer. Doctor Joe had promised that he would be there, or at least held out such strong hopes that Jamie and Thomas and Margaret were depending upon them as a promise, and with the utmost faith. Doctor Joe felt the responsibility keenly, and as the weeks wore away this feeling of personal responsibility increased. He did not dare to think of Jamie’s future should his plans fail, and when the thought did force itself upon him a strange panic seized him.
Doctor Joe’s anxiety was so keen that he must needs lose no time in receiving the letter that he hoped would come to him, and two days before Christmas, when he came home from the trail in the evening, he announced that he was to go to the Post the following morning.
“How would you like to take the cruise with me, Margaret?” he asked. “You haven’t been away from The Jug in six months.”
“Oh, ’twould be fine!” exclaimed Margaret, delighted at the prospect. “I’d like so much t’ go!”
“Then I’ll drive the dogs over, and take you,” said Doctor Joe. “Your father and Jamie will do very well without you for one day, and I’m not going out on my trail on Christmas eve. Besides, we’re very apt to meet Santa Claus, and we mustn’t miss seeing him, for he may have something for Jamie, and the old rascal would like as not go right on and never leave it, if we don’t remind him.”
Doctor Joe gave a quizzical glance toward Jamie, who was immediately intensely excited.
“Jamie and I’ll do fine alone for one day,” declared Thomas, “though I don’t know how we’d ever do without Margaret longer than that. It never would do to miss old Santa Claus, though, and Margaret must go along.”
“Ask he—ask he—if you sees he, now, t’ bring me a knife!” exclaimed Jamie, vastly excited. “A huntin’ knife! When th’ mist leaves my eyes I’ll have un t’ use when I goes huntin’ with Pop. Tell he that, and he’ll sure give un to me!”
“Very well,” agreed Doctor Joe, “we’ll tell him. But supposing he has no hunting knives? He may be all out of them. Then what shall he bring you?”
“A jackknife,” said Jamie, with prompt decision. “A jackknife that’ll be all my own.”
Accordingly the following morning Doctor Joe made ready the sledge and harnessed the eight big dogs, and when Margaret heard the dogs yelping in eagerness to be away she came running out, all bundled up, her eyes sparkling and face aglow with the prospect of the journey. When she had seated herself in a big box on the rear of the sledge, Doctor Joe wrapped caribou skins about her and tucked her in as snug and warm as could be. Then he seized the front of the komatik, as they called the sledge, jerked it sharply toward him to break it loose from the snow, and as he did so shouted “Oo-isht! Oo-isht!” With a creak the sledge was freed and the dogs, straining at their traces, shot ahead at a gallop down the steep slope to the ice.
The sledge once in motion coasted after the dogs at a mad pace. Doctor Joe, throwing himself upon it, with his feet extending forward and over the side, drove his heels into the snow in rapid succession, while he pulled back with all his might in an effort to retard the speed. Margaret, enveloped by the cloud of snow which Doctor Joe kicked up, clung desperately to the swaying box. It was exciting and thrilling. At the foot of the slope was a mass of ice hummocks, piled up by the tide, and as the dogs and sledge dashed among them the speed slackened. Here, with quick, agile jerks upon the front of the runners, Doctor Joe steered them safely to the smooth white surface of the Bay.
Now the dogs settled to a comfortable trot. Doctor Joe seated himself upon the sledge, and looking back he and Margaret waved their hands gaily to Thomas and Jamie, who were standing at the cabin door, while Thomas told Jamie what was taking place.
It was dusk when the howl of eager dogs announced the return of Doctor Joe and Margaret. Thomas and Jamie hastened to the door, and were in time to greet them as the sledge drew up the incline.
“Oh, we had a fine trip!” exclaimed Margaret enthusiastically, as she threw off the caribou skins and stepped lightly from the box, quite as pleased and excited with her journey and visit to the trading post as any country girl in our land would be with a journey of a hundred miles and a visit to a great city.
“Did you see Santa Claus?” asked Jamie in high expectation.
“Oh, yes, we saw him!” answered Margaret gaily.
“And is he t’ come here?” and Jamie was on tiptoe with excitement.
“He’s t’ come here!” declared Margaret. “He’ll not be passing here, whatever!”
“We told him that he must come here, whatever he did!” called Doctor Joe, who was unharnessing the dogs. “We told him ’twould be a sorry day for him if he passed The Jug without stopping.”
“O-h-h!” breathed Jamie.
And presently, when Doctor Joe had turned the dogs loose and fed them, he came stamping into the cabin all aglow with the good news of a letter from the great doctor, who had written that he would cut the mist away from Jamie’s eyes. That in itself was the greatest Christmas present that could have come to any of them. Jamie asked a hundred questions about it, and they all declared that they were never before in all their lives made so glad of a Christmas eve.
That night, with faith complete, Jamie hung up his stocking, and sure enough on Christmas morning it contained not only the coveted knife but a little package of candy. And to Margaret’s great surprise, for she had not in the least expected to be remembered, Santa Claus had brought her a beautiful knitted sweater to wear about when the cabin was chilly, and she was no less happy with the gift than was Jamie with his.
And Thomas and Doctor Joe were as happy as either of them. Santa Claus must be a very happy old man indeed, for the greatest happiness in the world comes from making others happy. And it is not the worth of a gift in money, either, that counts for value, but the depth of love that goes with it. And after all, every one who does his best to make others happy at Christmas time or at any other time is a Santa Claus.
As the weeks passed the mist in Jamie’s eyes grew so thick that at length he ceased his old pathetic habit of brushing his hand before them to drive it away. It hurt Margaret’s sympathetic heart solely to see him groping for things that were usually near at hand, but which he could not find.
Thomas, who had long since abandoned his crutches, and was as busy as ever, was openly worried over Jamie’s condition, and more than once Margaret discovered Doctor Joe staring long and steadily at Jamie with what she thought was a look of fear in his face, and it startled her. Was it possible, she asked herself, that the blindness might come too soon for the great doctor to work his marvelous cure?
But Doctor Joe said there was no cause for worry, on that score, and for the most part he was outwardly cheerful enough. There was still time, he declared—unless the eyes darkened much more rapidly in the coming weeks than they had during the early winter, and there was no reason to expect that they would.
“It all depends now upon the furs the boys and Indian Jake bring out,” he said, “and they’ll surely bring enough between them to pay expenses. Four hundred dollars will be plenty, and if we have three hundred I’ll take Jamie, anyhow. My little hunt will fetch a hundred, and they’ll be certain to have enough to make up the balance.”
“O, aye, they’ll sure have that much,” and Thomas brightened.
“The boys should be out the first of June, and Jamie and I will go on the first mail boat, the last of the month,” said Doctor Joe. “It all depends on our getting the furs. We must have the furs, and there’s no reason to doubt we’ll have them.”
Jamie had faith, and plenty o’ grit, too. He had no doubt that David and Andy would come home with a fine lot of furs.
And so they all waited and watched hopefully and expectantly for the return of the hunters, never once dreaming of disappointment or failure, or how strangely awry their plans were to go, as so often is the case with the best laid plans.
Indian Jake took a straight course down the lake and through the Narrows. Crossing the lower expansion he turned upon the broad white bed of the river. This he followed until he reached a point where the ice, covering the swift flowing current, became unsafe. Here he entered the forest skirting the north bank, and under cover of the trees kept his rapid pace until mid-afternoon.
During the forenoon the storm had been steadily increasing in violence. Traveling had become uncomfortable and difficult, and, choosing a convenient place to pitch his tent, Indian Jake stretched it between two trees. A full ten feet of snow covered the forest floor and with no attempt to clear a camping place he proceeded to make himself comfortable on the surface of the snow.
He first secured the tent around the bottom with long pegs that sunk deep into the snow and held the canvas firm and taut. Then with his ax he cut two green butts of trees, and laying them side by side and a few inches apart just within the tent, erected his tent stove upon them. The green butts would not burn easily, and their ends, extending a considerable distance beyond the stove on each side, would support it and prevent its sinking when the snow beneath melted with the heat. From within the stove he withdrew three lengths of stovepipe, joined them and set them in position, and the stove was ready for a fire.
Before kindling the fire, however, Indian Jake gathered several armfuls of boughs, snapping them from low-hanging limbs with a deft twist of the wrist. These he spread with some care, as a carpet for the tent, and as a protection from the snow beneath. Indian Jake’s shelter now prepared to his satisfaction, he unlashed the toboggan, carried the contents within, and stowed them away with a view to comfort and convenience.
Then taking his ax he devoted himself to chopping firewood of proper length for the stove. Swinging his ax dexterously and industriously for thirty minutes, a sufficient supply was accumulated to serve his needs for several hours. This he piled in neat tiers just within the tent entrance, where it would be at hand when required. With a piece of birch bark for tinder, he now lighted a fire in the stove, and taking his kettle and ax went to the river for water.
When he returned a few minutes later the tent was warm and comfortable. He placed the kettle upon the stove, removed his adiky, and turned his attention to the preparation of dinner. Indian Jake had eaten nothing since early morning, and he was hungry.
Some fried whitefish and pork, some generous pieces of camp bread, and several cups of hot tea made a substantial and satisfying meal. When they were disposed of, the half-breed sliced black tobacco from a plug, filled his pipe, lighted it from the fire with a shaving, and settled himself for luxurious rest.
After the manner of those who are much alone, Indian Jake had the habit of thinking aloud, and now he proceeded to converse audibly with himself.
“Fifteen hundred dollars worth of fur,” said he. “It’s a fine hunt, takin’ it all, with what th’ lads got. I never had half as much fur at one time in my life before. I made a good hunt myself. With theirs it makes a fine lot. But they’re dead, and they’ll never know what I got; I never told ’em. And they’ll never know what I does with any of it.”
He was silent for a time, then continued:
“They was good fellers t’ hunt with. They had a good lot o’ grit, too. It was pretty hard for ’em sometimes, on nasty days, but they stuck to it, and got th’ fur. I had some good times with ’em, too. Had a good time Christmas, surprisin’ ’em with th’ goose and puddin’. I wonder why ’tis I like t’ surprise folks, and get a good time out’n doin’ it. I had one surprise for ’em they’ll never know about. I wonder how they’d have liked that surprise.
“They brought th’ fur down to th’ Narrows tilt when I told ’em to. Th’ little feller wanted me t’ bring mine in too, but I wa’n’t goin’ t’ let ’em know what I had. He kinder suspicioned me, or somethin’. The way it turned out their fur was safe enough. I’d have got th’ fur anyhow when I went up t’ look for ’em.
“If I’d known where their traps were set I could ha’ gone over ’em. They might have some fur in ’em. I could ’a’ struck ’em up and took care of ’em, too, like I did on my trail. ’Twouldn’t have hurt me any to do that much for Tom Angus. He let me hunt his trail. But he’ll find ’em when he comes in next fall.”
After a little silence he mused:
“I wonder how Tom Angus is goin’ t’ take it when they don’t show up.”
Indian Jake’s pipe had gone out. He pushed the ashes down in the bowl, relit it, renewed the fire in the stove, and rising looked out between the tent flaps at the falling snow. Returning to his seat he remarked:
“Likely t’ be a nasty day tomorrow, and I may as well stay here. No use travelin’ in nasty weather. They’s plenty o’ time. Guess I’ll take it easy. Nobody to worry about me, and I’m just as much t’ home here as anywhere. I got grub enough. I may meet up with some o’ th’ Injuns, and I can travel with them.
“Home!” said he, after a silence. “Th’ lads were thinkin’ a big lot about th’ time when they’d go home. Now they’ll never go there. Home’s th’ finest place in th’ world t’ be when a feller has one. Huh! What’s th’ use thinkin’ about that. I’ll be gettin’ homesick for a home I ain’t got. This tent’s a good enough home. It’s got t’ suit me, anyhow. It’s all right.”
The next day it stormed, as Indian Jake had predicted, and he did not leave his camp, but the morning following was clear, and he again set forward.
At midday the half-breed halted to boil the kettle, and making his way toward the river to obtain water, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. The wind was blowing up from the opposite side of the river.
“Smoke!” he exclaimed. “They’s some one camped across the river!”
Cautiously he stole down to the river bank, and from the cover of brush scanned the opposite shore. His sharp eyes quickly detected half hidden by trees and drift, a small log tilt. Smoke was rising from the protruding stovepipe.
“Who can that be trappin’ in there?” Indian Jake asked himself.
As though in answer to his question the tilt door opened, and Uncle Ben Rudder, with kettle and ax, came down to the river, cut open a water hole, filled his kettle and returned to the tilt.
“Th’ old wolverine!” exclaimed Indian Jake when Uncle Ben had disappeared. “What’s he doin’ in here? Tried t’ keep me from huntin’! If he’d had his way Thomas Angus wouldn’t have let me have the Seal Lake trail! Always meddlin’ with other folks’ business! Well, I got th’ trail, and th’ fur too, you old skunk!”
The half-breed grinned triumphantly, and his face was not pleasant to see then.
“He’ll find out somethin’ before I’m through with him,” added Indian Jake, and turning about with his unfilled kettle he cautiously returned under cover of the trees to his toboggan. “Wouldn’t he like t’ run on me now! Wouldn’t he like t’ know about th’ fur I’ve got!”
Indian Jake resumed his journey. To light a fire would be too dangerous, for even with the wind in an opposite direction, a whiff of smoke carried across the river might disclose his presence to Uncle Ben, and Indian Jake had reason to look upon Uncle Ben as an enemy that just at the present time he did not care to encounter.
Camping at night and traveling leisurely by day, Indian Jake continued down the valley of the Nascaupee until, one afternoon, a little way above the place where the river empties into Grand Lake, he fell upon numerous indications of the presence of bears. A careful examination satisfied him that these were made late the previous fall, and that there were at least two, and possibly more bears, hibernating in the immediate vicinity. His Indian instinct to permit no game to escape him was aroused. Presently the bears would come forth from their long winter sleep. They would be hungry, and could easily be trapped. The temptation was too strong to be resisted.
“I’ll have time t’ get away over th’ ice,” he decided. “I can fix up some sort of a canoe while I’m waitin’, and if I get caught by th’ break-up I can make out. Like as not some of th’ Injuns’ll be along anyhow. They’ll let me go along with ’em. I’m thinkin’ I’ll stay here a while and trap bear.”
And so Indian Jake pitched his camp, made himself comfortable, and began the building of deadfalls, in anticipation of the time when the bears would come forth from their dens.
Here in the seclusion of the forest the half-breed was safe enough from discovery. None would pass this way save the Indians who were his friends, and Uncle Ben Rudder, upon whom he looked as an uncompromising enemy. But not until after the break-up in June would Uncle Ben pass down the river and into Grand Lake in his boat. Indian Jake had the advantage of time. He would break camp and be away before June. In any case there was no probability that Uncle Ben would go ashore here, and even though he did, Indian Jake’s tent was sufficiently hidden to escape detection. He took good care that this should be the case, and he also took good care to leave no trace along the river bank that would give hint of his presence, or arouse suspicion that he was in the vicinity.
David and Andy were made as comfortable as ever they could be in a wigwam. Sa-peesh and his family, but particularly A-mish-ku and Ni-pit-se, were well pleased to have them there. They had seen none save the members of their own family since the previous autumn, and A-mish-ku, after the manner of boys the world over, craved the companionship of other boys, and he and Ni-pit-se were glad to see new faces and hear new voices.
Ni-pit-se was shy at first, but her timidity passed away quickly enough. And she took it upon herself to minister to David’s and Andy’s needs, and she found a vast deal of pleasure in nursing them. Their coming, and these new duties, made a welcome break in the monotony of the days, for even an Indian maiden wearies sometimes of the changeless solitary routine of her wilderness life.
And so, despite the pain and discomfort of their temporary affliction, David and Andy were well content, and recovered so rapidly from their attack of snowblindness that they might have returned to their trail at the end of a week but for the fact that Andy’s feet were frostbitten, and still too sore to walk so far. And so, of necessity, they tarried another week in the wigwam of Sa-peesh, much to the satisfaction of the A-mish-ku and Ni-pit-se.
During this fortnight the days were rapidly lengthening and the sun was growing stronger, though as yet there was no softening of the snow even at midday and the nights and mornings were crisp and frosty enough. With every day, as the sun grew brighter, the glare on the snow increased until the world was a dazzling expanse of scintillating, blinding light. No longer was it safe to go abroad, even for an hour, with naked eyes, save in dull and cloudy weather.
David and Andy had learned their lesson. They had no intention of becoming snowblind again if it could be avoided. And so, while they waited for Andy’s feet to heal, they fashioned, each for himself, a pair of goggles, after the manner of those worn by Sa-peesh and his family.
These goggles were made from round pieces of wood, hollowed out like shells and large enough to cover the eyes comfortably, with the hollows whittled deep enough to permit the eyelids to open and close within them. Two of these were fastened together the proper distance apart to fit the eyes, with a piece of buckskin. In the bottom of each hollow a narrow slit was cut lengthwise of the goggle. Through this slit the wearer was to look. The interior of the hollow was blacked with charcoal from the fire. A buckskin thong fastened to the outer edge of each of the goggles, and tied behind the head, kept them in place.
At length Andy declared that his feet were well enough healed to permit him to return to the trails. Both he and David were anxious to resume their work, for the trapping season was nearing its close. They wished, also, to satisfy Indian Jake’s anxiety as to their safety, for they had no doubt he was anxious, and possibly much troubled and mystified at their long absence.
There was much regret in the wigwam of Sa-peesh, and loudly did Sa-peesh and Mrs. Sa-peesh, and especially A-mish-ku and Ni-pit-se lament that the visit should have been so short. It is the custom of Indian women to bestow gifts upon friends setting out upon a journey. This is a pleasant and profitable custom for the friends, and the women believe that the spirits will bless the giver with much good fortune, and thus they are themselves amply recompensed.
Accordingly, when David and Andy made ready for departure on a bright April morning, Mrs. Sa-peesh presented each with a bladder filled with marrow fat, and a quantity of jerked venison, while each received from Ni-pit-se a beautiful pair of bead-embroidered moccasins which she had made with her own hands.
And when they thanked Sa-peesh and everybody for all the kindness that had been shown them, and said farewell, the whole family came out before the wigwam to shout good wishes after them and to wave their hands to them, until the boys were quite out of their sight.
“We’ll soon be findin’ out, now, what Indian Jake thought when we didn’t get t’ th’ Narrows, and ’twill be three weeks when we gets there Saturday,” remarked David.
“I wonders, now, what he thinks about un!” suggested Andy.
“He thinks we perished,” said David, “and he’s likely been up t’ Namaycush lookin’ for us. ’Twill be a fine surprise to he when he comes back Saturday.”
“’Tis fine t’ be alive!” exclaimed Andy, breathing the good pure air.
“’Tis that!” said David, “and t’ have such a fine hunt t’ take home. Pop’ll be wonderful pleased!”
“Won’t he now!” Andy agreed. “It won’t be much over a month, whatever, will it, Davy, before th’ break up, and we can start for home?”
“No, th’ last of May, whatever,” said David, “and won’t it be fine, Andy, t’ go home with all th’ furs? They’s plenty, I knows, now, t’ pay for Jamie goin’ t’ have th’ great doctor cure his eyes. Indian Jake said so, and he’s a wonderful good judge. There’s our share of his fur, too. And won’t it be fine t’ have Jamie see again as well as ever he did!”
“Won’t it, now!” exclaimed Andy. “’Tis hard t’ wait till th’ time comes t’ go!”
They were a long distance from the tilt. Walking as fast as ever they could, favoring Andy’s sore feet, and with a stop only to boil the kettle at noon, it was near sundown when they saw the little log building scarcely visible above the drifts.
“There’s no tracks about,” said Andy, as they approached the door.
“If Indian Jake came up ’twas a week ago, whatever,” suggested David. “Th’ snow since then covered his tracks. He was sure t’ be lookin’ for us when we didn’t go t’ th’ Narrows.”
This surmise was confirmed upon entering the tilt. The frying pan used by Indian Jake in cooking his dinner sat unwashed upon the stove, and there were other evidences of his visit. And the boys immediately missed the two marten skins which they had left there, and which the half-breed had taken.
“He were thinkin’, now, we had perished, and so he took th’ fur,” David explained. “He were thinkin’ t’ take all our fur home t’ Pop when he takes his, and he’s feelin’ dreadful bad about our bein’ dead.”
“And won’t he be glad when we gets t’ th’ Narrows!” exclaimed Andy.
“That he will!” said David. “’Twill be a fine surprise for he!”
The following morning, with light, expectant hearts, they set out for the Narrows, attending to their snow-clogged traps in the usual manner, and on Friday evening, highly excited at the expected surprise and pleasure of Indian Jake when they appeared, crossed the river ice opposite the tilt.
“He hasn’t come yet,” said David as they neared the tilt. “Th’ snow fell since he left Monday, and there’s no tracks where he’s come back.”
“We’ll have a fire, and supper cookin’ when he comes, an’ won’t he be surprised and glad t’ see us!” exclaimed Andy.
And so, their hearts filled with the pleasure they anticipated giving Indian Jake, they pushed open the door and entered the tilt. Then they stood aghast, and almost terror stricken.
The place gave unmistakable evidence of having been looted and abandoned. The furs were gone. The tent was not there, nor was the extra tent stove.
“He’s gone!” exclaimed Andy, presently, a frightened look on his face.
“Gone!” echoed David. “And he’s took all our furs!”
“What—will—Jamie do now?” and Andy was making a manly effort to restrain the tears.
“He’ll go—blind!” and David, too, was on the point of tears. “And—we—worked so hard t’—get th’ furs t’—save his eyes!”
Neither of them felt like eating, but, by force of habit they lighted a fire in the stove, filled the kettle from the water hole at the lake, and prepared to cook their supper.
“They’s no tea! And no flour! And no pork!” announced David after a search. “Indian Jake took all th’ grub!”
“Took all th’ grub!” exclaimed Andy.
“Aye, all th’ grub!” David repeated.
“Whatever will we do now?” asked Andy in consternation.
“They’s a bit of tea in our pack on th’ toboggan. Unlash un and bring th’ things right in, Andy,” said David. “We have th’ bladders of fat, and most of th’ dried deer’s meat th’ Injuns gave us, and some hard bread left in th’ bag too. We’ll make out.”
There were also three ptarmigans that Andy had shot during the day, and a rabbit they had taken from one of the traps. An inventory assured him that, so far as provisions were concerned, they would do very well indeed for the present.
“Indian Jake didn’t take any grub out o’ th’ Halfway tilt or th’ Namaycush Lake tilt, either,” said David, as the two stood contemplating their small stock of provisions. “What we has in th’ other tilts ain’t much, but ’twill have t’ do us till th’ break up.”
“’Twon’t last till then!” objected Andy. “And even if it does we won’t have any grub left t’ eat on th’ way home after th’ break up.”
“We’ll have t’ make out somehow,” insisted David. “We’ll fix un this way, Andy. Whilst I tends th’ traps you’ll hunt for pa’tridges and snare rabbits. With what you kills we’ll make out, and save what’s in th’ tilts t’ use goin’ home.”
“Th’ huntin’s about over, why can’t we strike up and go now?” asked Andy.
“We can’t do that,” David objected. “We has t’ wait for th’ break up t’ take th’ boat out. We can’t take un out till th’ lake and th’ river gets free of ice. We’ll have t’ take un, whatever, because Pop’ll need un t’ bring in his outfit when he comes back in th’ fall t’ hunt.”
“We’ll have t’ take th’ tilt stove, too, to use in th’ tent goin’ out,” suggested Andy. “Indian Jake took th’ tent stove.”
“We won’t need un,” said David. “We won’t have any tent. Indian Jake took un. We’ll make out though. ’Twill be warm enough then, but ’tis a rainy time of year, and we’ll have t’ sleep wet of nights, without a tent or stove.”
Supper of boiled ptarmigan, hardtack, marrow fat for butter, and tea was as good a meal as any could wish, and quite as good as any to which David and Andy were accustomed on the trail. But there was the future to be provided for.
“’Tis good Indian Jake didn’t take th’ grub from th’ other tilts,” Andy observed, as they made the tilt tidy, for Indian Jake had left it in a state of confusion.
“He took ’most everything else except th’ tilts,” said David a little bitterly. “With havin’ t’ keep most of th’ flour and pork that’s in th’ other tilts to use goin’ home, it’ll take all our spare time huntin’ a livin’, and we’ll have t’ make out that way till we goes.”
“We might catch some whitefish and namaycush,” suggested Andy. “We caught a rare fine lot when we went fishin’ with Indian Jake.”
“We can now!” agreed David enthusiastically. “Oh, we’ll make out fine with th’ birds and rabbits we gets, if we can get whitefish and namaycush too. We won’t have bread, but th’ Injuns mostly does without bread. They make out with what they get huntin’ and fishin’.”
“We’ll try for th’ fish tomorrow whatever!” said Andy.
“Th’ first thing in th’ mornin’,” seconded David.
A search, however, for Indian Jake’s fishing tackle disclosed the fact that he had taken it with him, as he had taken nearly everything else of value. No cod line and not a fish hook could be found, though every nook and cranny of the tilt was inspected.
“We’ll have t’ give fishin’ up,” said David, when they had satisfied themselves that no tackle was to be found. “We can’t fish without hooks and line.”
“No,” admitted Andy dejectedly, “we can’t fish.”
“But we’ll make out, whatever,” said David confidently. “We’ll get birds and rabbits enough, though they’re wonderful tiresome eatin’, without bread or pork. And goin’ out we’ll be like t’ kill a porcupine or two.”
“We’ll make out,” agreed Andy.
“It’s—it’s th’ fur makes me feel bad,” said David after a moment’s silence.
“Aye; th’ fur,” repeated Andy.
“And Jamie,” added David, sadly. “I can’t get he off my mind. I’d rather be dead myself than have he go blind. ’Tis bein’ dead t’ go blind, but worse. ’Tisn’t natural t’ be blind, and folks has t’ die some time.”
“Th’ thought of un makes me feel almost—sick,” said Andy.
They fell silent, and for nearly half an hour neither spoke. Then David remarked, a more cheerful note in his voice:
“I been thinkin’, now, that we may be misjudgin’ Indian Jake. I been thinkin’ that maybe when Indian Jake makes up his mind we perished, he has no heart t’ keep on trappin’ here alone, and he takes th’ furs and starts right out with un t’ give un t’ Pop, and t’ tell Pop what he thinks happened to us.”
“Do you think that, now?” asked Andy hopefully.
“That’s what I thinks,” said David, reluctant to abandon faith in Indian Jake even now.
“’Twill be—a terrible worry for Pop—and all of un,” suggested Andy.
“Aye,” agreed David, “but think how glad they’ll be when we comes home safe; and it won’t be long, now. Week after next we’ll strike up, and th’ break-up’ll come by th’ last of May, whatever, and we’ll start for home.”
“Suppose, now—suppose Indian Jake does as Uncle Ben said he would,” Andy suggested apprehensively. “Suppose he don’t take th’ furs t’ Pop, but goes off with un, th’ way he did before?”
“I’m—I’m thinkin’ he won’t do that,” solaced David, though his voice was not as convincing as Andy would have wished.
“Maybe—there’s nothin’ t’ worry over,” agreed Andy.
“That makes me think o’ Doctor Joe’s song,” said David. “Let’s sing un, Andy. She’s a wonderful cheerin’ song.”
“Let’s do,” said Andy, and together they sang, loud and lustily: