a song brought from old France many years before, to the purely Canadian “Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne.”

The two lads had heard the latter song many times and were familiar with its story, but they had never felt the tragedy of it so strongly before. It is the death lament of the brave Cadieux, voyageur, trader and interpreter. Cadieux was living with his Algonquin wife and others of her tribe at the Portage of Sept-chutes, or Seven Falls, on the Ottawa River, when news arrived of the approach of a party of Iroquois. The Iroquois would certainly ambush the portage. The only way of escape lay through the rapids. Some one must draw the enemy into the woods and far enough away to give the refugees chance to escape by water unseen. Cadieux and a young Algonquin volunteered for the perilous service. Exposing themselves to view, they drew the Iroquois away from the river, while the rest of the little settlement ran the rapids and escaped. Cadieux and his Algonquin companion became separated, either by accident or design, and the Indian was killed. Three days and nights the Iroquois pursued the white man, who went without sleep all that time. In the meantime his wife and her companions reached safety. Days passed, and Cadieux did not rejoin them as he had agreed to. At last three men set out to seek for him. At Sept-chutes, near the Petit Rocher, or Little Rock, they found a lodge of branches, and beside it, lying in a shallow trench with a cross at its head, the wasted body of Cadieux. On his breast, under his folded hands, was a sheet of birch bark covered with writing, the words, according to tradition, of his death lament. He had become lost in his wanderings and had returned to his starting place, where he had died of exhaustion and starvation.

Suffering from cold and hunger, huddled around the fire in their little wigwam, the wind roaring through the trees overhead, and the snow and sleet beating upon the bark, the lads realized as never before the tragedy of Cadieux’s fate. Unless the storm ceased soon and they found food promptly, they, too, might perish in the wilderness far from human aid. It was no wonder that Jean’s voice, hoarse from cold and weak from hunger, trembled as he sang the closing lines.

XXX
THE END OF THE TWISTED BLACKSMITH

Somewhat to the boys’ surprise, Nangotook showed no signs, during all those days of suffering, of the sullen moroseness that had characterized his behavior in former periods of misfortune. The Ojibwa was no physical coward, and now that his companions had ceased to defy the spirits of the lake and had turned towards home, he displayed no more fear or hesitation. He was unusually talkative and cheerful, and helped to pass the long hours by relating the interesting experiences of his varied and adventurous life and all the Ojibwa tales and myths he knew, many of them devoted to the adventures and mishaps of the great Nanabozho.

The three made use of every device they could think of to keep up their spirits, but when, at last, the sleet and snow ceased, and morning dawned clear and bright, the two lads were weak with hunger, and Ronald, though more heavily dressed than Jean, had a racking cough that shook him from head to foot. Nangotook showed the effects of privation less than the other two, though he had scarcely eaten his share of the scanty food they had been able to collect.

The wind still blew a gale, a bitterly cold gale from the north, and even the little bay was too rough for travel. Icy snow lay several inches deep in the woods and loaded the evergreens. All that day the three searched the woods and ridges for game, but obtained nothing but a squirrel and two blue jays. There was little indeed to the jays, once their feathers were off. Nangotook put them into the bark pot with the squirrel, and added a handful of hazelnuts and some tubers he had dug, which he called “bear potatoes.” The resulting broth was hot and comforting, if not a very nourishing meal for three starved men.

All the next day the wind continued to blow so hard that the canoe could not be launched or the net set, but Nangotook and Jean went through the woods and over the ridges to the trout stream, and caught good strings of fish. The soup of the night before had made Ronald, in his half starved condition, ill, and he was so weak and coughed so hard that the Indian bade him remain in camp and keep warm and dry.

In spite of the cold wind, the snow had melted rapidly where the sun reached it, and had softened in the woods. By that night the rocks and open places were bare again. The hunters scanned the softened snow eagerly for tracks, but found no signs of hare or caribou, nothing but a few squirrel prints.

All three slept soundly that night, after their meal of broiled trout. By morning the wind had gone down and the waves had subsided so that the canoe could be launched. The voyageurs put out from shore at once. After setting their net in a favorable place, they tried line fishing. While paddling around a group of three small islands that lay in a direct line with the point, they caught two good lake trout. They promptly decided to go ashore, and have breakfast at once. So many rocks sprinkled the water about the islands that they were difficult to approach. A safe landing was made, however, on a shelving rock beach, near an upright heap of boulders with bushes projecting from cracks and crannies.

While Jean was cleaning the fish, Etienne and Ronald, seeking for fire-wood, rounded the heap of rocks, and came suddenly on the remains of a camp. Branches slanted against the rock formed a rude shelter, and near it were the ashes of a fire. Glancing down at the blackened embers, Ronald touched with the toe of his moccasin a charred bone.

“Those fellows had more meat than we’ve seen lately,” he said. “They must have killed a caribou.”

The Indian was staring down at the bone. He stooped and picked it up, examined it a moment, and then held it out to Ronald.

“No addick ever had bone like that,” he said.

“What was it then, a moose?” asked the boy, holding out his hand for it. As he looked at it, his expression of curiosity changed to horror. He glanced up at Nangotook, and saw his own feelings reflected on the Ojibwa’s face. “The leg bone of a man,” the lad said chokingly.

Nangotook nodded, then glanced behind him swiftly, as if expecting to see some evil thing creeping up on him. “Windigo,” he said significantly. It was the name for the mythical, man-eating giants that figure in Ojibwa and other Algonquian legends, a name the Indians have extended to apply to all cannibals or men driven by starvation to feed on other human beings.

There was no mistaking the fact. Among the ashes and strewn about on the ground were other bones that told the story only too plainly. Moreover the deed was a recent one, for the fire had been burning in that spot since the storm cleared, and the charred bones had not lain there long. It was easy enough to see how the tragedy had occurred. A canoe had been cast upon the barren island by the storm, or had run against it in the fog that preceded. There was nothing on the island to eat. Even fuel had been scarce, for only the stumps of the few trees remained and most of the bushes had been cut. One of the men had died, or perhaps another one, crazed with hunger and misery, had murdered him, and the unfortunate had been cooked and eaten.

The horror of the place destroyed the lads’ appetite, and they were in haste to get away, but Nangotook was not ready to leave until he had examined the little rock island from end to end. He may have expected to find the cannibal in hiding somewhere. He did not find the guilty man, but he found further traces of him and of his victim. When the Ojibwa rejoined the boys, who, feeling no desire to see more of the island, had remained near the spot where they had landed, his face wore a look of disgust and loathing such as they had never seen there before. He had identified the victim of the cannibal feast.

“Cree killed Awishtoya and ate him,” he announced positively.

“Awishtoya, Le Forgeron,” cried Jean. “How do you know it was Le Forgeron?”

“Found his head.”

“His head?” gasped both boys.

Nangotook nodded. “Not dead long, only two or three days,” he added. “Found some of his clothes too, all soaked with blood. Cree killed him with knife. Windigo. Have to watch out for him now.” The Ojibwa shared the belief common among his people that a man who had once tasted human flesh acquired a desire for it, and would never be satisfied with anything else. Such men were considered to be only partly human, in league with evil spirits. They were outlaws, to be feared and abhorred and killed on sight, like the deadliest snake or the most dangerous of wild beasts.

Sickened at what they had discovered, the two boys were glad to get away from the ill-omened place. Le Forgeron Tordu was an evil man and their enemy. They knew that he would not have hesitated to destroy them in the most brutal manner, and they could not honestly feel sorrow that he was dead. But the manner of his death had shocked and nauseated them. Not to the worst man on earth could they have wished such a fate. Even stronger was their feeling of horror at the Indian who had done the thing. Nangotook had said that Le Forgeron abused the Cree. Evidently the latter had turned at last and had avenged himself. He had not struck in mere self-defense, however, for the blood-soaked shirt Nangotook had found proved that the Frenchman had been stabbed in the back.

The Ojibwa was deeply concerned over the escape of the murderer. He must have gone away by water, so it was evident that he still had a canoe, probably the one Le Forgeron had stolen from Jean and Ronald, when he set fire to the woods. Apparently then it had not been the loss of their boat, but merely the fury of the storm that had held him and his master prisoners on the little island. If, however, they had been so near to starvation as the Cree’s deed seemed to prove, they must in some way have lost both the caribou meat the Blacksmith had taken from the boys’ cache, and the remainder of their own stock of provisions. Probably they had run on the rocky island in the fog, or had been dashed ashore by the wind, and had lost their provisions and equipment in the wreck, though managing to save their canoe. There was no evidence that they had built a new one. Indeed the stumps of the trees they had cut indicated that no materials fit for canoe making grew on the island.

At any rate the Cree had escaped in some way, and might be at that moment lying in wait for the others on the shores of the bay or on one of the islands. They must keep a close lookout for him. The boys, as well as Nangotook, fully believed that, having once eaten human flesh, the Cree would, as all such Windigos were supposed to do, hunger for more. They devoutly hoped that he had no gun. Had it not been for the fear that he might be well armed, they would have searched the shores and islands for him, but he would surely have the advantage, as they must approach his hiding place by water, while he could lie concealed. If he had a gun, he could easily shoot them from cover. So they decided to waste no time on what would probably be a fruitless, if not a fatal, search, but to take advantage of the good weather to go on as rapidly as possible. Very likely he had left the neighborhood. They might overtake him, and if they did, a Windigo could expect no mercy from them.

They delayed only long enough to cook and eat their fish and to take up their net. Before their gruesome discovery, they had intended to remain at the bay to hunt and fish until the next morning, but so far they had found the place lacking in game. They would go on along shore as far as they could that day, and perhaps they might reach a better hunting ground. At least they would get away from the spot where they had suffered so much. It had acquired an added horror from the hideous tragedy on the little island.

XXXI
THE WINDIGO

The weather favored the voyageurs that day, and they were able to make good time for about twenty miles to a little cove, the mouth of a stream. There they landed to eat a supper of the fish they had caught on the way. The boys felt greatly encouraged when Etienne told them they had almost reached the southern end of Minong. Two or three hours more travel would bring them to a smaller island lying off the end of the large one. From there, he said, the weather favoring them, they could steer a straight course for the northwest shore of the lake and soon reach the Grande Portage. Deeply disappointed though the lads were at not finding the riches they had endured so much to gain, they felt a great sense of relief at the thought that their perilous journey was so near its end.

By the time they had reached the cove, the boys, who had only partly recovered from starvation and suffering, were very tired. After their supper of fish, they were glad to creep into a pile of balsam branches under the canoe and fall asleep immediately. But the night was cold and they had no cover but the branches. Several times one of the three had to crawl out, chilled and stiff, to replenish the fire that burned close to the raised side of the canoe. Usually it was the Indian who took this task upon himself, for he slept lightly and little, ready to spring up at the slightest unusual sound. He did not intend that the Windigo should creep on their camp without his knowing it.

Just as the stars were fading with the dawn, Nangotook was awakened suddenly. He lay still and listened. From up the river came faint sounds, the cracking of twigs, the rustling of branches. Noiselessly the Indian crept from under the canoe, listened a moment, and then made his way cautiously in the direction of the sounds. There was a splash in the stream. In the faint light he could see a black bulk against the water. Nearer and nearer he crept, until the dark form began to move slowly towards the opposite bank. Then, knowing he would get no better chance for a shot, Nangotook let fly an arrow, and then a second and a third in quick succession. Every arrow hit the mark, the black bulk plunged forward, wavered and fell sidewise with a great splash. The hunter sprang into the stream. Luckily the water, where the beast had fallen, was shallow, and Nangotook soon had his game, a full grown caribou, ashore. Here was meat in plenty for days to come.

He dragged the caribou back to camp and placed it near the fire. The boys were sleeping so soundly that his coming did not wake them, and he crept under the canoe without disturbing them. He did not sleep any more after that, but kept his eye on the meat. Once he heard the pad of soft feet beyond the fire, and rose to send an arrow towards a pair of gleaming eyes. He missed his aim, and the lynx slipped away in the darkness and did not return.

The boys were surprised and delighted when they saw the result of Etienne’s night hunting, but they were also a little chagrined when they realized that they had slept so soundly and carelessly that they had known nothing of what was going on. The day was too windy to permit the voyageurs to start out across the open lake for the northwest shore. They might have continued along the coast of Minong, but, as they had such a short distance to go in that direction, they decided to camp where they were until the caribou meat was dried. The spot was a favorable one, and they might not find another so good. Moreover there might be other game in the neighborhood, and there were certainly fish in the stream and off the rocks at its mouth. The net they had set the night before yielded a good catch of whitefish. It was the caribou meat that tasted best to the boys, however, and put new strength and spirit into them. The gruesome tragedy they had found traces of the day before seemed like a bad dream.

The day, which was bright and pleasant, though windy, was spent in drying the meat, curing the hide, fishing and hunting. The three proposed to collect as large a supply of food as possible. Bad weather might come again at any moment, and they did not intend to be caught in another storm without plenty of food to last them through.

In a marshy place the boys came upon a great flock of wild geese, that had paused, on their way south, to feed. The birds took alarm at once, and, with great flapping of wings and excited honks, followed their leader into the air and away, but Jean succeeded in hitting one as it left the water. He had to wade out into the cold mud and water to his waist to secure the bird, but it was a welcome feast to the three that night. The southward flight of the geese was, however, another reminder of the approach of winter. Nekah, the goose, knew what he was about, said the Ojibwa.

The following morning the voyageurs left the little cove. The south wind was strong enough to make crossing the lake dangerous, but they could go on along shore with little difficulty. They could at least reach the island which Nangotook said lay off a bay at the southern end of Minong. From there the Ojibwa intended, as soon as the weather would permit, to steer directly for the lake shore.

The travelers had rounded the end of Minong, when they came in sight of a canoe at some distance across the water. It held only one man, and they were too far away to make out anything about him, except that he did not wear the scarlet cap of the Canadian voyageur. Was it the Windigo? The boys felt a thrill of excitement, not unmingled with dread. Whether he had seen them or not they could not tell, but they followed as rapidly as they could make the canoe fly over the water. The lone traveler was making for some islands ahead. He passed into a channel between two of them and disappeared.

Without any orders from Nangotook in the bow, Ronald, who was in the stem, steered in the same direction. He wanted to find out if the man ahead was really the Cree murderer. He suspected that Nangotook was ready to kill the Windigo on sight That was the Indian way with such outlaws. Certainly the boy was not inclined to show any mercy to an Indian who had killed and eaten a white man. If he had merely killed the Frenchman,—well, Le Forgeron probably deserved death, and a private quarrel between him and his companion was the business of no one else, Ronald thought, but the evidence seemed to prove that the Cree had treacherously stabbed the white man in the back, for the purpose of eating him. For such hideous crime there could be no excuse, not even starvation, and no mercy for the criminal. That was the code of the Indian, the voyageur and the forest runner.

The pursuers passed through the channel between the two islands, and came out in view of others, large and small. Instantly Nangotook’s keen eyes caught sight of something on one of the little islands that caused him to utter a short grunt, raise his paddle from the water, and gaze intently. Noting his apparent surprise, the boys’ eyes followed the direction of his gaze. From a bare tree on that little island something white was fluttering. It was not a gull roosting. It was too large, and too white, and it fluttered and waved in the wind. It was a white rag, a signal of some kind, a flag of distress.

“Some one is on that island,” cried Jean in great excitement. “He is wrecked or hurt or starving, and he has tied that white thing to the tree to attract attention. We must go there at once. He may be a white man. We must rescue him.”

“Go slow, little brother,” cautioned Nangotook gravely. “Maybe, as you say, there is a man there wrecked and starving, but what if that white thing be only a trap? Where is the canoe we have been following? The Windigo may be trying to get us ashore, so he may murder and eat us.”

“If he is, he will be getting the worst of it,” declared Ronald emphatically. “We are three to one, and the only thing we need be fearing is a gun. If he is decoying us ashore, he will not be firing on us until we have landed, and even then he will try, I think, to use fair words and treachery rather than force. In that we are a match for him, now we are forewarned not to trust him.”

“You speak truly, my brother,” Nangotook answered. “I meant not to go by that island, but to be cautious. It may be that the signal is a true one. We must find out. But we must watch that we are not taken unawares by the evil Windigo. Now that I have warned you, steer for that island, and if the Cree is there, let him look to himself.”

As they approached the place, the three watched eagerly for some indication of what they were to find there. Like most of the islands off Minong, it was rocky, but bore a patch of trees and bushes on its highest part. There seemed nothing unusual about it, but the white rag fluttering from a bare limbed birch tree. Not until they were close in, did Nangotook catch sight of a canoe drawn up on a bit of shelving pebble beach between two great rocks. Silently he pointed it out to the boys. They ran their own canoe upon the same beach and stepped out, the Ojibwa with one hand on his bowstring, an arrow in the other, and his eyes searching the rocks and woods for signs of ambush. He did not relax his vigilance when he heard Jean, behind him, utter a low-voiced exclamation.

The two boys had carried the canoe up the beach, and Jean had turned to look at the other craft that lay there. “Our own canoe,” he whispered to Jean. “It was the Cree for sure.”

Ronald glanced at the boat. There was no mistaking it. The three had built it themselves, and knew every rib and seam. It was wet, too. It had not been out of the water more than a few minutes. Though Nangotook did not turn his head, but still kept running his eyes searchingly over every bush and rock that might offer concealment to an enemy, he heard what Jean said. There was no need for him to examine the canoe. Jean’s testimony was sufficient. The Ojibwa went on up the steep bit of beach, the two lads close behind him, with weapons ready.

Apparently the man who had landed from the canoe had given no thought to being followed, and had made no attempt to hide his trail. He had gone up over the rocks and into the bit of woods, and his track was plain to the Indian. The latter advanced cautiously, the boys equally noiseless, a short distance behind. They had taken but a few steps among the spruce trees, when they were arrested by the sound of voices. There was more than one man on the island then, although there had been but one in the boat The voices were speaking French, one with the guttural accent of the Indian, the other in flowing, mellow tones. Even if the three had not had good evidence that Le Forgeron Tordu was dead, they would never have taken that rich, deep pitched voice for his rough, cracked one. Silently but rapidly, Nangotook slipped forward again, the boys following until he turned and signaled them to halt. After taking a few more steps among the trees, he stopped also.

The mellow voice was speaking, and the boys could hear it plainly. It was a pleasing voice of refined accents, and it spoke excellent French, the French of a man of breeding and education. Even Jean Havard, who was well educated for a Canadian lad of his time and boasted of his pure French blood, did not speak like that. He could make out the unseen man’s words distinctly.

“God will surely bless you through all your days,” the voice said. “Moreover I will see to it, if you will take me safely to the Grande Portage, that you shall be well rewarded in material things as well. Flour, blankets, traps for your hunting, whatever you need or want of such things you shall have. But better than all will be the blessing of God upon you, for saving the life of His servant to carry on His glorious work, and to labor a little longer for the good of your own people.”

The speaker ceased, and for a moment there was silence. Then the other man answered, but his words, spoken in a hoarse voice and guttural accents, were not distinguishable. While the second man was speaking, Nangotook crept forward again. Carefully he slipped between two spruce trees and peeped out from among the branches. He saw before him a rude wigwam in a small natural rock opening. In front of the wigwam stood the tall, black-gowned form of a Jesuit priest in conversation with an Indian. The Indian’s back was towards Nangotook, but the Ojibwa did not fail to recognize him.

“Eh bien, I will be ready in a moment,” said the priest in his deep, mellow voice.

He turned to go into the shelter. Instantly the Cree’s whole aspect changed. He crouched, muscles tense, then leaped forward, like a forest cat, knife raised. But Nangotook was ready for him. His arrow was on his bowstring. Before the Windigo’s knife could reach his unsuspecting victim, the bowstring twanged, and the flying arrow pierced the murderer’s back a little to the left of the spinal column. He sprang back as if recoiling, then fell forward on his face.

XXXII
THE UPROOTED TREE

So instantaneous and noiseless were the Windigo’s spring and Nangotook’s arrow, that the priest suspected nothing until the thud of the body upon the ground startled him. He turned to find the Cree lying outstretched, the arrow sticking from his back, while the fierce face of the Ojibwa appeared among the spruce branches. Seizing the gold cross that hung on the breast of his black gown, the priest held it out towards the newcomer, and gazed at him for a moment with steady and fearless eyes. Then, without speaking, he knelt beside the fallen Cree. It took him but a moment to ascertain that the man was dead. His eye fell upon the outstretched hand clenching the knife. An expression of horror crossed his fine and sensitive face, and he glanced quickly up at Nangotook, with a look of doubt and questioning.

The Ojibwa had stepped out from among the trees, his weapon lowered. As the priest looked at him, the fierceness faded from the Indian’s face. Speaking humbly, like a servant to his master or a child to his teacher, he addressed the Jesuit. “Blame me not, good Father,” he said, “that I have slain that murderer with an arrow in the back as I might have killed Maheengun, the wolf, or Besheu, the lynx, when he was mad with the blood thirst. His knife was out. Before a dead leaf fell from that birch tree he would have plunged the knife in your body. He is a Windigo, in league with the evil one and hungering for human flesh. Already he has killed and eaten one man, an evil man to be sure, but a white man and his master.”

As Nangotook finished speaking, the two boys, came out from the spruces. Jean sprang forward, pulling off his toque, and knelt before the missionary for his blessing, while Ronald, Scotch Protestant though he was, showed his respect by removing his hare skin cap and standing silent.

When he had given Jean his blessing, and the latter had risen to his feet, the priest looked searchingly into the lad’s face and said gravely, “Who are you, my son, and these your companions, and how came you here? Surely you were sent of God to save the humblest of His servants from death at the hands of this poor, crazed savage.”

“It is Etienne you should thank for that, reverend Father,” Jean answered quickly, “but indeed I believe God led us here, and just in time, for——”

But the priest interrupted him, to speak to the Indian. Nangotook had squatted down by the body of the Cree, and had turned it over to make sure the man was dead. Then he had unlocked the Cree’s fingers from his knife, had felt its edge and had just made a motion with the blade towards the neck of the fallen man, when the Jesuit’s quick eye noted his action.

“My son,” he said sternly, “what is it that you would do? Would you mutilate the body of the man you have killed?”

The Ojibwa looked up into the priest’s grave face, and hastened to excuse and explain his action. “The man is a Windigo, good Father,” he said. “Windigos are in league with the evil one and are hard to kill. This one seems to have died easily enough, but unless his body is cut to pieces, he may come to life again at any moment and slay us all.”

“Nay, my child,” the Jesuit answered less sternly, for he understood that the Indian’s purpose, however mistaken, was a sincere one. He was not moved merely by a desire to avenge himself on the helpless body of a foe. “Nay, you need have no fear that the spirit of this poor, misguided child of the forest will return to animate his body. Already his soul has gone to other realms to await judgment for its sins. He was possessed of an evil spirit indeed. Though he spoke fair enough and promised to take me to the Grande Portage, I saw the madness in his eye and would not have trusted him, had he not seemed to be sent of God to deliver me from this desolate place. But even for such as he there may be forgiveness, when he has suffered his meed of punishment. I forbid you to mutilate his body. Instead, you and your companions shall kneel with me and pray for the soul of this poor savage, who has been struck down in the moment of his sin, without time for repentance.”

Nangotook submitted docilely enough, kneeling beside the priest and remaining reverently silent through the latter’s brief prayer.

There was not soil enough on the little island to dig a grave in, so Nangotook and his companions, at the missionary’s command, placed the body of the Cree in a hole between the rocks, blocked up the opening with stones and branches, and threw a little earth and leaf mold over the whole. The simple burial service over, they were about to proceed to the canoe, when Jean noticed that the priest’s face had turned very white and that he swayed a little and caught at a tree for support.

“You are ill, Father,” he exclaimed, and then, guessing the reason for the other’s weakness, he added, “Perhaps you suffer from hunger. If so, we are amply provided with meat and will prepare some for you at once.”

“Thank you, my son,” the Jesuit answered with a faint smile. “I do indeed suffer from hunger, for I have eaten nothing but roots and bark for several days.”

His strength exhausted, he was glad to sink down on the ground in front of the wigwam, while the boys and Etienne prepared a meal. The missionary had been too long without hearty food to take anything but a little caribou broth. After he had eaten, he satisfied the boys’ curiosity by telling them how he came to be in such a desperate situation.

He had been returning from a trip to an Indian mission on Lake Nipigon, beyond the head of Nipigon Bay, and was bound for another mission on the south shore, traveling in a small canoe with three Indians. They had been delayed by the bad weather, and, anxious to get on, had left their camping place at the foot of Thunder Cape in the night, after the wind had gone down. But the fog had caught them. All their landmarks were blotted out, and the Indians tried to steer by the wind. The air was unusually still, the light breeze coming in little puffs, which must have been variable in direction. The travelers went out of their course, and when the wind rose and began to blow the fog in driving sheets, they were close to Minong. Driven by the storm, they took refuge on the first land they sighted, the little island where the priest was now telling his story. There they remained throughout the northeaster. They were short of provisions, and one of the Indians, who was sick before they left Thunder Cape, died. The other two were sullen and more or less unmanageable. The missionary suspected that they had been tampered with at Lake Nipigon by a medicine man who hated the priest, for the latter’s teachings were diminishing the Indian shaman’s power over his fellows. Father Bertrand had reason to believe that the medicine man had told the Indians the “black gown” was an evil magician and would bring disaster upon them. The bad weather and other misfortunes of the journey and the sudden, mysterious sickness that had overtaken one of the crew and had ended in his death, bore out the medicine man’s prophecies. Though the missionary did everything he could to restore his companions’ confidence, they grew more and more sullen and suspicious. To their superstitious fears was added the hatred felt by one of the men, whom Father Bertrand had reprimanded for a heavy sin. He worked upon the fears of the other Indian, to convince him that misfortune would pursue them as long as they remained in company with the black gown. So it happened that, the second night after the storm ceased, when the wind had gone down and traveling was possible, the two Indians stole away while the priest was sleeping, taking the canoe and the few provisions that remained, and leaving the missionary without food or weapons.

Father Bertrand was a young man, not many years from France and unskilled in woodcraft of any kind. But even if he had known how to build a canoe, he was without knife or ax. Moreover there were no large birch trees and no white cedars on the island suitable for the purpose. He tried to fell trees for a raft by burning them at the base, but was not successful. Indeed he came near to setting the woods on fire and so destroying his only shelter. There was no game of any kind, not even gulls, and he had no line or net for fishing. Roots and bark were his only food. As a flag of distress, he fastened one of his undergarments to a bare limbed tree. He did not know that the land he could see from his island was Minong, but supposed himself to be somewhere near the northwest shore of the lake. Though it was late in the season, he hoped that some passing voyageur or Indian might see the signal. If no one saw it, then he knew he must perish, and he resigned himself to God’s will, though he admitted that he could not but feel regret that the work he had but just begun should be cut off so soon.

When the Cree appeared, Father Bertrand did not like his looks, for there was a furtive fierceness in his manner that betokened treachery and a wildness in his eye that suggested madness, but the priest hoped nevertheless that this doubtful looking savage might prove the instrument of his rescue. The Cree told him that he was not near the northwest shore, as he had supposed, but off the island of Minong. On the offer of a generous reward, he promised to take the missionary to Grande Portage. But even greed was not strong enough to overcome the Windigo’s appetite. The canoe he had left on the beach contained no provisions of any kind, so it was evident that he had either consumed all of his gruesome stock or had lost part of it in some way. The guns had been lost too, or thrown away as useless when the ammunition was gone, for he was armed only with a knife.

When the missionary had finished his tale, the two boys told him theirs. They made no attempt to hide the purpose of their adventure, for they instinctively trusted the grave, fine faced priest. That he could betray their trust did not occur even to Ronald who had no particular love for Jesuits, though he admired their courage and devotion. When Jean related how the three had been obliged to give up the search at last, and frankly expressed his regret and sorrow at their failure to find the golden island, Nangotook interrupted suddenly.

“Nay, little brother,” he exclaimed. “You say the journey has failed because we have not reached the Island of Yellow Sands. It is not so. If we had not come on this journey, we could not have saved the life of the good Father, and he would have starved here on this island. Is not the saving of one good life better than the finding of much gold?”

“You are right, Etienne,” replied Jean, flushing, ashamed that the Indian should have to teach him such a lesson.

The priest smiled in a kindly manner upon them both, then said gravely to the Ojibwa, “You speak well, my son, and I think you have grasped somewhat of the teachings of the fathers who gave you your education. It is true that you have just performed a deed of violence, but it was a necessary deed, and one that will bring reward and not punishment, for you slew not in revenge or in lust or even to save your own life, but the life of another. Rest assured that God will bless you for the deed, and, as for myself, I will give you such material reward as I am able.”

“I want no reward, Father,” Etienne answered almost indignantly. “I did not sell you your life. I only ask,” he added more humbly, “that you will remember a poor Ojibwa in your prayers.”

“Rest assured that I shall always do that,” Father Bertrand replied earnestly. “I will pray that God’s mercy and blessing and guidance may be with you and with these two lads, all the days of your lives.”

The four were silent for a few minutes, the boys and the Indian deeply impressed by the Jesuit’s words and manner. Then the priest turned to Jean and said questioningly, “You have not told me, my son, why you and your companion are so eager to find gold. In youths of your age desire for honor, achievement and glory seems more natural than a longing for riches. Take care that you do not let the sin of avarice possess your souls.”

“Indeed it is not avarice, Father,” replied Jean. Eager to justify both himself and his companion, he told of the plans they had made for the use of the gold.

Father Bertrand listened thoughtfully, and when Jean had finished, said with a kindly smile that seemed to light up his stern face, “Your reasons do you credit, especially yours, Jean Havard, since you seek wealth for others rather than for yourself. But your comrade’s ambition is also a justifiable one, if he use only right means to attain it. Your dislike of the evil methods of the fur-traders and your hesitation in following them are a credit to your consciences. It may be that the trade is necessary and legitimate, but I, myself, have learned, in the short time that I have been in the Indian country, that there is much in the manner of carrying on that trade that is wrong and evil and will bring heavy punishment both on the traders themselves and on the savages they corrupt. However, it is not of the fur-trade I intended to speak, but of your own fortunes. You are disappointed that you have not found the gold, but perhaps I can show you something that may allay that disappointment, and bring to you some increase of fortune if not the great riches you have been seeking.”

With that the missionary rose and led the way through the patch of woods towards the farther end of the island, which the lads had not visited. Curious about his meaning, they followed close at his heels.

That end of the island, which was exposed to the wind and waves of the open lake, rose high from the water and, except for a cluster of trees in a depression, was almost bare rock. The clump of trees had fared hard in the northeaster, for several had been broken off and one, the largest spruce on the island, had been uprooted and tipped over. The priest climbed over a tangle of fallen trunks, holding up his black gown that it might not catch in the branches. The boys followed wondering. He pointed to the base of the uprooted spruce. The roots had grown about a large boulder, and, in its fall, the tree had partly overturned the rock, revealing its under side.

The lads gave gasps of astonishment and dropped on their knees beside the boulder. The exposed surface was of almost solid copper, but that was not what caused their exclamation. Through the copper ran two thick veins of another, lighter colored metal.

“Silver, pure silver,” exclaimed Ronald. The veins so recently exposed had scarcely tarnished, and there was no mistaking the metal.

“Yes,” replied the priest. “It is silver and that is not all of it. Look in the hollow there, and you will find other veins. Indeed I have spent some time examining these rocks, and I believe there is much of the metal near the surface. How much there may be underneath no man can tell. It may be there is wealth here, though not such wealth as your golden island would yield. What there is is yours, however. I, the discoverer, will freely make over to you all my rights in it. I know little of metals. Perhaps it would be well for you to examine this end of the island for yourselves before you leave it. You will probably be able to learn more from it than I could.”

XXXIII
THE MINE

The two lads made as thorough an examination of the bare end of the island as they could without pick or drill. A vein with side branches, which Ronald was sure was composed of pure silver, ran the length of the barren end. Whether the vein extended under the woods the full length of the island, they could not tell, but as they traced it to the very edge of the growth, its further extension seemed almost certain. Through the clear water off the outer end of the island, they could see on the rock bottom black patches with a greenish tinge, that Ronald believed marked the course of the vein in that direction. In the canoe they followed those patches until the water became so deep that they could trace them no longer. Both boys were sure they had found a valuable mine, and they were nearly as excited and enthusiastic as if they had come upon the Island of Golden Sands itself. Their failure to find the gold, and the hardships and perils of their long trip, with its heart-breaking delays and disappointments, were almost forgotten in the joy of this sudden and unexpected discovery. Silver was not gold to be sure, but it was the next thing to it, as Jean said. The journey had not been fruitless or in vain. They had saved the life of Father Bertrand, and, as Nangotook had said, “the saving of one good life was better than much gold,” and through the priest they had found a rich silver mine. They had come off well from the adventure, and if they could reach Grande Portage safely, they would have good cause to be well satisfied and profoundly thankful. So it was with light hearts that they launched the two canoes and prepared to put off for the shore of Minong.

The day was too far advanced and the wind too strong to make a start for Grande Portage advisable, but none of the four wanted to camp on the little island, where bad weather, if there should be more of it in store for them, would leave them marooned. As Jean said, they could not eat silver, no matter how rich the mine might be. So they paddled part way up a deep harbor that cut into the end of Minong, and camped on its shore. They found both the fishing and hunting good, and had no difficulty occupying their time for the rest of the day.

The wind went down in the night, and the next day dawned calm, bright and frosty, a fine autumn morning, the best possible weather to traverse the open lake. Firm ice over the shallower water along shore, the evergreens gleaming with white frost, and the sight of a hare whose coat was almost wholly white, were warnings to the travelers that real winter was not far away. Indeed the snow and ice of the last northeaster had not melted in the shady places, and the weather was constantly growing colder.

They started early, after a hearty but hasty breakfast. They had discussed taking both canoes, but had decided they could make better time with one. So they selected the boat they had made themselves, as it was better built and slightly larger than the one Le Forgeron and the Cree had used. Their own boat had been intended for only three people and was well filled with four, but their baggage took up little space. Their possessions, besides the supply of dried meat, consisted of nothing but the caribou hide, some hare skins, their bows and arrows, and a small bundle containing the priest’s vestments and the necessary articles for celebrating the mass. In high spirits they paddled out into the open lake, blades keeping time to

The fact that all went so well that day Jean laid to the rescue of the priest and his presence in the canoe. Etienne agreed with this view, but probably felt also, though he did not give expression to the thought, that the spirits of the lake had ceased to oppose them, now that they had definitely given up the search for the golden sands and had turned towards the shore. Apparently he did not trouble his mind with the thought that the manitos might feel any concern over the silver mine.

Whatever causes the different members of the party might assign for their good fortune, everything surely went successfully. The breeze remained light, the sky blue, during the whole of the trip to the northwest shore, and along its bays, points and islands to the Grande Portage. They reached their destination before night, and caused great surprise when they paddled through the bay and up to the shore in front of the trading post of the Northwest Fur Company, the same post the two lads had left, with the fleet bound for Montreal, so many long weeks before.

The boys had decided before reaching the Portage just how much of their adventures they would tell, and what they would leave untold. Accordingly they said nothing whatever of the Island of the Yellow Sands or of the silver ore they had found. They had made the trip, they admitted, in search of a rich island mine they had heard of, but, not knowing its exact location, they had failed to find it. They made no mention of gold, leaving the others to infer that it was copper or silver they had been seeking. They told of seeing Le Forgeron Tordu and his Cree companion and of the fate of both, but did not indicate in any way that the Frenchman had been in pursuit of them or had tried to injure them. They left out of their narrative Etienne’s captivity and the burning of the woods on the island. As Ronald said, “The man is dead and his fate was a horrible one. Why blacken his memory now that it can do us no good? Unless we should be charged with his death, and that is not likely, we do not need to be telling the whole of the story.”

A swift Indian messenger was leaving the post early next morning with reports and letters for Montreal, and the boys seized the opportunity to write to their relatives and tell them of their safety. For the two lads to accompany the messenger was out of the question, for the Indians and half-breeds, who made the mail trips for the Company, went at such a pace and with such tirelessness that no one untrained for the work could possibly keep up with them. Indeed no one messenger could go the whole distance at such speed. The mail changed hands at each post, fresh men carrying it on. Even had the lads not been tired and worn with their long trip, and with the starvation and exposure they had endured, they would have found the journey with the messengers impossible. There was nothing for them to do but to await a more favorable opportunity.

That opportunity did not come. Rain and high winds arrived before a start could be made, and the bad weather was followed by real winter, that set in early in November, “the freezing moon,” as Nangotook called it. The lads soon realized that they had made the crossing from Minong just in time. Had they delayed longer, they could not have reached Grande Portage until the lake froze over between Minong and the shore. Some winters solid ice did not form clear across, and even when it did, crossing on snowshoes, with the winds sweeping the ice, and a blinding storm liable to come at any moment, was a perilous undertaking. Jean and Ronald shuddered when they thought what a winter on Minong, without warm clothes, food supplies or ammunition, would mean. They were lucky indeed to have reached the trading post.

Father Bertrand was due at an Indian mission on the south shore, and insisted on trying to reach it. He succeeded in engaging a canoe and four Indians to make the trip, but he positively refused to take the boys with him. Even after they reached his destination, it was not likely, he said, that they could find any one willing to go on with them to the Sault. The mission was probably not any too well supplied with food, and he could not carry enough extra, traveling rapidly in his small canoe, to feed the two lads throughout the winter. The Indians who wintered near the mission might be well supplied and they might not. That depended on the fishing and the wild rice crop. Often famine came upon them before spring. At the Portage there were ample accommodations and supplies, and the boys would be far better off. Etienne agreed with the missionary and urged the lads to remain. As far as he was concerned he would be glad, he said, to accompany them back to the Sault and even to Montreal, but he counseled them not to attempt the journey, which would be one of extreme hardship, if they were able to get through at all. So on his advice, and that of the men at the post, the boys decided to remain where they were until spring. At the first lull in the bad weather, the brave priest bade the lads farewell, gave them his blessing and started on his dangerous journey.

A number of weeks after the departure of the priest, when winter had settled down in earnest, a half-breed messenger, starved, frozen, almost dead, arrived with letters from Montreal and the other posts. The man had had a terrible time getting through, and when the boys heard his tale they were glad they had remained at the Portage. He brought Jean letters from his father and mother, and Ronald one from his uncle. Since the necessity for strenuous action had ceased, the two boys had grown very homesick, especially Jean, who had been tormented with the fear that something might have gone wrong with his father, mother or sisters during his absence. The letters, showing plainly the anxiety those at home had been enduring for months, served to deepen the two lads’ sense of wrong-doing. When word had arrived of their disappearance from the Sault, both Ronald’s uncle and Jean’s father had done everything possible to find them or learn their fate. They had gone to the Sault, but had found only one clue. Jean’s father learned that Etienne had been at the post the same day the lads disappeared, and felt a little comforted, surmising that Jean might have gone away with the Ojibwa on a hunting expedition or for some other purpose. But he was at a loss to understand why the lad had kept such a trip secret. Nevertheless the elder Havard asserted that he was not going to give up hope until he found the Indian and learned definitely that the boys were not with him. His search for Nangotook was fruitless, of course, but he became more and more convinced that they must have left the post together, for what purpose he could not imagine. Word was sent to all the Northwest Company’s posts to be on the lookout for some trace of the three. Only one bit of information was obtained, however. An Indian, a Man of the Woods, and his family, who arrived at the trading station at the Pic River, told of having met a canoe, going west, with three men who answered in a general way to the descriptions of Nangotook, Jean and Ronald. Shortly after the arrival of these Gens de Terre Indians, news reached the Pic of a deed of violence that had occurred in a small bay farther to the west. A half-breed trapper had been attacked and his furs stolen. Two Indians entering the bay late at night had found the body of a man lodged on a sand-bar. In spite of the fact that he had been stabbed in several places and then thrown into the water, he was alive, though unconscious. The Indians had carried him in their canoe to the Pic, where he had recovered consciousness and had told how he had been attacked by two men, an Indian and a white man with a twisted leg. From the half-breed’s description, the agent at the Pic was sure the white man must have been Le Forgeron Tordu, who was wanted by the Company for breaking his contract and deserting the fleet. When Ronald’s uncle, who had learned from Big Benoît of the lad’s fight with Le Forgeron, heard that the Blacksmith had deserted a few miles beyond the Sault and was back on Superior, he wondered if there was any connection between that fact and the disappearance of the boys, and his fears for Ronald were increased. When week followed week with no further news, the anxious relatives almost gave up hope, and Jean’s mother became ill from grief and anxiety.

The wrong the boys had done in stealing away secretly on their mad quest, without telling any one where they were going or leaving some word to allay the anxiety of those at home, had been strongly impressed upon them by Father Bertrand. Grateful though he was to them for his rescue, he did not let that gratitude interfere with a severe reprimand of their wrong-doing. Because God had brought good out of evil and had allowed them to serve Him by saving the life of one of His servants, they need not think, he reminded them sternly, that what they had done was right or that their sin was forgiven or would be forgiven until they had made all the amends possible. God had been merciful to them, said the priest, because they were ignorant, foolish and thoughtless lads, but if they did not profit in the future by the lesson of this experience, it was not likely He would be so patient with them again. So earnestly did he talk to them, that both acknowledged their wrong-doing, and admitted that they had not deserved to come through their adventure so well. The letters from home only strengthened their feelings of regret at what they had done, and Jean especially made up his mind to make up to his mother, for her suffering on his account, in every way that a loving son could.

In their letters the lads had told of the discovery of the silver and Ronald had sent his uncle a bit of the ore, with many injunctions to the messenger not to lose the little package. In his reply the uncle said that the bit of metal had proved to be high grade silver, and that from Ronald’s description he thought the mine might be a rich one. He had talked the matter over with Monsieur Havard, and the latter had agreed to accompany him to the Grande Portage in the spring. The boys were instructed to wait for them. The uncle would bring with him an expert in metals and the necessary tools for prospecting. He would obtain the Northwest Company’s permission to use one of their sailing vessels for the short trip across to Minong, or, if he failed to get such permission, they would cross in canoes. They would make a thorough examination of the little island and its surroundings, and if the prospects looked good, they would get the necessary government permission, and form a mining company in which the two Havards, Ronald, his uncle and the Indian should have the largest shares. They would also put aside a share of the profits for Father Bertrand, who had so generously waived all rights to his discovery. If he would not take the money for his personal needs, he would at least be willing to accept it to carry on his work among the Indians.

Jean and Ronald were enthusiastic over the plan, and, in spite of the waves of homesickness that swept over the former every time he looked at his mother’s letter and thought of the many miles of wilderness between him and his home, the two settled down for the winter with high hopes of the fortune the spring was to bring. In the meantime they were glad to be of what help they could to the clerks at the post, while their spare time could be passed in hunting in the snow-covered woods or fishing with nets or lines set under the ice. In such ways the winter, though it looked long ahead of them, would wear away at last, and spring would bring the returning fleet and with it the other partners in their mining venture, the exploration of their find, the trip home again and preparations for working the silver mine. If the winter days dragged slowly sometimes, there was, at least, much to look forward to.

THE END

THE BOMBA BOOKS
By ROY ROCKWOOD