I wonder if real doctors ever conceal, under an air of professional calm, just such doubts and fears as worried me.



CHAPTER XI

THE SECOND BUFFALO HUNT



Though so trifling, the success of our first Buffalo hunt gave us quite a social lift. The chiefs were equally surprised with the whites, and when we prepared for a second expedition, Kiya sent word that though he could not act as guide, I should ride his own trained hunter, a horse that could run a trail like a hound, and was without guile.

I am, always suspicious of a horse (or man) without guile. I wondered what was the particular weakness of this exceptionally trained, noble, and guileless creature. I have only one prejudice in horseflesh—I do not like a white one. So, of course, when the hunter arrived he was, white as marble, from mane to tail and hoofs; his very eyes were of a cheap china colour, suggestive of cataractine blindness. The only relief was a morbid tinge of faded shrimp pink in his nostrils and ears. But he proved better than he looked. He certainly did run tracks by nose like a hound, provided I let him choose the track. He was a lively walker and easy trotter, and would stay where the bridle was dropped, So I came to the conclusion that Kiya was not playing a joke on me, but really had lent me his best hunter, whose sepulchral whiteness I could see would be of great advantage in snow time when chiefly one is supposed to hunt.

Not only Kiya, but Pierre Squirrel, the head chief, seemed to harbour a more kindly spirit. He now suddenly acquired a smattering of English and a fair knowledge of French. He even agreed to lead us through his own hunting grounds to the big Buffalo range, stipulating that we be back by July 1, as that was Treaty Day, when all the tribe assembled to receive their treaty money, and his presence as head chief was absolutely necessary.

We were advised to start from Fort Smith, as the trail thence was through a dryer country; so on the morning of June 24, at 6.50, we left the Fort on our second Buffalo hunt.

Major A. M. Jarvis, Mr. E. A. Preble, Corporal Selig, Chief Pierre Squirrel, and myself, all mounted, plus two pack-horses, prepared for a week's campaign. Riding ahead in his yellow caftan and black burnoose was Pierre Squirrel on his spirited charger, looking most picturesque. But remembering that his yellow caftan was a mosquito net, his black burnoose a Hudson's Bay coat, and his charger an ornery Indian Cayuse, robbed the picture of most of its poetry.

We marched westerly 7 miles through fine, dry, jack-pine wood, then, 3 miles through mixed poplar, pine, and spruce, And came to the Slave River opposite Point Gravois. Thence we went a mile or so into similar woods, and after another stretch of muskegs. We camped for lunch at 11.45, having covered 12 miles.

At two we set out, and reached Salt River at three, but did not cross there. It is a magnificent stream, 200 feet wide, with hard banks and fine timber on each side; but its waters are brackish.

We travelled north-westerly, or northerly, along the east banks for an hour, but at length away from it on a wide prairie, a mile or more across here, but evidently extending much farther behind interruptions of willow clumps. Probably these prairies join, with those we saw on the Beaulieu trip. They are wet now, though a horse can go anywhere, and the grass is good. We camped about six on a dry place back from the river. At night I was much interested to hear at intervals the familiar Kick-kick-kick-kick of the Yellow Rail in the adjoining swamps. This must be its northmost range; we did not actually see it.

Here I caught a garter-snake. Preble says it is the same form as that at Edmonton. Our guide was as much surprised to see me take it in my hands, as he was to see me let it go unharmed.

Next morning, after a short hour's travel, we came again to Salt River and proceeded to cross. Evidently Squirrel had selected the wrong place, for the sticky mud seemed bottomless, and we came near losing two of the horses.

After two hours we all got across and went on, but most of the horses had shown up poorly, as spiritless creatures, not yet recovered from the effects of a hard winter.

Our road now lay over the high upland of the Salt Mountain, among its dry and beautiful woods. The trip would have been glorious but for the awful things that I am not allowed to mention outside of Chapter IX.

Pierre proved a pleasant and intelligent companion; he did his best, but more than once shook his head and said: "Chevaux no good."

We covered 15 miles before night, and all day we got glimpses of some animal on our track, 300 yards behind in the woods. It might easily have been a Wolf, but at night he sneaked into camp a forlorn and starving Indian dog. Next day we reached the long looked-for Little Buffalo River. Several times of late Pierre had commented on the slowness of our horses and enlarged on the awful Muskega that covered the country west of the Little Buffalo. Now he spoke out frankly and said we had been 21 days coming 40 miles when the road was good; we were now coming to very bad roads and had to go as far again. These horses could not do it, and get him back to Fort Smith for July 1—and back at any price he must be.

He was willing to take the whole outfit half a day farther westward, or, if we preferred it, he would go afoot or on horseback with the pick of the men and horses for a hasty dash forward; but to take the whole outfit on to the Buffalo country and get back on time was not possible.

This was a bad shake. We held a council of war, and the things that were said of that Indian should have riled him if he understood. He preserved his calm demeanour; probably this was one of the convenient times when all his English forsook him. We were simply raging: to be half-way to our goal, with abundance of provisions, fine weather, good health and everything promising well, and then to be balked because our guide wanted to go back. I felt as savage as the others, but on calmer reflection pointed out that Pierre told us before starting that he must be back for Treaty Day, and even now he was ready to do his best.

Then in a calm of the storm (which he continued to ignore) Pierre turned to me and said: "Why don't you go back and try the canoe route? You can go down the Great River to Grand Detour, then portage 8 miles over to the Buffalo, go down this to the Nyarling, then up the Nyarling into the heart of the Buffalo country; 21 days will do it, and it will be easy, for there is plenty of water and no rapids," and he drew a fairly exact map which showed that he knew the country thoroughly.

There was nothing to be gained by going half a day farther.

To break up our party did not fit in at all with our plans, so, after another brief stormy debate in which the guide took no part, we turned without crossing the Little Buffalo, and silently, savagely, began the homeward journey; as also did the little Indian dog.

Next morning we crossed the Salt River at a lower place where was a fine, hard bottom. That afternoon we travelled for 6 miles through a beautiful and level country, covered with a forest of large poplars, not very thick; it will some day be an ideal cattle-range, for it had rank grass everywhere, and was varied by occasional belts of jack-pine. In one of these Preble found a nest with six eggs that proved to be those of the Bohemian Chatterer. These he secured, with photograph of the nest and old bird. It was the best find of the journey.

The eggs proved of different incubation—at least a week's difference—showing that the cool nights necessitated immediate setting.

We camped at Salt River mouth, and next afternoon were back at Fort Smith, having been out five days and seen nothing, though there were tracks of Moose and Bear in abundance.

Here our guide said good-bye to us, and so did the Indian dog.



CHAPTER XII

BEZKYA AND THE PILLS



During this journey I had successfully treated two of the men for slight ailments, and Squirrel had made mental note of the fact. A result of it was that in the morning an old, old, black-looking Indian came hobbling on a stick to my tent and, in husky Chipewyan, roughly translated by Billy, told me that he had pains in his head and his shoulder and his body, and his arms and his legs and his feet, and he couldn't hunt, couldn't fish, couldn't walk, couldn't eat, couldn't lie, couldn't sleep, and he wanted me to tackle the case. I hadn't the least idea of what ailed the old chap, but conveyed no hint of my darkness. I put on my very medical look and said: "Exactly so. Now you take these pills and you will find a wonderful difference in the morning." I had some rather fierce rhubarb pills; one was a dose but, recognising the necessity for eclat, I gave him two.

He gladly gulped them down in water. The Indian takes kindly to pills, it's so easy to swallow them, so obviously productive of results, and otherwise satisfactory. Then, the old man hobbled off to his lodge.

A few hours later he was back again, looking older and shakier than ever, his wet red eyes looking like plague spots in his ashy brown visage or like volcanic eruptions in a desert of dead lava, and in husky, clicking accents he told Billy to tell the Okimow that the pills were no good—not strong enough for him.

"Well," I said, "he shall surely have results this time." I gave him three big ones in a cup of hot tea. All the Indians love tea, and it seems to help them. Under its cheering power the old man's tongue was loosened. He talked more clearly, and Billy, whose knowledge of Chipewyan is fragmentary at best, suddenly said: "I'm afraid I made, a mistake. Bezkya says the pills are too strong. Can't you give him something to stop them?

"Goodness," I thought; "here's a predicament," but I didn't know what to do. I remembered a western adage, "When you don't know a thing to do, don't do a thing." I only said: "Tell Bezkya to go home, go to bed, and stay there till to-morrow, then come here again."

Away went the Indian to his lodge. I felt rather uneasy that day and night, and the next morning looked with some eagerness for the return of Bezkya. But he did not come and I began to grow unhappy. I wanted some evidence that I had not done him an injury. I wished to see him, but professional etiquette forbade me betraying myself by calling on him. Noon came and no Bezkya; late afternoon, and then I sallied forth, not to seek him, but to pass near his lodge, as though I were going to the Hudson's Bay store. And there, to my horror, about the lodge I saw a group of squaws, with shawls over their heads, whispering, together. As I went by, all turned as one of them pointed at me, and again they whispered.

"Oh, heavens!" I thought; "I've killed the old man." But still I would not go in. That night I did not sleep for worrying about it. Next morning I was on the point of sending Billy to learn the state of affairs, when who should come staggering up but old Bezkya. He was on two crutches now, his complexion was a dirty gray, and his feeble knees were shaking, but he told Billy—yes, unmistakably this time—to tell the Okimow that that was great medicine I had given him, and he wanted a dose just like it for his wife.



CHAPTER XIII

FORT SMITH AND THE SOCIAL QUEEN



Several times during our river journey I heard reference to an extraordinary woman in the lower country, one who gave herself great airs, put on style, who was so stuck up, indeed, that she had "two pots, one for tea, one for coffee." Such incredible pomposity and arrogance naturally invited sarcastic comment from all the world, and I was told I should doubtless see this remarkable person at Fort Smith.

After the return from Buffalo hunt No. 2, and pending arrangements for hunt No. 3, 1 saw more of Fort Smith than I wished for, but endeavoured to turn the time to account by copying out interesting chapters from the rough semi-illegible, perishable manuscript accounts of northern life called "old-timers." The results of this library research work appear under the chapter heads to which they belong.

At each of these northern posts there were interesting experiences in store for me, as one who had read all the books of northern travel and dreamed for half a lifetime of the north; and that was—almost daily meeting with famous men. I suppose it would be similar if one of these men were to go to London or Washington and have some one tell him: that gentle old man there is Lord Roberts, or that meek, shy, retiring person is Speaker Cannon; this on the first bench is Lloyd-George, or that with the piercing eyes is Aldrich, the uncrowned King of America. So it was a frequent and delightful experience to meet with men whose names have figured in books of travel for a generation. This was Roderick MacFarlane, who founded Fort Anderson, discovered the MacFarlane Rabbit, etc.; here was John Schott, who guided Caspar Whitney; that was Hanbury's head man; here was Murdo McKay, who travelled with Warburton Pike in the Barrens and starved with him on Peace River; and so with many more.

Very few of these men had any idea of the interest attaching to their observations. Their notion of values centres chiefly on things remote from their daily life. It was very surprising to see how completely one may be outside of the country he lives in. Thus I once met a man who had lived sixteen years in northern Ontario, had had his chickens stolen every year by Foxes, and never in his life had seen a Fox. I know many men who live in Wolf country, and hear them at least every week, but have never seen one in twenty years' experience. Quite recently I saw a score of folk who had lived in the porcupiniest part of the Adirondacks for many summers and yet never saw a Porcupine, and did not know what it was when I brought one into their camp. So it was not surprising to me to find that although living in a country that swarmed with Moose, in a village which consumes at least a hundred Moose per annum, there were at Fort Smith several of the Hudson's Bay men that had lived on Moose meat all their lives and yet had never seen a live Moose. It sounds like a New Yorker saying he had never seen a stray cat. But I was simply dumfounded by a final development in the same line.

Quite the most abundant carpet in the forest here is the uva-ursi or bear-berry. Its beautiful evergreen leaves and bright red berries cover a quarter of the ground in dry woods and are found in great acre beds. It furnishes a staple of food to all wild things, birds and beasts, including Foxes, Martens, and Coyotes; it is one of the most abundant of the forest products, and not one hundred yards from the fort are solid patches as big as farms, and yet when I brought in a spray to sketch it one day several of the Hudson's Bay officers said: "Where in the world did you get that? It must be very rare, for I never yet saw it in this country." A similar remark was made about a phoebe-bird. "It was never before seen in the country"; and yet there is a pair nesting every quarter of a mile from Athabaska Landing to Great Slave Lake.

Fort Smith, being the place of my longest stay, was the scene of my largest medical practice.

One of my distinguished patients here was Jacob McKay, a half-breed born on Red River in 1840. He left there in 1859 to live 3 years at Rat Portage. Then he went to Norway House, and after 3 years moved to Athabaska in 1865. In 1887 he headed a special government expedition into the Barren Grounds to get some baby Musk-ox skins. He left Fort Rae, April 25, 1887, and, travelling due north with Dogrib Indians some 65 miles, found Musk-ox on May 10, and later saw many hundreds. They killed 16 calves for their pelts, but no old ones. McKay had to use all his influence to keep the Indians from slaughtering wholesale; indeed, it was to restrain them that he was sent.

He now lives at Fort Resolution.

One morning the chief came and said he wanted me to doctor a sick woman in his lodge. I thought sick women a good place for an amateur to draw the line, but Squirrel did not. "Il faut venir; elle est bien malade."

At length I took my pill-kit and followed him. Around his lodge were a score of the huge sled dogs, valuable animals in winter, but useless, sullen, starving, noisy nuisances all summer. If you kick them out of your way, they respect you; if you pity them, they bite you. They respected us.

We entered the lodge, and there sitting by the fire were two squaws making moccasins. One was old and ugly as sin; the second, young and pretty as a brown fawn. I looked from one to the other in doubt, and said:

"Laquelle est la malade?"

Then the pretty one replied in perfect English: "You needn't talk French here; I speak English,' which she certainly did. French is mostly used, but the few that speak English are very proud of it and are careful to let you know.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

"The chief thinks I am," was the somewhat impatient reply, and she broke down in a coughing fit.

"How long have you had that?" I said gravely.

"What?"

I tapped my chest for reply.

"Oh! since last spring."

"And you had it the spring before, too, didn't you?"

"Why, yes! (a pause). But that isn't what bothers me."

"Isn't your husband kind to you?"

"Yes—sometimes."

"Is this your husband?"

"No! F——- B——- is; I am K——-."

Again she was interrupted by coughing.

"Would you like something to ease that cough?" I asked.

"No! It isn't the body that's sick; it's the heart."

"Do you wish to tell me about it?"

"I lost my babies."

"'When?"

"Two years ago. I had two little ones, and both died in one month. I am left much alone; my husband is away on the transport; our lodge is nearby. The chief has all these dogs; they bark at every little thing and disturb me, so I lie awake all night and think about my babies. But that isn't the hardest thing."

"What is it?"

She hesitated, then burst out: "The tongues of the women. You don't know what a hell of a place this is to live in. The women here don't mind their work; they sit all day watching for a chance to lie about their neighbours. If I am seen talking to you now, a story will be made of it. If I walk to the store for a pound of tea, a story is made of that. If I turn my head, another story; and everything is carried to my husband to make mischief. It is nothing but lies, lies, lies, all day, all night, all year. Women don't do that way in your country, do they?"

"No," I replied emphatically. "If any woman in my country were to tell a lie to make another woman unhappy, she would be thought very, very wicked."

"I am sure of it," she said. "I wish I could go to your country and be at rest." She turned to her work and began talking to the others in Chipewyan.

Now another woman entered. She was dressed in semi-white style, and looked, not on the ground, as does an Indian woman, on seeing a strange man, but straight at me.

"Bon jour, madame," I said.

"I speak Ingliss," she replied with emphasis.

"Indeed! And what is your name?"

"I am Madame X———-."

And now I knew I was in the presence of the stuckup social queen.

After some conversation she said: "I have some things at home you like to see."

"Where is your lodge?" I asked.

"Lodge," she replied indignantly; "I have no lodge. I know ze Indian way. I know ze half-breed way. I know ze white man's way. I go ze white man's way. I live in a house—and my door is painted blue."

I went to her house, a 10 by 12 log cabin; but the door certainly was painted blue, a gorgeous sky blue, the only touch of paint in sight. Inside was all one room, with a mud fireplace at one end and some piles of rags in the corners for beds, a table, a chair, and some pots. On the walls snow-shoes, fishing-lines, dried fish in smellable bunches, a portrait of the Okapi from Outing, and a musical clock that played with painful persistence the first three bars of "God Save the King." Everywhere else were rags, mud, and dirt. "You see, I am joost like a white woman," said the swarthy queen. "I wear boots (she drew her bare brown feet and legs under her) and corsets. Zey are la," and she pointed to the wall, where, in very truth, tied up with a bundle of dried fish, were the articles in question. Not simply boots and corsets, but high-heeled Louis Quinze slippers and French corsets. I learned afterward how they were worn. When she went shopping to the H. B. Co. store she had to cross the "parade" ground, the great open space; she crowded her brown broad feet into the slippers, then taking a final good long breath she strapped on the fearfully tight corsets outside of all. Now she hobbled painfully across the open, proudly conscious that the eyes of the world were upon her. Once in the store she would unhook the corsets and breathe comfortably till the agonized triumphant return parade was in order.

This, however, is aside; we are still in the home of the queen. She continued to adduce new evidences. "I am just like a white woman. I call my daughter darrr-leeng." Then turning to a fat, black-looking squaw by the fire, she said: "Darrr-leeng, go fetch a pail of vaw-taire."

But darling, if familiar with that form of address, must have been slumbering, for she never turned or moved a hair's-breadth or gave a symptom of intelligence. Now, at length it transpired that the social leader wished to see me professionally.

"It is ze nairves," she explained. "Zere is too much going on in this village. I am fatigue, very tired. I wish I could go away to some quiet place for a long rest."

It was difficult to think of a place, short of the silent tomb, that would be obviously quieter than Fort Smith. So I looked wise, worked on her faith with a pill, assured her that she would soon feel much better, and closed the blue door behind me.

With Chief Squirrel, who had been close by in most of this, I now walked back to my tent. He told me of many sick folk and sad lodges that needed me.

It seems that very few of these people are well. In spite of their healthy forest lives they are far less sound than an average white community. They have their own troubles, with the white man's maladies thrown in. I saw numberless other cases of dreadful, hopeless, devastating diseases, mostly of the white man's importation. It is heart-rending to see so much human misery and be able to do nothing at all for it, not even bring a gleam of hope. It made me feel like a murderer to tell one after another, who came to me covered with cankerous bone-eating sores, "I can do nothing"; and I was deeply touched by the simple statement of the Chief Pierre Squirrel, after a round of visits: "You see how unhappy we are, how miserable and sick. When I made this treaty with your government, I stipulated that we should have here a policeman and a doctor; instead of that you have sent nothing but missionaries."



CHAPTER XIV

RABBITS AND LYNXES IN THE NORTH-WEST



There are no Rabbits in the north-west. This statement, far from final, is practically true to-day, but I saw plenty of Lynxes, and one cannot write of ducks without mentioning water.

All wild animals fluctuate greatly in their population, none more so than the Snowshoe or white-rabbit of the north-west. This is Rabbit history as far back as known: They are spread over some great area; conditions are favourable; some unknown influence endows the females with unusual fecundity; they bear not one, but two or three broods in a season, and these number not 2 or 3, but 8 or 10 each brood. The species increases far beyond the powers of predaceous birds or beasts to check, and the Rabbits after 7 or 8 years of this are multiplied into untold millions. On such occasions every little thicket has a Rabbit in it; they jump out at every 8 or 10 feet; they number not less than 100 to the acre on desirable ground, which means over 6,000 to the square mile, and a region as large as Alberta would contain not less than 100,000,000 fat white bunnies. At this time one man can readily kill 100 or 200 Rabbits in a day, and every bird and beast of prey is slaughtering Rabbits without restraint. Still they increase. Finally, they are so extraordinarily superabundant that they threaten their own food supply as well as poison all the ground. A new influence appears on the scene; it is commonly called the plague, though it is not one disease but many run epidemic riot, and, in a few weeks usually, the Rabbits are wiped out.

This is an outline of the established routine in Rabbit vital statistics. It, of course, varies greatly in every detail, including time and extent of territory involved, and when the destruction is complete it is an awful thing for the carnivores that have lived on the bunny millions and multiplied in ratio with their abundance. Of all the northern creatures none are more dependent on the Rabbits than is the Canada Lynx. It lives on Rabbits, follows the Rabbits, thinks Rabbits, tastes like Rabbits, increases with them, and on their failure dies of starvation in the unrabbited woods.

It must have been a Hibernian familiar with the north that said: "A Lynx is nothing but an animated Rabbit anyway."

The Rabbits of the Mackenzie River Valley reached their flood height in the winter of 1903-4. That season, it seems, they actually reached billions.

Late the same winter the plague appeared, but did not take them at one final swoop. Next winter they were still numerous, but in 1907 there seemed not one Rabbit left alive in the country. All that summer we sought for them and inquired for them. We saw signs of millions in the season gone by; everywhere were acres of saplings barked at the snow-line; the floor of the woods, in all parts visited, was pebbled over with pellets; but we saw not one Woodrabbit and heard only a vague report of 3 that an Indian claimed he had seen in a remote part of the region late in the fall.

Then, since the Lynx is the logical apex of a pyramid of Rabbits, it naturally goes down when the Rabbits are removed.

These bobtailed cats are actually starving and ready to enter any kind of a trap or snare that carries a bait. The slaughter of Lynxes in its relation to the Rabbit supply is shown by the H. B. Company fur returns as follows:

In 1900, number of skins taken 4,473 " 1901 " 5,781 " 1902 " 9,117 " 1903 " 19,267 " 1904 " 36,116 " 1905 " 58,850 " 1906 " 61,388 " 1907 " 36,201 " 1908 " 9,664

Remembering, then, that the last of the Rabbits were wiped out in the winter of 1906-7, it will be understood that there were thousands of starving Lynxes roaming about the country. The number that we saw, and their conditions, all helped to emphasise the dire story of plague and famine.

Some of my notes are as follows:

May 18th, Athabaska River, on roof of a trapper's hut found the bodies of 30 Lynxes.

May 19th, young Lynx shot to-day, female, very thin, weighed only 12 1/2 lbs., should have weighed 25. In its stomach nothing but the tail of a white-footed mouse. Liver somewhat diseased. In its bowels at least one tapeworm.

June 3d, a young male Lynx shot to-day by one of the police boys, as previously recorded. Starving; it weighed only 15 lbs.

June 6th, adult female Lynx killed, weighed 15 lbs.; stomach contained a Redsquirrel, a Chipmunk, and a Bog-lemming. (Synaptomys borealis.)

June 18th, young male Lynx, weight 13 lbs., shot by Preble on Smith Landing; had in its stomach a Chipmunk (borealis) and 4 small young of the same, apparently a week old; also a score of pinworms. How did it get the Chipmunk family without digging them out?

June 26th, on Salt Mt. found the dried-up body of a Lynx firmly held in a Bear trap.

June 29th, one of the Jarvis bear-cub skins was destroyed by the dogs, except a dried-up paw, which he threw out yesterday. This morning one of the men shot a starving Lynx in camp. Its stomach contained nothing but the bear paw thrown out last night.

These are a few of my observations; they reflect the general condition—all were starving. Not one of them had any Rabbit in its stomach; not one had a bellyful; none of the females were bearing young this year.

To embellish these severe and skeletal notes, I add some incidents supplied by various hunters of the north.

Let us remember that the Lynx is a huge cat weighing 25 to 35 or even 40 lbs., that it is an ordinary cat multiplied by some 4 or 5 diameters, and we shall have a good foundation for comprehension.

Murdo McKay has often seen 2 or 3 Lynxes together in March, the mating season. They fight, and caterwaul like a lot of tomcats.

The uncatlike readiness of the Lynx to take to water is well known; that it is not wholly at home there is shown by the fact that if one awaits a Lynx at the landing he is making for, he will not turn aside in the least, but come right on to land, fight, and usually perish.

The ancient feud between cat and dog is not forgotten in the north, for the Lynx is the deadly foe of the Fox and habitually kills it when there is soft snow and scarcity of easier prey. Its broad feet are snowshoes enabling it to trot over the surface on Reynard's trail. The latter easily runs away at first, but sinking deeply at each bound, his great speed is done in 15 or 6 miles; the Lynx keeps on the same steady trot and finally claims its victim.

John Bellecourt related that in the January of 1907, at a place 40 miles south of Smith Landing, he saw in the snow where a Lynx bad run down and devoured a Fox.

A contribution by T. Anderson runs thus:

In late March, 1907, an Indian named Amil killed a Caribou near Fort Rae. During his absence a Lynx came along and gorged itself with the meat, then lay down alongside to sleep. A Silver Fox came next; but the Lynx sprang on him and killed him. When Amil came back he found the Fox and got a large sum for the skin; one shoulder was torn. He did not see the Lynx but saw the tracks.

The same old-timer is authority for a case in which the tables were turned.

A Desert Indian on the headwaters of the Gatineau went out in the early spring looking for Beaver. At a well-known pond he saw a Lynx crouching on a log, watching the Beaver hole in the ice. The Indian waited. At length a Beaver came up cautiously and crawled out to a near bunch of willows; the Lynx sprang, but the Beaver was well under way and dived into the hole with the Lynx hanging to him. After a time the Indian took a crotched pole and fished about under the ice; at last he found something soft and got it out; it was the Lynx drowned.

Belalise ascribes another notable achievement to this animal.

One winter when hunting Caribou near Fond du Lac with an Indian named Tenahoo (human tooth), they saw a Lynx sneaking along after some Caribou; they saw it coming but had not sense enough to run away. It sprang on the neck of a young buck; the buck bounded away with the Lynx riding, but soon fell dead. The hunters came up; the Lynx ran off. There was little blood and no large wound on the buck; probably its neck was broken. The Indian said the Lynx always kills with its paw, and commonly kills Deer. David MacPherson corroborates this and maintains that on occasion it will even kill Moose.

In southern settlements, where the Lynx is little known, it is painted as a fearsome beast of limitless ferocity, strength, and activity. In the north, where it abounds and furnishes staple furs and meat, it is held in no such awe. It is never known to attack man. It often follows his trail out of curiosity, and often the trapper who is so followed gets the Lynx by waiting in ambush; then it is easily killed with a charge of duck-shot. When caught in a snare a very small club is used to "add it to the list." It seems tremendously active among logs and brush piles, but on the level ground its speed is poor, and a good runner can overtake one in a few hundred yards.

David MacPherson says that last summer he ran down a Lynx on a prairie of Willow River (Mackenzie), near Providence. It had some 90 yards start; he ran it down in about a mile, then it turned to fight and he shot it.

Other instances have been recorded, and finally, as noted later, I was eye-witness of one of these exploits. Since the creature can be run down on hard ground, it is not surprising to learn that men on snow-shoes commonly pursue it successfully. As long as it trots it is safe, but when it gets alarmed and bounds it sinks and becomes exhausted. It runs in a circle of about a mile, and at last takes to a tree where it is easily killed. At least one-third are taken in this way; it requires half an hour to an hour, there must be soft snow, and the Lynx must be scared so he leaps; then he sinks; if not scared he glides along on his hairy snow-shoes, refuses to tree, and escapes in thick woods, where the men cannot follow quickly.



CHAPTER XV

EBB AND FLOW OF ANIMAL LIFE



Throughout this voyage we were struck by the rarity of some sorts of animals and the continual remarks that three, five, or six years ago these same sorts were extremely abundant; and in some few cases the conditions were reversed.

For example, during a week spent at Fort Smith, Preble had out a line of 50 mouse-traps every night and caught only one Shrew and one Meadowmouse in the week. Four years before he had trapped on exactly the same ground, catching 30 or 40 Meadowmice every night.

Again, in 1904 it was possible to see 100 Muskrats any fine evening. In 1907, though continually on the lookout, I saw less than a score in six months. Redsquirrels varied in the same way.

Of course, the Rabbits themselves were the extreme case, millions in 1904, none at all in 1907. The present, then, was a year of low ebb. The first task was to determine whether this related to all mammalian life. Apparently not, because Deermice, Lynxes, Beaver, and Caribou were abundant. Yet these are not their maximum years; the accounts show them to have been so much more numerous last year.

There is only one continuous statistical record of the abundance of animals, that is the returns of the fur trade. These have been kept for over 200 years, and if we begin after the whole continent was covered by fur-traders, they are an accurate gauge of the abundance of each species. Obviously, this must be so, for the whole country is trapped over every year, all the furs are marketed, most of them through the Hudson's Bay Company, and whatever falls into other hands is about the same percentage each year, therefore the H. B. Co. returns are an accurate gauge of the relative rise and fall of the population.

Through the courtesy of its officials I have secured the Company's returns for the 85 years—1821-1905 inclusive. I take 1821 as the starting-point, as that was the first year when the whole region was covered by the Hudson's Bay Company to the exclusion of all important rivals.

First, I have given these accounts graphic tabulation, and at once many interesting facts are presented to the eye. The Rabbit line prior to 1845 is not reliable. Its subsequent close coincidence with that of Lynx, Marten, Skunk, and Fox is evidently cause and effect.

The Mink coincides fairly well with Skunk and Marten.

The Muskrat's variation probably has relation chiefly to the amount of water, which, as is well known, is cyclic in the north-West.

The general resemblance of Beaver and Otter lines may not mean anything. If, as said, the Otter occasionally preys on the Beaver, these lines should in some degree correspond.

The Wolf line does not manifest any special relationship and seems to be in a class by itself. The great destruction from 1840 to 1870 was probably due to strychnine, newly introduced about then.

The Bear, Badger, and Wolverine go along with little variation. Probably the Coon does the same; the enormous rise in 1867 from an average of 3,500 per annum. to 24,000 was most likely a result of accidental accumulation and not representative of any special abundance. Finally, each and every line manifests extraordinary variability in the '30's. It is not to be supposed that the population fluctuated so enormously from one year to another, but rather that the facilities for export were irregular.

The case is further complicated by the fact that some of the totals represent part of this year and part of last; nevertheless, upon the whole, the following general principles are deducible:

(a) The high points for each species are with fair regularity 10 years apart.

(b) In the different species these are not exactly coincident.

(c) To explain the variations we must seek not the reason for the increase—that is normal—but for the destructive agency that ended the increase.

This is different in three different groups.

First. The group whose food and enemies fluctuate but little. The only examples of this on our list are the Muskrat and Beaver, more especially the Muskrat. Its destruction seems to be due to a sudden great rise of the water after the ice has formed, so that the Rats are drowned; or to a dry season followed by severe frost, freezing most ponds to the bottom, so that the Rats are imprisoned and starve to death, or are forced out to cross the country in winter, and so are brought within the power of innumerable enemies.

How tremendously this operates may be judged by these facts. In 1900 along the Mackenzie I was assured one could shoot 20 Muskrats in an hour after sundown. Next winter the flood followed the frost and the Rats seemed to have been wiped out. In 1907 1 spent 6 months outdoors in the region and saw only 17 Muskrats the whole time; in 1901 the H. B. Co. exported over 11 millions; in 1907, 407,472. The fact that they totalled as high was due, no doubt, to their abundance in eastern regions not affected by the disaster.

Second. The group that increases till epidemic disease attacks their excessively multiplied hordes. The Snowshoe-Rabbit is the only well-known case today, but there is reason for the belief that once the Beaver were subjected to a similar process. Concerning the Mice and Lemmings, I have not complete data, but they are believed to multiply and suffer in the same, way.

Third. The purely carnivorous, whose existence is dependent on the Rabbits. This includes chiefly the Lynx and Fox, but in less degree all the small carnivores.

In some cases such as the Marten, over-feeding seems as inimical to multiplication as under-feeding, and it will be seen that each year of great increase for this species coincided with a medium year for Rabbits.

But the fundamental and phenomenal case is that of the Rabbits themselves. And in solving this we are confronted by the generally attested facts that when on the increase they have two or three broods each season and 8 to 10 in a brood; when they are decreasing they have but one brood and only 2 or 3 in that. This points to some obscure agency at work; whether it refers simply to the physical vigour of the fact, or to some uncomprehended magnetic or heliological cycle, is utterly unknown.

The practical consideration for the collecting naturalist is this: Beaver, Muskrat, Otter, Fisher, Raccoon, Badger, Wolverine, Wolf, Marten, Fox reached the low ebb in 1904-5. All are on the upgrade; presumably the same applies to the small rodents. Their decacycle will be complete in 1914-15, so that 1910-11 should be the years selected by the next collecting naturalist who would visit the north.

For those who will enter before that there is a reasonable prospect of all these species in fair numbers, except perhaps the Lynx and the Caribou. Evidently the former must be near minimum now (1909) and the latter would be scarce, if it is subject to the rule of the decacycle, though it is not at all proven that such is the case.



CHAPTER XVI

THE PELICAN TRIP



We were still held back by the dilatory ways of our Indian friends, so to lose no time Preble and I determined to investigate a Pelican rookery.

Most persons associate the name Pelican with tropic lands and fish, but ornithologists have long known that in the interior of the continent the great white Pelican ranges nearly or quite to the Arctic circle. The northmost colony on record was found on an island of Great Slave Lake (see Preble, "N.A. Fauna," 27), but this is a very small one. The northmost large colony, and the one made famous by travellers from Alexander Mackenzie downward, is on the great island that splits the Smith Rapids above Fort Smith. Here, with a raging flood about their rocky citadel, they are safe from all spoilers that travel on the earth; only a few birds of the air need they fear, and these they have strength to repel.

On June 22 we set out to explore this. Preble, Billy, and myself, with our canoe on a wagon, drove 6 miles back on the landing trail and launched the canoe on the still water above Mountain Portage. Pelican Island must be approached exactly right, in the comparatively slow water above the rocky island, for 20 feet away on each side is an irresistible current leading into a sure-death cataract. But Billy was a river pilot and we made the point in safety.

Drifted like snow through the distant woods were the brooding birds, but they arose before we were near and sailed splendidly overhead in a sweeping, wide-fronted rank. As nearly as I could number them, there were 120, but evidently some were elsewhere, as this would not allow a pair to each nest.

We landed safely and found the nests scattered among the trees and fallen timbers. One or two mother birds ran off on foot, but took wing as soon as clear of the woods—none remained.

The nests numbered 77, and there was evidence of others long abandoned. There were 163 eggs, not counting 5 rotten ones, lying outside; nearly all had 2 eggs in the nest; 3 had 4; 5 had 3; 4 had 1. One or two shells were found in the woods, evidently sucked by Gulls or Ravens.

All in the nests were near hatching. One little one had his beak out and was uttering a hoarse chirping; a dozen blue-bottle flies around the hole in the shell were laying their eggs in it and on his beak., This led us to examine all the nests that the flies were buzzing around, and in each case (six) we found the same state of affairs, a young one with his beak out and the flies "blowing" around it. All of these were together in one corner, where were a dozen nests, probably another colony of earlier arrival.

We took about a dozen photos of the place (large and small). Then I set my camera with the long tube to get the old ones, and we went to lunch at the other end of the island. It was densely wooded and about an acre in extent, so we thought we should be forgotten. The old ones circled high overhead but at last dropped, I thought, back to the nests. After an hour and a half I returned to the ambush; not a Pelican was there. Two Ravens flew high over, but the Pelicans were far away, and all as when we went away, leaving the young to struggle or get a death-chill as they might. So much for the pious Pelican, the emblem of reckless devotion—a common, dirty little cock Sparrow would put them all to shame.

We brought away only the 5 rotten eggs. About half of the old Pelicans had horns on the bill.

On the island we saw a flock of White-winged Crossbills and heard a Song-sparrow. Gulls were seen about. The white spruce cones littered the ground and were full of seed, showing that no Redsquirrel was on the island.

We left successfully by dashing out exactly as we came, between the two dangerous currents, and got well away.



CHAPTER XVII

THE THIRD BUFFALO HUNT



The Indians are simply large children, and further, no matter how reasonable your proposition, they take a long time to consider it and are subject to all kinds of mental revulsion. So we were lucky to get away from Fort Smith on July 4 with young Francois Bezkya as guide. He was a full-blooded Chipewyan Indian, so full that he had knowledge of no other tongue, and Billy had to be go-between.

Bezkya, the son of my old patient, came well recommended as a good man and a moose-hunter. A "good man" means a strong, steady worker, as canoeman or portager. He may be morally the vilest outcast unhung; that in no wise modifies the phrase "he is a good man." But more: the present was a moosehunter; this is a wonderfully pregnant phrase. Moose-hunting by fair stalking is the pinnacle of woodcraft. The Crees alone, as a tribe, are supposed to be masters of the art; but many of the Chipewyans are highly successful. One must be a consummate trailer, a good shot, have tireless limbs and wind and a complete knowledge of the animal's habits and ways of moving and thinking. One must watch the wind, without ceasing, for no hunter has the slightest chance of success if once the Moose should scent him. This last is fundamental, a three-times sacred principle. Not long ago one of these Chipewyans went to confessional. Although a year had passed since last he got cleaned up, he could think of nothing to confess. Oh! spotless soul! However, under pressure of the priest, he at length remembered a black transgression. The fall before, while hunting, he went to the windward of a thicket that seemed likely to hold his Moose, because on the lee, the proper side, the footing happened to be very bad, and so he lost his Moose. Yes! there was indeed a dark shadow on his recent past.

A man may be a good hunter, i.e., an all-round trapper and woodman, but not a moose-hunter. At Fort Smith are two or three scores of hunters, and yet I am told there are only three moose-hunters. The phrase is not usually qualified; he is, or is not, a moose-hunter. Just as a man is, or is not, an Oxford M.A. The force, then, of the phrase appears, and we were content to learn that young Bezkya, besides knowing the Buffalo country, was also a good man and a moose-hunter.

We set out in two canoes, Bezkya and Jarvis in the small one, Billy, Selig, Preble, and I in the large one, leaving the other police boys to make Fort Resolution in the H. B. steamer.

Being the 4th of July, the usual torrential rains set in. During the worst of it we put in at Salt River village. It was amusing to see the rubbish about the doors of these temporarily deserted cabins. The midden-heaps of the Cave-men are our principal sources of information about those by-gone races; the future ethnologist who discovers Salt River midden-heaps will find all the usual skulls, bones, jaws, teeth, flints, etc., mixed with moccasin beads from Venice, brass cartridges from New England, broken mirrors from France, Eley cap-boxes from London, copper rings, silver pins, lead bullets, and pewter spoons, and interpersed with them bits of telephone wires and the fragments of gramophone discs. I wonder what they will make of the last!

Eight miles farther we camped in the rain, reaching the Buffalo Portage next morning at 10, and had everything over its 5 miles by 7 o'clock at night.

It is easily set down on paper, but the uninitiated can scarcely realise the fearful toil of portaging. If you are an office man, suppose you take an angular box weighing 20 or 30 pounds; if a farmer, double the weight, poise it on your shoulders or otherwise, as you please, and carry it half a mile on a level pavement in cool, bright weather, and I am mistaken if you do not find yourself suffering horribly before the end of a quarter-mile; the last part of the trip will have been made in something like mortal agony. Remember, then, that each of these portagers was carrying 150 to 250 pounds of broken stuff, not half a mile, but several miles, not on level pavement, but over broken rocks, up banks, through quagmires and brush—in short, across ground that would be difficult walking without any burden, and not in cool, clear weather, but through stifling swamps with no free hand to ease the myriad punctures of his body, face, and limbs whenever unsufficiently protected from the stingers that roam in clouds. It is the hardest work I ever saw performed by human beings; the burdens are heavier than some men will allow their horses to carry.

Yet all this frightful labour was cheerfully gone through by white men, half-breeds, and Indians alike. They accept it as a part of their daily routine. This fact alone is enough to guarantee the industrial future of the red-man when the hunter life is no longer possible.

Next day we embarked on the Little Buffalo River, beginning what should have been and would have been a trip of memorable joys but for the awful, awful, awful—see Chapter IX.

The Little Buffalo is the most beautiful river in the whole world except, perhaps, its affluent, the Nyarling.

This statement sounds like the exaggeration of mere impulsive utterance. Perhaps it is; but I am writing now after thinking the matter over for two and a half years, during, which time I have seen a thousand others, including the upper Thames, the Afton, the Seine, the Arno, the Tiber, the Iser, the Spree, and the Rhine.

A hundred miles long is this uncharted stream; fifty feet its breadth of limpid tide; eight feet deep, crystal clear, calm, slow, and deep to the margin. A steamer could ply on its placid, unobstructed flood, a child could navigate it anywhere. The heavenly beauty of the shores, with virgin forest of fresh, green spruces towering a hundred feet on every side, or varied in open places with long rows and thick-set hedges of the gorgeous, wild, red, Athabaska rose, made a stream that most canoemen, woodmen, and naturalists would think without a fault or flaw, and with every river beauty in its highest possible degree. Not trees and flood alone had strenuous power to win our souls; at every point and bank, in every bend, were living creatures of the north, Beaver and Bear, not often seen but abundant; Moose tracks showed from time to time and birds were here in thousands. Rare winter birds, as we had long been taught to think them in our southern homes; here we found them in their native land and heard not a few sweet melodies, of which in faraway Ontario, New Jersey, and Maryland we had been favoured only with promising scraps when wintry clouds were broken by the sun. Nor were the old familiar ones away—Flicker, Sapsucker, Hairy Woodpecker, Kingfisher, Least Flycatcher, Alder Flycatcher, Robin, Crow, and Horned Owl were here to mingle their noises with the stranger melodies and calls of Lincoln Sparrow, Fox Sparrow, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Snipe, Rusty Blackbird, and Bohemian Waxwing.

Never elsewhere have I seen Horned Owls so plentiful. I did not know that there were so many Bear and Beaver left; I never was so much impressed by the inspiring raucous clamour of the Cranes, the continual spatter of Ducks, the cries of Gulls and Yellowlegs. Hour after hour we paddled down that stately river adding our 3 1/2 miles to its 1 mile speed; each turn brought to view some new and lovelier aspect of bird and forest life. I never knew a land of balmier air; I never felt the piney breeze more sweet; nowhere but in the higher mountains is there such a tonic sense abroad; the bright woods and river reaches were eloquent of a clime whose maladies are mostly foreign-born. But alas! I had to view it all swaddled, body, hands, and head, like a bee-man handling his swarms. Songs were muffled, scenes were dimmed by the thick, protecting, suffocating veil without which men can scarcely live.

Ten billion dollars would be all too small reward, a trifle totally inadequate to compensate, mere nominal recognition of the man who shall invent and realise a scheme to save this earthly paradise from this its damning pest and malediction.



CHAPTER XVIII

DOWN TO FUNDAMENTALS



At 8.30 A. M., 10 miles from the portage, we came to the Clew-ee, or White Fish River; at 6.30 P. M. made the Sass Tessi, or Bear River, and here camped, having covered fully 40 miles.

Now for the first time we were all together, with leisure to question our guide and plan in detail. But all our mirth and hopes were rudely checked by Corporal Selig, who had entire charge of the commissary, announcing that there were only two days' rations left.

In the dead calm that followed this bomb-shell we all did some thinking; then a rapid fire of questions demonstrated the danger of having a guide who does not speak our language.

It seems that when asked how many days' rations we should take on this Buffalo hunt he got the idea how many days to the Buffalo. He said five, meaning five days each way and as much time as we wished there. We were still two days from our goal. Now what should we do? Scurry back to the fort or go ahead and trust to luck? Every man present voted "go ahead on half rations."

We had good, healthy appetites; half rations was veritable hardship; but our hollow insides made hearty laughing. Preble disappeared as soon as we camped, and now at the right time he returned and silently threw at the cook's feet a big 6-pound Pike. It was just right, exactly as it happens in the most satisfactory books and plays. It seems that he always carried a spoon-hook, and went at once to what he rightly judged the best place, a pool at the junction of the two rivers. The first time he threw he captured the big fellow. Later he captured three smaller ones in the same place, but evidently there were no more.

That night we had a glorious feast; every one had as much as he could eat, chiefly fish. Next morning we went on 4 1/2 miles farther, then came to the mouth of the Nyarling Tessi, or Underground River, that joins the Buffalo from the west. This was our stream; this was the highway to the Buffalo country. It was a miniature of the river we were leaving, but a little quicker in current. In about 2 miles we came to a rapid, but were able to paddle up. About 6 miles farther was an immense and ancient log-jamb that filled the stream from bank to bank for 190 yards. What will be the ultimate history of this jamb? It is added to each year, the floods have no power to move it, logs in water practically never rot, there is no prospect of it being removed by natural agencies. I suspect that at its head the river comes out of a succession of such things, whence its name Underground River.,

Around this jamb is an easy portage. We were far now from the haunts of any but Indians on the winter hunt, so were surprised to see on this portage trail the deep imprints of a white man's boot. These were made apparently within a week, by whom I never learned. On the bank not far away we saw a Lynx pursued overhead by two scolding Redsquirrels.

Lunch consisted of what remained of the Pike, but that afternoon Bezkya saw two Brown Cranes on a meadow, and manoeuvring till they were in line killed both with one shot of his rifle at over 100 yards, the best shot I ever knew an Indian to make. Still, two Cranes totalling 16 pounds gross is not enough meat to last five men a week, so we turned to our Moosehunter.

"Yes, he could get a Moose." He went on in the small canoe with Billy; we were to follow, and if we passed his canoe leave a note. Seven miles above the log-jamb, the river forked south and west; here a note from the guide sent us up the South Fork; later we passed his canoe on the bank and knew that he had landed and was surely on his way "to market." What a comfortable feeling it was to remember that Bezkya was a moose-hunter! We left word and travelled till 7, having come 11 miles up from the river's mouth. Our supper that night was Crane, a little piece of bread each, some soup, and some tea.

At 10 the hunters came back empty-handed. Yes, they found a fresh Moose track, but the creature was so pestered by clouds of ———— that he travelled continually as fast as he could against the wind. They followed all day but could not overtake him. They saw a Beaver but failed to get it. No other game was found.

Things were getting serious now, since all our food consisted of 1 Crane, 1 tin of brawn, 1 pound of bread, 2 pounds of pork, with some tea, coffee, and sugar, not more than one square meal for the crowd, and we were 5 men far from supplies, unless our hunting proved successful, and going farther every day.

Next morning (July 9) each man had coffee, one lady's finger of bread, and a single small slice of bacon. Hitherto from choice I had not eaten bacon in this country, although it was a regular staple served at each meal. But now, with proper human perversity, I developed an extraordinary appetite for bacon. It seemed quite the most delicious gift of God to man. Given bacon, and I was ready to forgo all other foods. Nevertheless, we had divided the last of it. I cut my slice in two, revelled in half, then secretly wrapped the other piece in paper and hid it in the watch-pocket of my vest, thinking "the time is in sight when the whole crowd will be thankful to have that scrap of bacon among them." (As a matter of fact, they never got it, for five days later we found a starving dog and he was so utterly miserable that he conjured that scrap from the pocket next my heart.)

We were face to face with something like starvation now; the game seemed to shun us and our store of victuals was done. Yet no one talked of giving up or going back. We set out to reach the Buffalo country, and reach it we would.

That morning we got 7 little Teal, so our lunch was sure, but straight Teal without accompaniments is not very satisfying; we all went very hungry. And with one mind we all thought and talked about the good dinners or specially fine food we once had had. Selig's dream of bliss was a porterhouse steak with a glass of foaming beer; Jarvis thought champagne and roast turkey spelt heaven just then; I thought of my home breakfasts and the Beaux-Arts at New York; but Billy said he would he perfectly happy if he could have one whole bannock all to himself. Preble said nothing.



CHAPTER XIX

WHITE MAN AND RED. MEAT, BUT NOTHING MORE



There was plenty of hollow hilarity but no word of turning back. But hold! yes, there was. There was one visage that darkened more each day, and finally the gloomy thoughts broke forth in words from the lips of—our Indian guide. His recent sullen silence was now changed to open and rebellious upbraiding.

He didn't come here to starve. He could do that at home. He was induced to come by a promise of plenty of flour. "All of which was perfectly true. But," he went on, "We were still 11 days from the Buffalo and we were near the head of navigation; it was a case of tramp through the swamp with our beds and guns, living on the country as we went, and if we didn't have luck the Coyotes and Ravens would."

Before we had time to discuss this prospect, a deciding step was announced, by Jarvis, He was under positive orders to catch the steamer Wrigley at Fort Resolution on the evening of July 10. It was now mid-day of July 9, and only by leaving at once and travelling all night could he cover the intervening 60 miles.

So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for "Bezkya was a moose-hunter."

Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe. We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat; they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.

Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically, I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food. A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.

Nothing loath, he set off with Billy. I marked them well as they went, one lithe, sinewy, active, animal-eyed; the other solid and sturdy, following doggedly, keeping up by sheer blundering strength. I could not but admire them, each in his kind.

Two hours later I heard two shots, and toward evening the boys came back slowly, tired but happy, burdened with the meat, for Bezkya was a moosehunter.

Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have been on that moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have told it. These men, that do it so well, never can tell it. Yet in the days that followed I picked up a few significant phrases that gave glimpses of its action.

Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son of the woods had set out "straightaway west." A big track appeared crossing a pool, seeming fresh. "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not muddy." Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see bite alder. Alder turn red in two hours; only half red." Follow long. "Look out, Billy; no go there; wrong wind. Yes, he pass one hour; see bit willow still white. Stop; he pass half-hour; see grass still bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. Stand here, Billy. He sleep in thick willow there."

Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long wait, the betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that wagged furiously to shake off the winged bloodsuckers. The shot, the rush, the bloody trail, the pause in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from both hunters, and the death.

Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, which lay conveniently on the river bank. After pushing through the alders and poling up the dwindling stream for a couple of hours we reached the place two miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no bell, horns only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across, the tips soft and springy; one could stick a knife through them anywhere outside of the basal half.

Bezkya says they are good to eat in this stage; but we had about 700 pounds of good meat so did not try. The velvet on the horns is marked by a series of concentric curved lines of white hair, across the lines of growth; these, I take it, correspond with times of check by chill or hardship.

We loaded our canoe with meat and pushed on toward the Buffalo country for two miles more up the river. Navigation now became very difficult on account of alders in the stream. Bezkya says that only a few hundred yards farther and the river comes from underground. This did not prove quite correct, for I went half a mile farther by land and found no change.

Here, however, we did find some Buffalo tracks; one went through our camp, and farther on were many, but all dated from the spring and were evidently six weeks old.

There were no recent tracks, which was discouraging, and the air of gloom over our camp grew heavier. The weather had been bad ever since we left Fort Smith, cloudy or showery. This morning for the first time the day dawned with a clear sky, but by noon it was cloudy and soon again raining. Our diet consisted of nothing but Moose meat and tea; we had neither sugar nor salt, and the craving for farinaceous food was strong and growing. We were what the. natives call "flour hungry"; our three-times-a-day prospect of Moose, Moose, Moose was becoming loathsome. Bezkya was openly rebellious once more, and even my two trusties were very, very glum. Still, the thought of giving up was horrible, so I made a proposition: "Bezkya, you go out scouting on, foot and see if you can locate a band. I'll give you five dollars extra if you show me one Buffalo."

At length he agreed to go provided I would set out for Fort Resolution at once unless he found Buffalo near. This was leaving it all in his hands. While I was considering, Preble said: "I tell you this delay is playing the mischief with our Barren-Ground trip; we should have started for the north ten days ago," which was in truth enough to settle the matter.

I knew perfectly well beforehand what Bezkya's report would be.

At 6.30 he returned to say he found nothing but old tracks. There were no Buffalo nearer than two days' travel on foot, and he should like to return at once to Fort Resolution.

There was no further ground for debate; every one and everything now was against me. Again I had to swallow the nauseating draught of defeat and retreat.

"We start northward first thing in the morning," I said briefly, and our third Buffalo hunt was over.

These, then, were the results so far as Buffalo were concerned: Old tracks as far down as last camp, plenty of old tracks here and westward, but the Buffalo, as before on so many occasions, were two days' travel to the westward.

During all this time I had lost no good opportunity of impressing on the men the sinfulness of leaving a camp-fire burning and of taking life unnecessarily; and now, I learned of fruit from this seeding. That night Bezkya was in a better humour, for obvious reasons; he talked freely and told me how that day he came on a large Blackbear which at once took to a tree. The Indian had his rifle, but thought, "I can kill him, yet I can't stop to skin him or use his meat," so left him in peace.

This is really a remarkable incident, almost unique. I am glad to believe that I had something to do with causing such unusual forbearance.



CHAPTER XX

ON THE NYARLING



All night it rained; in the morning it was dull, foggy, and showery. Everything was very depressing, especially in view of this second defeat. The steady diet of Moose and tea was debilitating; my legs trembled under me. I fear I should be a poor one to stand starvation, if so slight a brunt should play such havoc with my strength.

We set out early to retrace the course of the Nyarling, which in spite of associated annoyances and disappointments will ever shine forth in my memory as the "Beautiful River."

It is hard, indeed, for words to do it justice. The charm of a stream is always within three feet of the surface and ten feet of the bank. The broad Slave, then, by its size wins in majesty but must lose most all its charm; the Buffalo, being fifty feet wide, has some waste water; but the Nyarling, half the size, has its birthright compounded and intensified in manifold degree. The water is clear, two or three feet deep at the edge of the grassy banks, seven to ten feet in mid-channel, without bars or obstructions except the two log-jambs noted, and these might easily be removed. The current is about one mile and a half an hour, so that canoes can readily pass up or down; the scenery varies continually and is always beautiful. Everything that I have said of the Little Buffalo applies to the Nyarling with fourfold force, because of its more varied scenery and greater range of bird and other life. Sometimes, like the larger stream, it presents a long, straight vista of a quarter-mile through a solemn aisle in the forest of mighty spruce trees that tower a hundred feet in height, all black with gloom, green with health, and gray with moss.

Sometimes its channel winds in and out of open grassy meadows that are dotted with clumps of rounded trees, as in an English park. Now it narrows to a deep and sinuous bed, through alders so rank and reaching that they meet overhead and form a shade of golden green; and again it widens out into reedy lakes, the summer home of countless Ducks, Geese, Tattlers Terns, Peetweets, Gulls, Rails, Blackbirds, and half a hundred of the lesser tribes. Sometimes the foreground is rounded masses of kinnikinnik in snowy flower, or again a far-strung growth of the needle bloom, richest and reddest of its tribe—the Athabaska rose. At times it is skirted by tall poplar woods where the claw-marks on the trunks are witness of the many Blackbears, or some tamarack swamp showing signs and proofs that hereabouts a family of Moose had fed to-day, or by a broad and broken trail that told of a Buffalo band passing weeks ago. And while we gazed at scribbled records, blots, and marks, the loud "slap plong" of a Beaver showed from time to time that the thrifty ones had dived at our approach.

On the way up Jarvis had gone first in the small canoe; he saw 2 Bears, 3 Beaver, and 1 Lynx; I saw nothing but birds. On the way down, being alone, the luck came my way.

At the first camp, after he left, we heard a loud "plong" in the water near the boat. Bezkya glided to the spot; I followed—here was a large Beaver swimming. The Indian fired, the Beaver plunged, and we saw nothing more of it. He told Billy, who told me, that it was dead, because it did not slap with its tail as it went down. Next night another splashed by our boat.

This morning as we paddled we saw a little stream, very muddy, trickling into the river. Bezkya said, "Beaver at work on his dam there." Now that we were really heading for flour, our Indian showed up well. He was a strong paddler, silent but apparently cheerful, ready at all times to work. As a hunter and guide he was of course first class. About 10.30 we came on a large Beaver sunning himself on a perch built of mud just above the water. He looked like a huge chestnut Muskrat. He plunged at once but came up again yards farther down, took another look and dived, to be seen no more.

At noon we reached our old camp, the last where all had been together. Here we put up a monument on a tree, and were mortified to think we had not done so at our farthest camp.

There were numbers of Yellowlegs breeding here; we were surprised to see them resting on trees or flying from one branch to another.

A Great Gray-owl sitting on a stump was a conspicuous feature of our landscape view; his white choker shone like a parson's.

Early in the morning we saw a Kingbird. This was our northernmost record for the species.

We pressed on all day, stopping only for our usual supper of Moose and tea, and about 7 the boys were ready to go on again. They paddled till dark at 10. Camped in the rain, but every one was well pleased, for we had made 40 miles that day and were that much nearer to flour.

This journey had brought us down the Nyarling and 15 miles down the Buffalo.

It rained all night; next morning the sun came out once or twice but gave it up, and clouds with rain sprinklings kept on. We had struck a long spell of wet; it was very trying, and fatal to photographic work.

After a delicious, appetising, and inspiring breakfast of straight Moose, without even salt, and raw tea, we pushed on along the line of least resistance, i.e., toward flour.

A flock of half a dozen Bohemian Waxwings were seen catching flies among the tall spruce tops; probably all were males enjoying a stag party while their wives were home tending eggs or young.

Billy shot a female Bufflehead Duck; she was so small-only 8 inches in slack girth—that she could easily have entered an ordinary Woodpecker hole. So that it is likely the species nest in the abandoned holes of the Flicker. A Redtailed Hawk had its nest on a leaning spruce above the water. It was a most striking and picturesque object; doubtless the owner was very well pleased with it, but a pair of Robins militant attacked him whenever he tried to go near it.

A Beaver appeared swimming ahead; Bezkya seized his rifle and removed the top of its head, thereby spoiling a splendid skull but securing a pelt and a new kind of meat. Although I was now paying his wages the Beaver did not belong to me. According to the custom of the country it belonged to Bezkya. He owed me nothing but service as a guide. Next meal we had Beaver tail roasted and boiled; it was very delicious, but rather rich and heavy.

At 3.45 we reached Great Slave Lake, but found the sea so high that it would have been very dangerous to attempt crossing to Fort Resolution, faintly to be seen a dozen miles away.

We waited till 7, then ventured forth; it was only 11 miles across and we could send that canoe at 5 1/2 miles an hour, but the wind and waves against us were so strong that it took 3 1/2 hours to make the passage. At 10.30 we landed at Resolution and pitched our tent among 30 teepees with 200 huge dogs that barked, scratched, howled, yelled, and fought around, in, and over the tent-ropes all night long. Oh, how different from the tranquil woods of the Nyarling!



CHAPTER XXI

FORT RESOLUTION AND ITS FOLK



Early next morning Preble called on his old acquaintance, Chief Trader C. Harding, in charge of the post. Whenever we have gone to H. B. Co. officials to do business with them, as officers of the company, we have found them the keenest of the keen; but whenever it is their personal affair, they are hospitality out-hospitalled. They give without stint; they lavish their kindness on the stranger from the big world. In a few minutes Preble hastened back to say that we were to go to breakfast at once.

That breakfast, presided over by a charming woman and a genial, generous man, was one that will not be forgotten while I live. Think of it, after the hard scrabble on the Nyarling! We had real porridge and cream, coffee with veritable sugar and milk, and authentic butter, light rolls made of actual flour, unquestionable bacon and potatoes, with jam and toast—the really, truly things—and we had as much as we could eat! We behaved rather badly—intemperately, I fear—we stopped only when forced to do it, and yet both of us came away with appetites.

It was clear that I must get some larger craft than my canoe to cross the lake from Fort Resolution and take the 1,300 pounds of provisions that had come on the steamer. Harding kindly offered the loan of a York boat, and with the help chiefly of Charlie McLeod the white man, who is interpreter at the fort, I secured a crew to man it. But oh, what worry and annoyance it was! These Great Slave Lake Indians are like a lot of spoiled and petulant children, with the added weakness of adult criminals; they are inconsistent, shiftless, and tricky. Pike, Whitney, Buffalo Jones, and others united many years ago in denouncing them as the most worthless and contemptible of the human race, and since then they have considerably deteriorated. There are exceptions, however, as will be seen by the record.

One difficulty was that it became known that on the Buffalo expedition Bezkya had received three dollars a day, which is government emergency pay. I had agreed to pay the regular maximum, two dollars a day with presents and keep. All came and demanded three dollars. I told them they could go at once in search of the hottest place ever pictured by a diseased and perfervid human imagination.

If they went there they decided not to stay, because in an hour they were back offering to compromise. I said I could run back to Fort Smith (it sounds like nothing) and get all the men I needed at one dollar and a half. (I should mortally have hated to try.) One by one the crew resumed. Then another bombshell. I had offended Chief Snuff by not calling and consulting with him; he now gave it out that I was here to take out live Musk-ox, which meant that all the rest would follow to seek their lost relatives. Again my crew resigned. I went to see Snuff. Every man has his price. Snuff's price was half a pound of tea; and the crew came back, bringing, however, several new modifications in our contract.

Taking no account of several individuals that joined a number of times but finally resigned, the following, after they had received presents, provisions, and advance pay, were the crew secured to man the York boat on the "3 or 4" days' run to Pike's Portage and then carry my goods to the first lake.

Weeso. The Jesuits called him Louison d'Noire, but it has been corrupted into a simpler form. "Weeso" they call it, "Weeso" they write it, and for "Weeso" you must ask, or you will not find him. So I write it as I do "Sousi" and "Yum," with the true local colour.

He was a nice, kind, simple old rabbit, not much use and not over-strong, but he did his best, never murmuring, and in all the mutinies and rebellions that followed he remained staunch, saying simply, "I gave my word I would go, and I will go." He would make a safe guide for the next party headed for Aylmer Lake. He alone did not ask rations for his wife during his absence; he said, "It didn't matter about her, as they had been married for a long time now." He asked as presents a pair of my spectacles, as his eyes were failing, and a marble axe. The latter I sent him later, but he could not understand why glasses that helped me should not help him. He acted as pilot and guide, knowing next to nothing about either.

Francois d'Noire, son of Weeso, a quiet, steady, inoffensive chap, but not strong; nevertheless, having been there once with us, he is now a competent guide to take any other party as far as Pike's Portage.

C., a sulky brute and a mischief-maker. He joined and resigned a dozen times that day, coming back on each occasion with a new demand.

S., grandson of the chief, a sulky good-for-nothing; would not have him again at any price; besides the usual wages, tobacco, food, etc., he demanded extra to support his wife during his absence. The wife, I found, was a myth.

T., a sulky good-for-nothing.

Beaulieu, an alleged grandson of his grandfather. A perpetual breeder of trouble; never did a decent day's work the whole trip. Insolent, mutinous, and overbearing, till I went for him with intent to do bodily mischief; then he became extremely obsequious. Like the rest of the foregoing, he resigned and resumed at irregular intervals.

Yum (William), Freesay; the best of the lot; a bright, cheerful, intelligent, strong Indian, boy. He and my old standby, Billy Loutit, did virtually all the handling of that big boat. Any one travelling in that country should secure Yum if they can. He was worth all the others put together.



CHAPTER XXII

THE CHIPEWYANS, THEIR SPEECH AND WRITING



Sweeping generalisations are always misleading, therefore I offer some now, and later will correct them by specific instances.

These Chipewyans are dirty, shiftless, improvident, and absolutely honest. Of the last we saw daily instances in crossing the country. Valuables hung in trees, protected only from weather, birds, and beasts, but never a suggestion that they needed protection from mankind. They are kind and hospitable among themselves, but grasping in their dealings with white men, as already set forth. While they are shiftless and lazy, they also undertake the frightful toil of hunting and portaging. Although improvident, they have learned to dry a stock of meat and put up a scaffold of white fish for winter use. As a tribe they are mild and inoffensive, although they are the original stock from which the Apaches broke away some hundreds of years ago before settling in the south.

They have suffered greatly from diseases imported by white men, but not from whiskey. The Hudson's Bay Company has always refused to supply liquor to the natives. What little of the evil traffic there has been was the work of free-traders. But the Royal Mounted Police have most rigorously and effectually suppressed this. Nevertheless, Chief Trader Anderson tells me that the Mackenzie Valley tribes have fallen to less than half their numbers during the last century.

It is about ten, years since they made the treaty that surrendered their lands to the government. They have no reserves, but are free to hunt as their fathers did.

I found several of the older men lamenting the degeneracy of their people. "Our fathers were hunters and our mothers made good moccasins, but the young men are lazy loafers around the trading posts, and the women get money in bad ways to buy what they should make with their hands."

The Chipewyan dialects are peculiarly rasping, clicking, and guttural, especially when compared with Cree.

Every man and woman and most of the children among them smoke. They habitually appear with a pipe in their mouth and speak without removing it, so that the words gurgle out on each side of the pipe while a thin stream goes sizzling through the stem. This additional variant makes it hopeless to suggest on paper any approach to their peculiar speech.

The Jesuits tell me that it was more clicked and guttural fifty years ago, but that they are successfully weeding out many of the more unpleasant catarrhal sounds.

In noting down the names of animals, I was struck by the fact that the more familiar the animal the shorter its name. Thus the Beaver, Muskrat, Rabbit, and Marten, on which they live, are respectively Tsa, Dthen, Ka, and Tha. The less familiar (in a daily sense) Red Fox and Weasel are Nak-ee-they, Noon-dee-a, Tel-ky-lay; and the comparatively scarce Musk-ox and little Weasel, At-huh-le-jer-ray and Tel-ky-lay-azzy. All of which is clear and logical, for the name originally is a description, but the softer parts and sharp angles are worn down by the attrition of use—the more use they have for a word the shorter it is bound to get. In this connection it is significant that "to-day" is To-ho-chin-nay, and "to-morrow" Kom-pay.

The Chipewyan teepee is very distinctive; fifty years ago all were of caribou leather, now most are of cotton; not for lack of caribou, but because the cotton does not need continual watching to save it from the dogs. Of the fifty teepees at Fort Chipewyan, one or two only were of caribou but many had caribou-skin tops, as these are less likely to bum than those of cotton.

The way they manage the smoke is very clever; instead of the two fixed flaps, as among the Plains River Indians, these have a separate hood which is easily set on any side (see III). Chief Squirrel lives in a lodge that is an admirable combination of the white men's tent with its weather-proof roof and the Indian teepee with its cosy fire. (See cut, p. 149.)

Not one of these lodges that I saw, here or elsewhere, had the slightest suggestion of decoration.

For people who spend their whole life on or near the water these are the worst boatmen I ever saw. The narrow, thick paddle they make, compared with the broad, thin Iroquois paddle, exactly expressed the difference between the two as canoemen. The Chipewyan's mode of using it is to sit near the middle and make 2 or perhaps 3 strokes on one side, then change to the other side for the same, and so on. The line made by the canoes is an endless zigzag. The idea of paddling on one side so dexterously that the canoe goes straight is yet on an evolutionary pinnacle beyond their present horizon.

In rowing, their way is to stand up, reach forward with the 30-pound 16 1/2-foot oar, throw all the weight on it, falling backward into the seat. After half an hour of this exhausting work they must rest 15 to 20 minutes. The long, steady, strong pull is unknown to them in every sense.

Their ideas of sailing a boat are childish. Tacking is like washing, merely a dim possibility of their very distant future. It's a sailing wind if behind; otherwise it's a case of furl and row.

By an ancient, unwritten law the whole country is roughly divided among the hunters. Each has his own recognised hunting ground, usually a given river valley, that is his exclusive and hereditary property; another hunter may follow a wounded animal into it, but not begin a hunt there or set a trap upon it.

Most of their time is spent at the village, but the hunting ground is visited at proper seasons.

Fifty years ago they commonly went half naked. How they stood the insects I do not know, and when asked they merely grinned significantly; probably they doped themselves with grease.

This religious training has had one bad effect. Inspired with horror of being "naked" savages, they do not run any sinful risks, even to take a bath. In all the six months I was among them I never saw an Indian's bare arms, much less his legs. One day after the fly season was over I took advantage of the lovely weather and water to strip off and jump into a lake by our camp; my Indians modestly turned their backs until I had finished.

If this mock modesty worked for morality one might well accept it, but the old folks say that it operates quite the other way. It has at all events put an end to any possibility of them taking a bath.

Maybe as a consequence, but of this I am not sure, none of these Indians swim. A large canoe-load upset in crossing Great Slave Lake a month after we arrived and all were drowned.

Like most men who lead physical lives, and like all meat-eating savages, these are possessed of a natural proneness toward strong drink.

An interesting two-edged boomerang illustration of this was given by an unscrupulous whiskey trader. While travelling across country he ran short of provisions but fortunately came to a Chipewyan lodge. At first its owner had no meat to spare, but when he found that the visitor had a flask of whiskey he offered for it a large piece of Moose meat; when this was refused he doubled the amount, and after another refusal added some valuable furs and more meat till one hundred dollars worth was piled up.