The Silent Places Part 3

Young Herbert was curious. "Where are you headed, boys?" he inquired.

But Ki-wa-nee, the trusty, the trader at Flying Post, the only Indian in the Company's service holding rank as a commissioned officer, grunted in contempt at the question, while Achard, of New Brunswick House, motioned warningly toward the groups of Indian trappers in the background. "Hush, boy," said he to Herbert, "news travels, and in the south are the Free Traders to s.n.a.t.c.h at a new country."

By now the voyageurs had turned their canoe over, slid it into the water, and piled the duffle amids.h.i.+ps.

But before they had time to step aboard, came Virginia Albret, then seventeen years old and as slender and graceful as a fawn. The daughter of the Factor, she had acquired a habit of command that became her well.

While she enunciated her few and simple words of well-wis.h.i.+ng, she looked straight out at them from deep black eyes. The two woodsmen, awed into a vast respect, fumbled their caps in their hands and noted, in the unconscious manner of the forest frequenter, the fresh dusk rose of her skin, the sharply defined red of her lips, the soft wheat colour of her hair. It was a gracious memory to carry into the Silent Places, and was in itself well worth the bestowal. However, Virginia, as was her habit, gave presents. On each she bestowed a long silk handkerchief. Sam Bolton, with a muttered word of thanks, stuffed his awkwardly into his s.h.i.+rt bosom. d.i.c.k, on the other hand, with a gesture half of gallantry, half of bravado, stripped his own handkerchief from his neck and cast it far into the current, knotting the girl's gift in its place. Virginia smiled. A strong push sent the canoe into the current. They began to paddle up-stream.

For perhaps a mile their course threaded in and out the channel of a number of islands, then shot them into the broad reach of the Moose itself. There they set themselves to straight-forward paddling, hugging closely the sh.o.r.e that they might escape as much as possible the full strength of the current. In this manner they made rapid progress, for, of course, they paddled in the Indian fas.h.i.+on--without bending either elbow, and with a strong thrust forward of the shoulders at the end of the stroke--and they understood well how to take advantage of each little back eddy.

After an hour and a half they came to the first unimportant rapids, where they were forced to drop their paddles and to use the long spruce-poles they had cut and peeled that morning. d.i.c.k had the bow. It was beautiful to see him standing boldly upright, his feet apart, leaning back against the pressure, making head against the hurrying water. In a moment the canoe reached the point of hardest suction, where the river broke over the descent. Then the young man, taking a deep breath, put forth the strength that was in him. Sam Bolton, poised in the stern, holding the canoe while his companion took a fresh hold, noted with approval the boy's physical power, the certainty of his skill at the difficult river work, the accuracy of his calculations. Whatever his heedlessness, d.i.c.k Herron knew his trade. It was, indeed, a powerful Instrument that Galen Albret in his wisdom had placed in Sam Bolton's hands.

The canoe, torn from the rapid's grasp, shot into the smooth water above. Calmly Sam and d.i.c.k shook the water from their poles and laid them across the thwarts. The _swish click! swish click!_ of the paddles resumed.

Now the river began to hurry in the ten-mile descent below the Abitibi.

Although the smooth rush of water was unbroken by the swirls of rapids, nevertheless the current proved too strong for paddling. The voyagers were forced again to the canoe poles, and so toiled in graceful but strenuous labour the remaining hours of their day's journey. When finally they drew ash.o.r.e for the night, they had but just pa.s.sed the mouth of French River.

To men as skilled as they, the making of camp was a brief affair. d.i.c.k, with his axe, cleared the s.p.a.ce of underbrush, and sought dry wood for fuel. The older man in the meantime hunted about until he found a dead white-birch sapling. This he easily thrust to the ground with a strong push of his hand. The jar burst here and there the hard envelope of the birch bark to expose a quant.i.ty of half-powdery, decayed wood, dry as tinder and almost as inflammable as gunpowder. Into a handful of this Sam threw the sparks from his flint and steel. The bark itself fed admirably the first flame. By the time d.i.c.k returned, the fire was ready for his fuel.

They cooked tea in the copper pail, and roasted bacon on the ends of switches. This, with bread from the Post, const.i.tuted their meal. After supper they smoked, banked the fire with green wood, and rolled themselves in their blankets to sleep. It was summer, so they did not trouble to pitch their shelter.

The night died into silence. Slowly the fire worked from within through the c.h.i.n.ks of the green logs. Forest creatures paused to stare at it with steady eyes, from which flashed back a blaze as intense as the fire's own. An owl took his station near and began to call. Overhead the brilliant aurora of the Far North palpitated in a silence that seemed uncanny when coupled with such intensity of movement. Shadows stole here and there like acolytes. Breezes rose and died like the pa.s.sing of a throng. The woods were peopled with uncanny influences, intangible, unreal, yet potent with the symbolism of the unknown Presence watching these men. The North, calm, patient, biding her time, serene in the a.s.surance of might, drew close to the camp in the wilderness.

By and by a little pack of wolves came and squatted on their haunches just in the shadow. They were well fed and harmless, but they sat there blinking lazily at the flames, their tongues lolling, exactly like so many s.h.a.ggy and good-humoured dogs. About two o'clock d.i.c.k rolled out of his blanket and replenished the fire. He did it somnolently, his eyes vacant, his expression that of a child. Then he took a half-comprehending glance at the heaven's promise of fair weather, and sank again into the warmth of his blanket. The wolves had not stirred.

CHAPTER FIVE

Now the small sack of flour and the side of bacon and the loose provisions brought from the Post could last but a little time, and the journey was like to be long. The travellers were to be forced from now on, just as are the wolves, the eagles, the hawks, the carcajous, and other predatory creatures of the woods, to give their first thoughts to the day's sustenance. All other considerations gave way to this. This was the first, the daily tribute to be wrested from the stubborn grasp of the North. Winning that, anything was possible; failing that, nothing could follow but defeat. Therefore, valuable exceedingly were the two little steel traps and the twelve-foot length of gill-net, the sharp, thin knives in the beaded sheaths, and especially precious, precious above all things else, the three hundred rounds of ammunition for the rifles. They must be guarded and cared for and saved.

Therefore an incident of the early afternoon was more than welcome.

All the morning they had toiled against the current, sometimes poling, sometimes "tracking" by means of a sixty-foot cod-line. d.i.c.k looped this across his chest and pulled like a horse on the tow-path, while Sam Bolton sat in the stern with the steering-paddle. The banks were sometimes precipitous, sometimes stony, sometimes grown to the water's edge with thick vegetation. d.i.c.k had often to wade, often to climb and scramble, sometimes even to leap from one foothold to another. Only rarely did he enjoy level footing and the opportunity for a straight pull. Suddenly in a shallow pool, near the river's edge, and bordered with waist-high gra.s.s, he came upon a flock of black ducks. They were full grown, but as yet unable to fly. d.i.c.k dropped his tow-line and ran forward with a shout. At once the ducks became confused, scattering in all directions, squawking madly, spattering the water. The mother flew.

The brood, instead of making for the open river, where it would have been safe, scuttled into the tall gra.s.ses.

Here was the chance for fresh meat without the expenditure of a shot.

Sam Bolton promptly disembarked. To us it would have seemed a simple matter. But the black duck is an expert at concealment, even in the open. He can do wonders at it when a.s.sisted by the shadows of long gra.s.s. And when too closely approached he can glide away to right and left like a snake, leaving no rustle to betray his pa.s.sage. Five minutes pa.s.sed before the first was discovered. Then it was only because d.i.c.k's keen eye had detected a faintly stirring gra.s.s-blade ten feet away, and because d.i.c.k's quick muscles had brought him like a tiger to the spot.

He held up his victim by the neck.

"Good enough," growled Sam.

And although they had seen nine ducks go into the gra.s.s plot, which was not more than fifty feet across, they succeeded in finding but three.

However, they were satisfied.

In spite of the deliberation of their journeying, the Indians did not overtake them until nearly dark. It was just above the junction of the Abitibi. The river was without current, the atmosphere without the suspicion of a breeze. Down to the very water's edge grew the forest, so velvet-dark that one could not have guessed where the shadow left off and the reflection began. Not a ripple disturbed the peace of the water, nor a harsh sound the twilight peace of the air. Sam and d.i.c.k had paddled for some time close to one bank, and now had paused to enjoy their pipes and the cool of the evening. Suddenly against the reflected sky at the lower bend a canoe loomed into sight, and crept smoothly and noiselessly under the forest shadow of the opposite bank. Another followed, then another, and another and still another in regular interval. Not a sound could be heard. In the distance their occupants gave the illusion of cowled figures,--the Indian women close wrapped in their shawls, dropping their heads modestly or turning them aside as their customs commanded them to do on encountering strangers. Against the evening glow of the reflected sky for a single instant they stood out in the bright yellow of the new birch-bark, the glow of warm colour on the women's dress. Then instantaneously, in the darkness of the opposite bank, they faded wraith-like and tenuous. Like phantoms of the past they glided by, a river's width away; then vanished around the upper bend. A moment later the river was empty.

"Th' squaws goin' ahead to start camp," commented Sam Bolton, indifferently; "we'll have th' bucks along pretty quick."

They drove their paddles strongly, and drifted to the middle of the river.

Soon became audible shouts, cries, and laughter, the click of canoe poles. The business of the day was over. Until nearly sundown the men's canoes had led, silent, circ.u.mspect, seeking game at every bend of the river. Now the squaws had gone on to make camp. No more game was to be expected. The band relaxed, joking, skylarking, glad to be relieved for a little while of the strain of attention.

In a moment the canoes appeared, a long, unbroken string, led by Haukemah. In the bow sat the chief's son, a lad of nine, wielding his little paddle skilfully, already intelligent to twist the prow sharply away from submerged rocks, learning to be a canoe-man so that in the time to come he might go on the Long Trail.

Each canoe contained, besides its two occupants, a variety of household goods, and a dog or two coiled and motionless, his sharp nose resting between his outstretched forepaws. The tame crow occupied an ingenious cage of twisted osiers.

Haukemah greeted the two white men cordially, and stopped paddling to light his pipe. One by one the other canoes joined them. A faint haze of tobacco rose from the drifting group.

"My brothers have made a long sun," observed old Haukemah. "We, too, have hastened. Now we have met, and it is well. Down past the white rock it became the fortune of Two-fingers to slay a caribou that stood by the little water[3]. Also had we whitefish the evening before. Past the Island of the Three Trees were signs of moose." He was telling them the news, as one who pa.s.sed the time of day.

[Footnote 3: A spring.]

"We have killed but neenee-sheeb, the duck," replied d.i.c.k, holding up one of the victims by the neck, "nor have we seen the trail of game."

"Ah hah," replied Haukemah, politely.

He picked up his paddle. It was the signal to start.

"Drop in astern," said d.i.c.k to his companion in English, "it's the light of the evening, and I'm going to troll for a pickerel."

One by one the canoes fell into line. Now, late in the day, the travel was most leisurely. A single strong stroke of the paddle was always succeeded by a pause of contemplation. Nevertheless the light craft skimmed on with almost extraordinary buoyancy, and in silent regularity the wooded points of the river succeeded one another.

Sam busied himself with the trolling-spoon, but as soon as the last canoe was well beyond hearing he burst out:

"d.i.c.k, did you notice the Chippewa?"

"No. What?"

"He understands English."

"How do you know?"

"He was right behind us when you told me you were goin' to try the fis.h.i.+ng, and he moved out th' way before we'd raised our paddles."

"Might have been an accident."

"Perhaps, but I don't believe it. He looked too almighty innocent.

Another thing, did you notice he was alone in his canoe?"

"What of it?"

"Shows he ain't noways popular with th' rest. Generally they pair off.

There's mostly something shady about these renegades."

"Well?"