Nazinred required no pressing; he began at once, and was ready for more almost before more was ready for him. By persevering industry, however, Cheenbuk kept his guest supplied, and when appetite began to fail he found time to attend to his own wants and keep the other company.

Silence reigned at first. When the Indian had finished eating he accepted a draught of warm water, and then had recourse to his fire-bag and pipe. Cheenbuk expected this, and smiled inwardly, though his outward visage would have done credit to an owl.

At last he looked up and asked the Indian how he came to be travelling thus alone and so far from his native land.

Nazinred puffed a voluminous cloud from his lips and two streaming cloudlets from his nose ere he replied.

"When my son," he said, "was on the banks of the Greygoose River his voice was not so deep!"

Cheenbuk burst into a laugh and threw back his hood.

"You know me, then, you man-of-the-woods," said he, holding out his hand in the white trader fashion which the other had taught him.

"When the men-of-the-woods see a face once, they never forget it," returned the Indian, grasping the proffered hand heartily, but without a sign of risibility on his countenance, for in this, as we know, he differed considerably from his companion; yet there was a something about the corners of his eyes which seemed to indicate that he was not quite devoid of humour.

"But how did you discover me?" resumed Cheenbuk. "I not only spoke with a deeper voice, but I put black and oil on my face, and pulled my hood well forward."

"When the Eskimo wants to blind the man-of-the-woods," answered Nazinred, sententiously, "he must remember that he is a man, not a child. The cry of the grey geese is always the same, though some of them have deeper voices than others. A face does not change its shape because it is dirtied with oil and black. Men draw hoods over their faces when going out of a lodge, not when coming in. When smoking tobacco is seen for the first time, surprise is always created.— Waugh!"

"What you say is true, man-of-the-woods," returned Cheenbuk, smiling. "I am not equal to you at deceiving."

Whether the Indian took this for a compliment or otherwise there was no expression on his mahogany face to tell, as he sat there calmly smoking and staring at the lamp. Suddenly he removed the pipe from his lips and looked intently at the Eskimo, who in turn regarded him with evident expectation.

"My son," said Nazinred, "I have one or two questions to put to you. You and I agree about many things. Tell me, what would you think of the fawn that would forsake its dam?"

Cheenbuk was puzzled, but replied that he thought there must be something the matter with it—something wrong.

"I will tell you a story," continued the Indian, "and it is true. It did not come into my head. I did not dream it. There was a man-of-the-woods, and he had a squaw and one child, a girl. The parents were very fond of this girl. She was graceful like the swan. Her eyes were large, brown, and beautiful like the eyes of a young deer. She was active and playful like the young rabbit. When she was at home the wigwam was full of light. When she was absent it was dark. The girl loved her father and mother, and never disobeyed them or caused them to suffer for a moment. One day, when the father was far away from home, a number of bad Eskimos came and fought with the men-of-the-woods, who went out and drove their enemies away. They took one prisoner, a strong fine-looking man. One night the prisoner escaped. It was discovered that the girl helped him and then went away with him."

He paused and frowned at this point, and the startled Cheenbuk at once recognised himself and Adolay as the hero and heroine of the story.

"Did the girl," he asked, "go away with the escaped prisoner of her own will, or did he force her to go?"

"She went of her own will," returned the Indian.

"One of the women of the tribe followed her and heard her speak. But the father loved his child. He could not hate her, although she forsook her home. At first he thought of taking all his young men and going on the war-path to follow the Eskimos, slay the whole tribe, and bring back his child. But Manitou had put it in the father's mind to think that it is wrong to kill the innocent because of the guilty. He therefore made up his mind to set off alone to search for his child."

Again Nazinred paused, and Cheenbuk felt very uncomfortable, for although he knew that it was impossible for the Indian to guess that the Eskimo with whom he had once had a personal conflict was the same man as he who had been taken prisoner and had escaped with his daughter, still he was not sure that the astute Red man might not have put the two things together and so have come to suspect the truth.

"So, then, man-of-the-woods," said Cheenbuk at last, "you are the father who has lost his daughter?"

"I am," returned the Indian, "and I know not to what tribe the young man belongs with whom she has gone away, but I am glad that I have met with you, because you perhaps may have heard if any strange girl has come to stay with any of the tribes around you, and can tell me how and where to find her. We named her Adolay, because she reminds us of that bright season when the sun is hot and high."

Cheenbuk was silent for some time, as well he might be, for the sudden revelation that the Indian who had once been his antagonist, and for whom he had taken such a liking, was the father of the very girl who had run away with him against her inclination, quite took his breath away. It was not easy to determine how or when the true facts should be broken to the father, and yet it was evident that something must be said, for Cheenbuk could not make up his mind to lie or to act the part of a hypocrite.

"I have heard of the girl-of-the-woods you speak of," he said at last; "I have seen her."

For the first time since they met, the characteristic reserve of the Indian broke down, and he became obviously excited, yet even then he curbed his tongue for a few moments, and when he again spoke it was with his habitual calmness.

"Does my son know the tribe to which she has been taken? And is it well with the girl?"

"He does. And it is well with Adolay."

"Do they dwell far from here?" asked Nazinred, anxiously in spite of himself.

"Not far. I can soon take you to their igloes. But tell me, man-of-the-woods, do you think your child had no reason for leaving home in this way except fondness for the young man?"

"I know not," returned the Indian, with a doubtful, almost a hopeful look. "What other reason could she have? Her mother and I loved her more than ourselves. All the young men loved her. One of them—a bad one—had sworn to his comrades that he would have her for a wife in spite of her father,"—he smiled very slightly at this point, with a look of ineffable contempt—"but Magadar did not venture to say that in her father's ears!"

"May it not have been fear of this man, this Magadar, which drove her away?" suggested Cheenbuk. "You were not there to defend her. She may have been afraid of him, although you fear him not."

"That is true," returned the Indian, with a brighter look, "though I thought that Adolay feared nothing—but she is not her father."

This wise and obvious truism, or the words of the Eskimo, seemed to afford some comfort to the poor man, for he became more communicative and confidential after that.

"Do you think," asked Cheenbuk, "that your daughter has married this young man?"

"I know not."

"Don't you think it is likely?"

"I fear it is not unlikely."

"Why should you fear it? Are not the Eskimos as strong and brave as the men-of-the-woods?"

For a moment the Indian looked at his companion with high disdain, for the boastful question had aroused within him the boastful spirit; but the look quickly disappeared, and was replaced by the habitual air of calm gravity.

"It may be, as you say, that your nation is as brave and strong as ours—"

"I did not say that," remarked the free-and-easy Eskimo, interrupting his companion in a way that would have been deemed very bad manners in an Indian, "I asked you the question."

With a look of deeper gravity than usual the Indian replied:

"To your question no true answer can be given till all the men of both nations have tried their courage and their strength. But such matters should only be discussed by foolish boys, not by men. Yet I cannot help confessing that it is a very common thing among our young braves to boast. Is it so among the Eskimos?"

The Eskimo laughed outright at this.

"Yes," said he, "our young men sometimes do that—some of them; but not all. We have a few young men among us who know how to hold their tongues and when to speak."

"That is useful knowledge. Will my son speak now, and tell me what he knows about Adolay?"

"He knows that she is well spoken of, and much loved by the tribe with which she lives."

"That is natural," said the Indian, with a pleased look. "No one who sees Adolay can help loving her. Does the young man who took her away treat her kindly?"

"No one can tell that but herself. What if he treated her ill?"

"I would hope never to meet with him face to face," replied Nazinred, with a frown and a nervous clenching of the fist that spoke volumes.

"I have heard," continued Cheenbuk in a quiet way, "that the girl is very sad. She thinks much of her old home, and blames herself for having left it."

"Good," said the Indian emphatically. "That is like the child, to be sorry when she has done wrong."

"And I have heard that the young man who took her away is very fond of her—so fond that he will do whatever she likes to please her. His name is Cheenbuk. She asked him to take her home again, and he has promised to do so when the hot sun and the open water come back."

"Good. The young man must be a good man. Will he keep his promise?"

"Yes. I know him well. He loves truth, and he will do what he says."

"It is a long time till the open water comes. Will the young Eskimo's mind not change?"

"Cheenbuk's mind will not change. He loves Adolay better than himself."

Nazinred pondered this statement for some time in silence, caressing the sleek head of Attim as he did so.

"Will this young man, this Cheenbuk, be willing, do you think, to leave her in the lodges of her people and give her up altogether?" he asked, with a somewhat doubtful look.

"If Adolay wishes to be given up, he will," replied the Eskimo confidently.

"And you know him well?"

"Very well. No one knows him better."

Again the Indian was silent for some time. Then he spoke in a low tone:

"My son has made glad the heart of the man-of-the-woods. When we met by the river and strove together, we were drawn by a cord that anger could not snap. It is strange that you should now be chosen by Manitou to bring me such good news."

"Manitou can do stranger things than this, my father."

No more was said at that time, for, as both were thoughtful men, a considerable space of time was allowed to elapse between each question and answer. Before it could be resumed the crack of a whip and loud yelping were heard in the distance, and in a few minutes Anteek and two men drove up to the igloe with the sledge and a fresh team of dogs.

"I sent for them," explained Cheenbuk. "My father is tired, he will lie down on the sledge with a bearskin round him, while I take him to the igloes of my people. After that I will take him to Adolay."

"Nazinred will not lie down. He is no longer tired, for his heart is glad."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

KICK-BALL AND AN IMPORTANT MEETING.

We beg the reader now to accompany us to the Eskimo village, where the men and boys are having a game at kick-ball, a favourite game with those men-of-the-ice, which goes far to prove their kinship with ourselves.

But the details of the game are dissimilar in many ways—only the spirit is the same; namely, an effort to rouse the bodily system to as near the bursting-point as possible without an absolute explosion.

It was a lovely northern night. There was a clearness in the still frosty air which gave to the starry host a vivid luminosity, and seemed to reveal an infinite variety of deep distances instead of the usual aspect of bright spots on a black surface. Besides the light they shed, the aurora was shooting up into the zenith with a brilliancy that almost equalled that of moonlight, and with a vigour that made the beholder think there was a rustling sound. Indeed, some of the natives stoutly asserted that these lights did rustle—but among Eskimos, as among ourselves, there are highly imaginative people.

Oolalik was there of course. No game was thought complete without the co-operation of that robust Eskimo. So was Raventik, for the game of kick-ball suited his bold reckless nature to perfection, and there were none of the other players except himself capable of opposing Oolalik with any hope of success. Aglootook the magician also took part. The dignity of his office did not forbid his condescending to the frivolities of recreative amusement. Gartok was also there, but, alas! only as a spectator, for his wound was not sufficiently healed to permit of his engaging in any active or violent work. His fellow-sufferer Ondikik sat beside him. He, poor man, was in a worse case, for the bullet which was in him kept the wound open and drained away his strength. He was wrapped in a white bearskin, being unable to withstand the cold.

The whole male population, except the old men and the wounded, took part in the game, for the ball frequently bounded to the outskirts of the ice-field, where the boys of every shape and size had as good a chance of a kick as the men. As the women stood about in all directions looking on, and sending back the ball when it chanced to be kicked out of bounds, it may be said to have been an exceedingly sociable game.

Old Mangivik took great interest, though no part, in it, and Mrs M was not a whit behind him in enthusiastic applause whenever a good kick was given. Of course the fair Nootka was beside them, for—was not Oolalik one of the players? She would have scorned the insinuation that that was the reason. Nevertheless there is reason to believe that that had something to do with her presence.

Our friend Adolay, however, was not there. The absence of Cheenbuk may have had something to do with her absence, but, as she was seated in Mangivik's igloe moping over the lamp, it is more charitable to suppose that a longing for home—sweet home—was weighing down her spirits.

Old and young Uleeta were looking on with great delight, so was Cowlik the easy-going, and Rinka the sympathetic; and it was noticeable that, every now and then, the latter distracted her mind from the play in order to see that the bearskin did not slip off the shoulders of Ondikik, and to replace it if it did. Not that Rinka had any special regard for Ondikik, but it afforded her intense pleasure merely to relieve suffering in any way—so strong was the weakness for which she got credit!

The game had lasted for a considerable time, and the players were beginning to blow hard, when the ball, kicked by a surprisingly small boy in disproportionately big seal-skin boots, chanced to fall between Raventik and Oolalik.

"Oh!" exclaimed Nootka to herself, with a gasp of hope.

"Ho!" exclaimed Oolalik, with a shout of determination.

Raventik exclaimed nothing, but both young men rushed at the ball with furious vigour. The active Oolalik reached it first.

"Ah!" sighed Nootka with satisfaction.

"Hoh!" cried Oolalik, with a kick so full of energy that it would have sent the ball far over a neighbouring iceberg, if it had not been stopped dead by the broad face of Raventik, who went flat on his back in consequence—either from the tremendous force of the concussion, or because of a slip of the foot, or both.

This incident was received with shouts of laughter and great applause, while Raventik sprang to his feet. Instead of taking it in good part, however, the reckless man allowed his temper to get the better of him, and made a rush at Oolalik, who, being naturally peaceful in temperament, dodged his adversary, and, with a laugh, ran away from him; but the other was not to be baulked in this way. A fight he was bent on, so he gave chase at the top of his speed. The man of peace, however, was too fleet for him. He kept just out of his reach, thereby stimulating his rage and inducing many a "spurt" which proved abortive. At last, being desirous of putting an end to the chase—or himself losing patience, who knows?—Oolalik suddenly dropped on his hands and knees, and Raventik, plunging headlong over him, fell flat on his breast and went scooting over the ice for about ten or fifteen yards before he could stop himself. What would have happened after that no one can tell, for just then the attention of the whole party was diverted by a shout in the distance, accompanied by the cracking of a whip and the usual sounds that announced an arrival.

A few seconds later and Cheenbuk drove his team into the village.

He had warned Anteek to say nothing about the finding of the Indian, and the boy had been faithful to his trust, so that the whole population was thrown into a state of wide-eyed amazement, not to mention excitement, when the tall form of the Fire-spouter was seen to rise from the sledge and turn his grave countenance upon them with the calm dignity characteristic of his race. The dogs of the village showed not only surprise, but also their teeth, on observing Attim among the newcomers, and they made for him, but a well-directed and sweeping cut from the whip of the watchful Anteek scattered them right and left, and rebuked their inhospitality.

Thereafter Cheenbuk began to tell how he had discovered the Indian on the ice, and introduced the subject with some prolixity, like not a few white men when they have a good story to tell. Moreover, the wily man had an eye to dramatic effect, and, observing that Adolay was not among the women, he made up his mind to what is called "prolong the agony" as far as possible.

Unfortunately for his purpose, there happened to be blowing at the time a gentle nor'-west breeze, which, in its direct course towards them, had to pass over the igloe that belonged to Mangivik, and the humble-minded Attim, keen of scent, recognised something there that caused him suddenly to cock his ears and tail, open his eyes, and give vent to a sharp interrogative yelp!

Next moment he charged through the canine throng—scattering them in abject terror—dashed into the tunnel of Mangivik's dwelling, and disappeared from view. Another moment and there issued from the igloe— not a scream: Indian girls seldom or never scream—but a female ebullition of some sort, which was immediately followed by the sudden appearance of Adolay, with the dog waltzing around her, wriggling his tail as if he wished to shake off that member, and otherwise behaving himself like a quadrupedal lunatic.

Eager inquiry was intensified in every line of her expressive face, and, withal, a half-scared look, as if she expected to see a ghost. If she had really seen one the effect could scarcely have been more impressive when her eyes encountered those of her father. She stood for a few moments gazing, and utterly unable to move, then, with a wild cry of joy, she bounded towards him. In like manner the Indian stood at first as if thunderstruck, for Cheenbuk's information had not led him to expect this. Then his wonted dignity utterly forsook him; for the first time in his life, perhaps, he expressed his feelings of affection with a shout, and, meeting the girl half-way, enfolded her in an embrace that lifted her completely off her legs.

The Eskimos, as may well be imagined, were not only surprised but profoundly interested in the scene, and Cheenbuk was constrained to draw his narrative to an abrupt conclusion by informing them hurriedly that the Fire-spouter was the father of Adolay; that he had left home alone and on foot to search for her; that he was also the very man with whom, on the banks of the Whale River, he had fought and fraternised, and that therefore it behoved them to receive him hospitably as his particular friend.

Cheenbuk spoke the concluding sentence with a look and tone that was meant to convey a warning to any one who should dare to feel or act otherwise; but there was little need of the warning, for, with the exception of Aglootook the medicine-man, the chief leaders of the fire-eating portion of the tribe, Gartok and Ondikik, were at the time helpless.

While this irrepressible display of Dogrib affection was enacting, Attim was performing a special war-dance, or rather love-dance, of his own round the re-united pair. He was an unusually wise dog, and seemed to know that he could expect no attention just then; he therefore contented himself with a variety of hind-legged pirouettes, and a little half-suppressed yelping, knowing that his turn would surely come in time.

Meanwhile an incident occurred which seemed further to enhance the dramatic character of the meeting. There burst suddenly and without warning upon the amazed and horrified multitude a miniature thunder-clap, which, being absolutely new to their experience, shook them to their spinal marrow. Several boys of unusually inquisitive disposition, taking advantage of the pre-occupation of the tribe, ventured to poke about the sledge which had just arrived, and discovered the fire-spouter of the Indian. With awe-stricken countenances they proceeded to examine it. Of course, when they came to the trigger it went off. So did the boys—excepting the one who had touched the trigger. He, having the butt against his chest at the moment, received a lesson which he never forgot, and was laid flat on his back—as much with fright as violence. Fortunately there was nothing in front of the gun at the time save the tip of a dog's tail. Into this one lead-drop entered. It was enough! The owner of the tail sprang into space, howling. Every one else, including dogs and bairns, with the exception of Mrs Mangivik—who, being as it were petrified with consternation, remained absolutely immovable—fled for shelter behind the igloes, leaving Nazinred, Adolay, Cheenbuk and Anteek in possession of the field.

By degrees their fears were calmed, and according to their courage the rest of the population returned to the scene of the explosion, some half ashamed of having run away, others more than half ready to run again.

"Do they sometimes do like that by themselves?" asked Cheenbuk, referring to the gun.

"Never," said the Indian. "Some one must have touched it."

"The boys," remarked Anteek; "I know them!"

Adolay laughed. "Yes," she said, "I know them too, and they meddle with everything."

"Come, man-of-the-woods," said Cheenbuk, "and see my father's igloe. He is hiding inside of it since the spouter made its noise. This is my sister, Nootka, and that," he added, pointing to Mrs Mangivik, who was gradually becoming untransfixed, "is my mother."

"Have you told my father all, Cheenbuk?" asked Adolay as they went towards the hut.

The Indian stopped abruptly and looked with a piercing glance at the Eskimo.

"Cheenbuk!" he exclaimed, in a low voice.

"Yes, that is my name," said the young man, with a smile, and yet with a something in his face which implied that he was not ashamed to own it.

For a moment the Indian frowned as if he were displeased, at the same time drawing his daughter close to him. The prejudices of race were at work within him then, and that very human weakness which shows itself in esteeming all nations inferior to one's own strove with his better feelings; but as he looked on the handsome face and brave bearing of the young man-of-the-ice, and remembered his sentiments and sympathy, he suddenly stepped up to him and held out his hand.

"The white trader has taught me," he said, "that the difference in men is only skin-deep. The same Manitou made us all. Cheenbuk, my son, I am grateful to you for your care of my child."

"My father," said the Eskimo, returning his grasp, "your mind is in a good state. So is mine! You must be tired and hungry. Let us go and feed."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

TELLS OF HUNTING EXTRAORDINARY.

This advent of a male Fire-spouter into the little community was a source of much interest and delight to old and young—all the more that he had brought the mysterious spouter with him.

Not less interesting to Nazinred was the community in the midst of which he found himself, for, as we have more than once indicated, our Indian was intellectually far in advance of his fellows, and the opportunity he now had of observing closely the life of the men-of-the-ice in all its details could not be otherwise than full of interest to an inquiring and large-minded man.

On the day, or rather the night, of his arrival he was allowed quietly to eat his supper in the igloe of Mangivik, and go to sleep in peace, but next morning there was a crowding of relatives and friends into the hut, which rendered the meal of breakfast not quite so pleasant as it might have been, for the Indian, having been accustomed all his life to the comparatively open wigwam, did not relish the stifling atmosphere of the densely crowded snow-hut. However, he belonged to a race of Stoics, and, restraining his feelings, ate his meal with moderate appetite and becoming gravity.

There is reason to believe that he rather liked the earnest attention with which all his movements were closely and openly scrutinised; at all events he proceeded with his meal as calmly as if he had been alone, and in his own wigwam with none but the faithful Isquay and amiable Adolay to observe him.

Staring, as we have already said, is not considered rude among the Eskimos; they therefore sat open-mouthed and eyed, taking mental notes in silence, till breakfast was over, when Nazinred, according to custom, opened his fire-bag, took out his pipe, and began to fill it.

This created a sensation which was expressed by hard breathing and eloquent looks. They had been waiting for this. Of course Cheenbuk had often descanted to them on the subject of smoking, besides showing them how the thing was done, but now they were going to see the amazing thing done, in the right way, by the real Simon Pure—a live Fire-spouter!

"My father," said Cheenbuk at this point, "the igloe is hot, and there are many more who wish to see you do that thing. Will you come outside?"

With a condescending smile the Indian rose.

It was somewhat destructive of his dignity that he was obliged to go down on hands and knees, and creep out through the short snow tunnel, but as there was no other mode of egress he had to submit, and did it with the best grace possible, making up for the brief humiliation by raising himself when outside with ineffable dignity, and throwing his deerskin robe over one shoulder a la Roman toga.

He was greeted with something like a British cheer by the entire community of men, women, children, and even dogs, who were waiting outside for him.

Sitting down on a snow-clad rock he went through the process of filling the pipe, striking a light and beginning to smoke, to the unutterable delight of the natives. This delight became not only utterable but obstreperous when Cheenbuk gravely took out the pipe which Adolay had given him and began to keep him company, at the same time bestowing a look—a wink not yet being known to him—on Anteek, who forthwith went off into uncontrollable laughter and was promptly hustled out of the crowd.

The interest aroused by the pipe, however, was as nothing compared with that bestowed on the fire-spouter. For there was a mystery, noise, and deadliness about the latter which tended to evoke feelings of awe rather than amusement.

"I don't like to trouble your father too much, Adolay," whispered Cheenbuk; "would you say to him that we wish very much to see him use the spouter?"

Nazinred was an amiable man. He at once consented, and went back to the hut for his gun, which, remembering the tendency of the boys to meddle, he had kept close beside him all night.

Loading it inside, he re-appeared with it ready. Taking up a lump of ice about the size of one's hand, he set it up on a hummock, and retired to a distance of about thirty yards.

"Tell them all to keep back, out of the way of that, Cheenbuk," said Nazinred.

The excitement and nervous expectation of the Eskimos had been worked up considerably by these preparations, so that they not only retired to a safe distance, but some of them even took refuge behind the igloes, and all held their breath while their guest took aim.

He had loaded with shot, and when the explosion took place the piece of ice vanished, having been blown to atoms. Of course a yell of admiration greeted the result, and all the dogs of the tribe fled on the wings—or paws—of terror, while Attim sat quietly looking on with somewhat of his master's dignity.

But the curiosity of the Eskimos was only whetted by this. They immediately began to clamour for explanations, so that the Indian found himself at last obliged to undertake a lecture on gunnery, as far as he understood it.

"My father," said Cheenbuk, whose respect for the Indian was rapidly deepening, "some of my people want to know if you can kill bears with the spouter."

"Yes, it will kill bears. I killed a white one not long before you found me."

"And will it kill the walrus too?"

"Yes; it will kill the walrus. It kills anything that has life."

There was an expression of great astonishment at this. Some even ventured to doubt it. Then there was a noisy consultation for a few minutes, after which Cheenbuk was told to ask if their guest would go with them then and there to hunt for a walrus.

"Oh yes;" the Indian was quite ready to go, whereupon the men scattered to harness the dogs and make preparation for an immediate hunt.

"Go and get my sledge ready," said Cheenbuk to Anteek.

The boy was only too glad to obey, for the mission implied that he should have a place on the sledge along with the Fire-spouter.

In a very short time several sledges were ready. Nazinred seated himself on one. Cheenbuk and the others jumped in, the whips cracked, and away they went amid the shouting of the drivers and the yells of children and women left behind.

It did not take long to find one of those giants of the frozen seas. Some miles out on the ice they came to a place which the walruses had kept open as a breathing-hole. At the time of their arrival it had not been disturbed for some hours, for the water was covered by a coat of young ice, which was quite able to bear the weight of the men singly, though scarcely sufficiently strong for the sledges.

Just as they arrived a walrus took it into its very thick head to crash up through the young ice and have a gambol. The party retired behind a hummock and prepared for action.

"Will the man-of-the-woods go first and try the spouter?" asked Cheenbuk.

"No," replied Nazinred; "the man-of-the-woods prefers to watch how the men-of-the-ice do their work. After that he will use the spouter, which we call pasgissegan. The white traders call it gun."

Harpoons and lances were at once got ready.

"Come, Anteek, with me; bring a harpoon and a coil with you. We will show the man-of-the-woods what we can do."

He said this with a look of self-confidence, for Cheenbuk, being a noted hunter among his fellows, was naturally rather proud of his powers.

Waiting until the walrus dived, the Eskimo and his companion ran towards the hole of open water, and then suddenly lay down, for they knew the habits of the brute, and that he would soon reappear. This, in fact, happened before they had lain more than a few minutes. After another gambol the ungainly animal dived again. Up got the two Eskimos and ran at full speed to the very edge of the hole. On rising the third time the walrus found Cheenbuk standing with the harpoon raised. One look of huge astonishment it gave at the man, who instantly drove the harpoon deep into its side, and then ran from the hole as fast as he could, uncoiling the long line of hide until he was some distance off. Then he struck a piece of bone, sharp-pointed, into the ice, and put the loop at the end of the line over it. This checked the dive of the walrus, which in furious rage came up and smashed another hole in the ice, looking fiercely around as if in search of its persecutor. Anteek's opportunity had now come. He ran towards the creature, which, so far from being afraid, smashed up the ice in vain attempts to get upon it. Another harpoon was deftly driven into it, and the boy, running back, fixed his line as the man had done.

These two now began to "play" the walrus, easing off and tightening their lines as required.

Meanwhile the other Eskimos ran forward, and, taking advantage of the creature's combative disposition, fixed several more harpoons in it, besides giving it many severe thrusts with their lances. But the hide of a walrus is nearly an inch thick, and it was not easy to pierce it with an effective thrust. At last, however, they succeeded in killing it after a battle of over three hours.

"That is hard work," observed Nazinred to Cheenbuk, as they stood watching the cutting up and packing of their prize on the sledges, "and takes a long time."

"Come, now, let my father show us what the—the pass—pass-gi—spouter— gun can do," said Cheenbuk, pointing to his sledge, which Anteek had got ready. "There are more walruses yonder."

He pointed to another hole, not far off, where several were seen rolling about in the water. The Indian stepped on the sledge, the others followed, and in a short time the whole party was concealed behind a hummock close to the hole.

Nazinred now loaded his gun with ball.

"You must first throw a harpoon for fear it should sink," he said, when ready to start.

Without a word Cheenbuk grasped his harpoon and coil and ran forward, for the walrus had dived at that moment. Anteek followed, and Nazinred kept close to both. Once they lay down to let the animal come up and dive again. The moment it did so they ran at full speed as before to the edge of the hole and waited.

"Send it deep in," muttered the Indian.

"I will," replied the Eskimo.

"So will I," thought the boy, but he was too modest to say so.

The thought had barely passed when the walrus came up with a puff and snort that might have been heard a mile off. Cheenbuk's weapon was successfully launched in a moment. So was that of Anteek, though he missed the animal's side, but hit in the neck. Nazinred took quick but sure aim at one of its glaring eyes, and before the smoke of the shot had cleared away the walrus fell over dead with a bullet in its brain.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A BEAR-HUNT AND A SAD END.

The Indian chief was after this an object of almost veneration to the Eskimo men, of admiration to the women, and of delight to the boys and girls, who highly appreciated his kindly disposition as well as his skill with the spouter.

He was taken out on all their hunting expeditions, and fully initiated into all the mysteries of seals, walrus, deer, and musk-ox killing. Of course the wonderful gun was brought into frequent requisition, but its owner was obliged to have regard to his powder and shot, and had to explain that without these the spouter would refuse to spout, and all its powers would vanish. When this was thoroughly understood, his hosts ceased to persecute him with regard to displays of his skill.

One day, in the dead of the long winter, Cheenbuk proposed to Nazinred to go on a hunt after bears. The latter declined, on the ground that he had already arranged to go with Mangivik to watch at a seal-hole. Cheenbuk therefore resolved to take Anteek with him instead. Gartok was present when the expedition was projected, and offered to accompany it.

"I fear you are not yet strong enough," said Cheenbuk, whose objection, however, was delivered in pleasant tones,—for a change for the better had been gradually taking place in Gartok since the date of his wound, and his old opponent not only felt nothing of his ancient enmity towards him, but experienced a growing sensation of pity,—for the once fire-eating Eskimo did not seem to recover health after the injury he had received from the Fire-spouter's bullet.

"I am not yet stout enough to fight the bears," he said with a half-sad look, "but I am stout enough to look on, and perhaps the sight of it might stir up my blood and make me feel stronger."

Old Mangivik, who was sitting close by, heaved a deep sigh at this point. Doubtless the poor man was thinking of his own strength in other days—days of vigour which had departed for ever—at least in this life; yet the old man's hopes in regard to the life to come were pretty strong, though not well defined.

"Well, you may come," said Cheenbuk, as he rose and went out with Anteek to harness the dogs.

In less than half an hour they were careering over the ice in the direction of a bay in the land where fresh bear-tracks had been seen the day before.

The bay was a deep one, extending four or five miles up into the interior of the island.

We have assumed that the land in question was an island because of its being in the neighbourhood of a large cluster of islands which varied very considerably in size; but there is no certainty as to this, for the region was then, and still is, very imperfectly known. Indeed, it is still a matter of dispute among geographers, we believe, whether continents or seas lie between that part of the coast of America and the North Pole.

As far as appearance went the land might have been the edge of a vast continent, for the valley up which the Eskimos were driving extended inwards and upwards until it was lost in a region where eternal glaciers mingled with the clouds, or reared their grey ridges against the dark winter sky. It was a scene of cold, wild magnificence and desolation, which might have produced awe in the hearts of civilised men, though of course it must have seemed commonplace and tame enough to natives who had never seen anything much softer or less imposing.

The party had travelled about four miles up the valley, and reached a steep part, which was trying to the mettle of the dogs, when a track was observed a short distance to their right.

"Bear," said Gartok in a low voice, pointing towards it.

Cheenbuk made no reply, but at once ran the team under the shelter of a neighbouring cliff and pulled up. The dogs were only too glad to obey the order to halt, and immediately lay down, panting, with their tongues out.

Fastening the sledge to a rock, and leaving it in charge of a little boy who had been brought for the purpose, the other three set off to examine the track and reconnoitre; intending, if they had reason to believe the bear was near, to return for the dogs and attack it in force.

The track was found to be quite fresh. It led upwards in the direction of a neighbouring ridge, and towards this the party hastened. On reaching the summit they bent low and advanced after the manner of men who expected to see something on the other side. Then they dropped on hands and knees, and crawled cautiously, craning their necks every now and then to see what lay beyond.

Now, the little boy who had been left in charge of the sledge happened to be a presumptuous little boy. He was not a bad boy, by any means. He did not refuse to obey father, or mother, or anybody else that claimed a right to command, and he was not sly or double-tongued, but he was afflicted with that very evil quality, presumption: he thought that he knew how to manage things better than anybody else, and, if not actually ordered to let things remain as they were, he was apt to go in for experimental changes on his own account.

When, therefore, he was left in charge of the dogs, with no particular direction to do or to refrain from doing anything, he found himself in the condition of being dissatisfied with the position in which the team was fastened, and at once resolved to change it only a few yards farther to the right, near to a sheltering cliff.

With this end in view he untied the cord that held the sledge, and made the usual request, in an authoritative voice, that the team would move on. The team began to obey, but, on feeling themselves free, and the sledge light, they proceeded to the left instead of the right, and, despite the agonising remonstrances of the little boy, began to trot. Then, appreciating doubtless the Eskimo version of "Home, sweet Home," they suddenly went off down-hill at full gallop.

The presumptuous one, puckering his face, was about to vent his dismay in a lamentable yell, when it suddenly occurred to him that he might thereby disturb the hunters and earn a severe flogging. He therefore restrained himself, and sat down to indulge in silent sorrow.

Meanwhile the explorers topped the ridge, and, peeping over, saw a large white bear not more than a hundred yards off, sitting on its haunches, engaged, apparently, in contemplation of the scenery.

At this critical moment they heard a noise behind them, and, glancing back, beheld their dogs careering homeward, with the empty sledge swinging wildly in the rear. Cheenbuk looked at Gartok, and then both looked at the bear. Apparently the ridge prevented the distant sound from reaching it, for it did not move.

"We must go at it alone—without dogs," said Gartok, grasping his spear, while a flash of the old fire gleamed in his eyes.

"You must not try," said Cheenbuk; "the drive here has already tired you out. Anteek will do it with me. This is not the first time that we have hunted together."

The boy said nothing, but regarded his friend with a look of gratified pride, while he grasped his spear more firmly.

"Good," returned Gartok, in a resigned tone; "I will stand by to help if there is need."

Nothing more was said, but Cheenbuk looked at Anteek and gave the brief order—

"Go!"

The boy knew well what to do. Grasping his spear, he ran out alone towards the bear and flourished it aloft. Turning with apparent surprise, the animal showed no sign of fear at the challenge of such an insignificant foe. It faced him, however, and seemed to await his onset. The boy moved towards the right side of the bear. At the same time Cheenbuk ran forward towards its left side, while Gartok went straight towards it at a slow walk, by way of further distracting its attention.

As the three hunters approached from different directions, their prey seemed a good deal disconcerted, and looked from one to the other as if undecided how to act. When they came close up the indecision became more pronounced, and it rose on its hind-legs ready to defend itself. Gartok now halted when within five or six yards of the animal, which was anxiously turning its head from side to side, while the other two ran close up.

The plan was that usually followed by Eskimos in similar circumstances. Anteek's duty was to run forward and prick the bear on its right side, so as to draw its undivided attention on himself, thereby leaving its left side unguarded for the deadly thrust of Cheenbuk. Of course this is never attempted by men who are not quite sure of their courage and powers. But Cheenbuk and Anteek knew each other well. The latter was not, perhaps, quite strong enough to give the death-dealing thrust, but he had plenty of courage, and knew well how to administer the deceptive poke.

As for Gartok, besides being incapable of any great exertion, he would not on any account have robbed the boy of the honour of doing his work without help. He merely stood there as a spectator.

With active spring Anteek went close in and delivered his thrust.

The bear uttered a savage roar and at once turned on him. Just at the moment the boy's foot slipped and he fell close to the animal's feet. In the same instant the two men sprang forward. Cheenbuk's spear entered the bear's heart, and that of Gartok struck its breast. But the thrust of the latter was feeble. In his excitement and weakness Gartok fell, and the dying bear fell upon him. His action, however, saved Anteek, who rolled out of the way just as his preserver fell.

Cheenbuk and Anteek did not hesitate, but, regardless of the few death-struggles that followed, rushed in, and grasping its thick hair dragged the monster off the fallen man.

Gartok was insensible, and it was a considerable time before he fully recovered consciousness. Then it was found that he could not rise, and that the slightest motion gave him intolerable pain.

"He will die!" exclaimed Anteek, with a look of painful anxiety.

"Yes, he will die if we do not quickly get him home," said Cheenbuk. "He cannot walk, and he would freeze long before we could make an igloe. I must depend on you now, Anteek. Go back as fast as you can run, and send men with a sledge and skins and something to eat. The boy will remain with me. Away!"

Without a word Anteek leaped up, and, dropping his spear, ran as if his own life depended on his speed. The little boy, who had acted so foolishly, came up with an anxious look on being hailed, but soon forgot himself in his anxiety to be of use to the injured man.

There was a mound of snow within three yards of the spot where the combat had taken place. To the lee side of this Cheenbuk carried Gartok. Being very strong, he was able to lift him tenderly, as if he had been a child, but, despite all his care, the poor man suffered terribly when moved.

It was well that this mound happened to be so close, for a dark cloud which had been overspreading the sky for some time began to send down snow-flakes, and frequent gusts of wind gave indications of an approaching storm. Having placed Gartok in such a position that he was quite sheltered from the wind, Cheenbuk took off his upper seal-skin coat, laid it on the snow, and lifted the injured man on to it. He then wrapped it round him and folded the hood under his head for a pillow, bidding the boy bank up the snow beside him in such a way as to increase the shelter. While thus engaged he saw with some anxiety that Gartok had become deadly pale, and his compressed lips gave the impression that he was suffering much.

"Come here," said Cheenbuk to the boy quickly; "rub his hands and make them warm."

The boy obeyed with alacrity, while the other, hastening his movements, began to skin the bear. Being an expert with the knife in such an operation, he was not long of removing the thick-skinned hairy covering from the carcass, and in this, while it was still warm, he wrapped his comrade—not a moment too soon, for, despite the boy's zealous efforts, the intense cold had taken such hold of the poor man that he was almost unconscious. The warmth of the bearskin, however, restored him a little, and Cheenbuk, sitting down beside him, took his head upon his lap, and tried to shelter him from the storm, which had burst forth and was raging furiously by that time—fine snow filling the atmosphere, while the wind drove it in huge volumes up the valley.

Cheenbuk noted this, and congratulated himself on the fact the wind would favour the progress of the rescue sledge.

Sometimes the whirling snow became so suffocating that the little boy was compelled to cease his labours on the sheltering wall and crouch close to it, while Cheenbuk buried his nose and mouth in the white fur of the bear until the violence of the blasts abated. By keeping the skin well over the face of the wounded man, he succeeded in guarding him from them effectually. But his mind misgave him when he tried to look through the whirling confusion around, and thought of the long tramp that Anteek would have ere he could commence his return journey with the sledge.

It turned out, however, that this was one of those short-lived squalls, not uncommon in the Arctic regions, which burst forthwith unwonted fury, sweep madly over the plains of the frozen seas, rush up into the valleys of the land, and then suddenly stop, as though they felt that all this energy was being spent in vain. In a short time, which however seemed interminable to the watchers on the hillside, the wind began to abate and the wild gusts were less frequent. Then it calmed down; finally it ceased altogether; and the storm-cloud, passing away to the south-east, left the dark sky studded with the myriad constellations of the starry host.

Uncovering Gartok's face to see how it fared with him, and hoping that he slept, Cheenbuk found that he was wide awake, but in a condition that made him more anxious than ever. He looked up at the face of his protector with a faint but grateful smile.

"I have always been your enemy," he said, in a low voice, "but you have been my friend."

"That does not matter now," replied Cheenbuk. "I have never been your enemy. We will be friends from this time on."

Gartok closed his eyes for a few seconds, but did not speak. Then he looked up again earnestly.

"No," he said, with more of decision in his tone; "we shall neither be friends nor enemies. I am going to the country where all is dark; from which no sound has ever come back; where there is nothing."

"Our people do not talk in this way. They think that we shall all meet again in the spirit-land, to hunt the seal, the walrus, and the bear," returned Cheenbuk.

"Our people talk foolishness. They think, but they do not know," rejoined this Hyperborean agnostic, as positively and as ignorantly as if he had been a scientific Briton.

"How do you know that there is 'nothing' in the place where you are going?" asked Cheenbuk, simply.

Gartok was silent. Probably his logical faculty told him that his own thinking, and coming to a conclusion without knowing, was as foolish in himself as in his comrades.

The subject of conversation happened to be very congenial to Cheenbuk's cast of mind. He remained thinking and gazing upwards for a minute or two, then he said meditatively, as if he were trying to work out some mental problem—

"Did you ever make a sledge, or a spear, and then destroy it utterly while it was yet good and new?"

"Never. I have been bad, it may be, but I am not a fool."

"Is the great Maker of all a fool? He has made you, and if He lets you die now, utterly, He destroys you in your best days. Is it not more likely that He is calling you to some other land where there is work for you to do?"

"I don't understand. I do not know," replied Gartok, somewhat doggedly.

"But you do understand, and you do know, that He would be foolish to kill you now, unless He had some work and some pleasure for you in the unknown land from which no sound ever comes back. When a father gives his son a work to do, he does not destroy his son when the work is done. He gives him another piece of work; perhaps sends him on a long journey to another place. When the Maker of all sees that we have finished our work here, I ask again, is it not likely that He will send us to work elsewhere, or is it more likely that He will utterly destroy us—and so prove Himself to be more foolish than we are?"

"I do not know," repeated Gartok, "but I do know that if the Maker of all is good, as I have heard say, then I have not done His work here— for you know, everybody knows, I have been bad!"

Cheenbuk was much perplexed, for he knew not "how to minister to a mind diseased."

"I have often wondered," he said at last, "why it is that some things are wrong and some right. The Maker of all, being good and all-powerful, could have made things as He pleased—all right, nothing wrong. Perhaps men, like children, will understand things better when they are older—when they have reached the land from which no sound comes back. But I am not much troubled. The Maker of all must be all-good and all-wise. If He were not, He could not be the Maker of all. I can trust Him. He will throw light into our minds when the time comes. He has already thrown some light, for do we not know right from wrong?"

"True, but although I have known right I have always done wrong," returned Gartok moodily. "I am sorry now. If you had not been kind to me, your enemy, Cheenbuk, I should never have been sorry. Ever since I was hurt by the Fire-spouters you have been kind to me, and now you would save my life if you could. But it is too late. You have known right, and done it."

"You mistake," rejoined Cheenbuk gravely. "Like you, I have known right but I have not always done it; only sometimes. It is not long since I began to think, and it is since I have been thinking that my spirit seems to have changed, so that I now hate wrong, and desire right. I think that the Maker of all must have caused the change, as He makes the ice-mountains melt, for it is not possible that I could change myself. I had no wish to change till I felt the change."

"I wish," said Gartok earnestly, "that—if He exists at all—He would change me."

At that moment Cheenbuk, who was gazing up into the brilliant sky, seemed to be moved by a sudden inspiration, for he gave utterance to the first audible prayer that had ever passed his lips.

"Maker of all," he said, "give to Gartok the spirit that loves right and hates wrong."

The dying Eskimo raised his eyes to Cheenbuk's face in astonishment; then he turned them to the starry host, as if he almost expected an immediate answer.

"Do you think He hears us?" he asked in a faint voice, for the strength of his feelings and the effort at conversation had exhausted him greatly.

"I will trust Him," answered Cheenbuk.

"I will trust Him," repeated Gartok.

For some time they sat in profound silence, and Gartok closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep. The silence was broken by a distant sound. It was the approach of Anteek with the sledge. He had found the runaway dogs anchored fast between two masses of ice where the sledge had got jammed. Turning the team round he plied his whip with vigour, insomuch that they would have arrived much sooner if the storm had not caused delay.

Having arranged the sledge and its wraps so as to form a comfortable couch for the wounded man, they lifted him on to it, but when they removed the bearskin from his face it was found that he was beyond earthly care: he had passed over to the land from which no sound has ever come back.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE TRADERS AT WORK.

Wherever half a dozen average men are banded together and condemned to make the best of each other's society for a prolonged period, there is apt to be a stagnation of ideas as well as of aspirations, which tends more or less to develop the physical, and to stunt the spiritual, part of our nature.

So thought MacSweenie as he sat one fine spring morning on a rude chair of his own making in front of the outpost on Great Bear Lake which he had helped to build.

The Scottish Highlander possessed a comparatively intellectual type of mind. We cannot tell precisely the reach of his soul, but it was certainly "above buttons." The chopping of the firewood, the providing of food, the state of the weather, the prospects of the advancing spring, and the retrospect of the long dreary winter that was just vanishing from the scene, were not sufficient to appease his intellectual appetite. They sufficed, indeed, for his square, solid, easy-going, matter-of-fact interpreter, Donald Mowat; and for his chief fisherman, guide, and bowman, Bartong, as well as for his other men, but they failed to satisfy himself, and he longed with a great longing for some congenial soul with whom he might hold sweet converse on something a little higher than "buttons."

Besides being thus unfortunate in the matter of companionship, our Highlander was not well off as to literature. He had, indeed, his Bible, and, being a man of serious mind, he found it a great resource in what was really neither more nor less than banishment from the world; but as for light literature, his entire library consisted of a volume of the voyages of Sir John Franklin, a few very old numbers of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and one part of that pioneer of cheap literature, The Penny Magazine. But poor MacSweenie was not satisfied to merely imbibe knowledge; he wished also to discuss it; to philosophise and to ring the changes on it.

He occasionally tried his hand on Mowat, who was undoubtedly the most advanced of his staff intellectually, but the results were not encouraging. Donald was good-natured, amiable, ready to listen and to accord unquestioning belief, but, not having at that time risen above "buttons," he was scarcely more able to discuss than an average lamp-post.

Occupying the position of a sort of foreman, or confidential clerk, the interpreter had frequent occasion to consult his superior on the details of the establishment and trade.

"I'm thinking, sir," said he, approaching his master on the spring morning in question, "that we may as well give the boat an overhaul, for if this weather lasts the open water will soon be upon us."

"You are right, Tonal'," answered the trader, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and proceeding to refill it. "That iss just what wass in my own mind, for we must be thinkin' about makin' preparations for our trip to the Ukon Ruver. We will hev to start whenever my successor arrives here. Man, it will be a goot job when we are off, for I am seek—tired of this place. Wan hes nothin' in the world to think about but his stamik, an' that iss not intellectooal, whatever."

"Are we to use the inch or the inch-an'-a-half nails?" asked Mowat, after a moment's pause.

"Whichever you like, Tonal'. There iss plenty of both in the store, an' ye are as goot a judge o' these metters as I am myself. Just help yoursel', man; only see that the work is done well, for there iss a rough trup before us when we do git away. An' the load will be heavy moreover, for there will be a deal of stuff needed if we are to build an outpost fit to spend a winter in. Man, it iss pleasant to think that we will break up new ground—open up a new country among savitches that scarce knows what like a white man iss. We will feel quite like what we felt as boys when we was readin' Robinson Crusoe."

"We will need two pit-saws," remarked the practical Orkney-man in a meditative tone.

"No doubt, no doubt," returned MacSweenie, "and a grindstone too. Do you remember what that man Nazinred said when he came here on his last trup,—that the Indians about his country would be fery pleased to see traders settle among them? He little thought—an' no more did I—that we would be so soon sent to carry out their wishes; but our Governor is an active-minded man, an' ye never know what he'll be at next. He's a man of enterprise and action, that won't let the gress grow under his feet—no, nor under the feet of anybody that he hes to do wi'. I am well pleased, whatever, that he hes ordered me on this service. An' no doubt ye are also well pleased to go, Tonal'. It will keep your mind from gettin' rusty."

"I am not ill-pleased," returned the interpreter gravely.—"I'm thinkin' there won't be enough o' pitch to go over all the seams o' the boat. I was—"

"Hoot, man! never mind the putch, Tonal'. What there iss will do fery well, an' the boat that comes with supplies for the new post will be sure to hev plenty. By the way, I wonder if that fine man Nazinred will hev come back when we get to the Ukon River. It wass a strange notion of his the last comers told us about, to go off to seek his daughter all by himself. I hev my doubts if he'll ever come back. Poor man! it wass naitural too that he should make a desperate attempt to get back his only bairn, but it wass not naitural that a wise man like him should go off all his lone. I'm afraid he wass a little off his head. Did they tell you what supplies he wass supposed to have taken?"

"Yes. The wife said he had a strong sled with him, an' the best team o' dogs in the camp.—Do you think the boat will need a new false keel? I was lookin' at it, an' it seemed to me rather far gone for a long trup."

"I will go an' hev a look at it, Tonal'. But I hev been wonderin' that Mozwa, who seemed so fond o' his frund, should hev let him start away all by his lone on such a trup."

"He couldn't help lettin' him," said Mowat, "for he didn't know he was goin' till he was gone."

"You did not tell me that," said the trader sharply.

"Well, perhaps I did not," returned the interpreter, with an amiable smile. "It is not easy to remember all that an Indian says, an' a good deal of it is not worth rememberin'.—Would you like me to set-to an' clean up the store to-day, or let the men go on cuttin' firewood?"

"Let them do whatever you think best, Tonal'," replied MacSweenie, with a sigh, as he rose and re-entered his house, where he busied himself by planning and making elaborate designs for the new "fort," or outpost, which he had been instructed to establish on the Ukon River. Afterwards he solaced himself with another pipe and another dip into the well-worn pages of the Penny Magazine.

Not long after the conversation just narrated, the boat arrived with the gentleman appointed to relieve MacSweenie of his charge on Great Bear Lake, and with the supplies for the contemplated new post.

Action is not usually allowed to halt in those wild regions. A few days sufficed to make over the charge, pack up the necessary goods, and arrange the lading of the expedition boat; and, soon after, MacSweenie with Donald Mowat as steersman, Bartong as guide and bowman, and eight men—some Orkney-men, some half-breeds—were rowing swiftly towards the Arctic shore.

Passing over the voyage in silence, we raise the curtain again on a warm day in summer, when animal life in the wild nor'-west is very lively, especially that portion of the life which resides in mosquitoes, sand-flies, and such-like tormentors of man and beast.

"We should arrive at the Ukon to-morrow, if my calculations are right— or nixt day, whatever," said MacSweenie to his interpreter and steersman, as he sat smoking his pipe beside him.

"Bartong is of the same opeenion," returned Mowat, "so between you we should come right. But Bartong is not quite sure about it himself, I think. At least he won't say much."

"In that respect the guide shows himself to be a wise man," returned MacSweenie sententiously. "It iss only geese that blab out all they think to everybody that asks them questions."

"Ay, that is true," rejoined Mowat, with a cynical smile, "an' some geese manage, by sayin' nothin' at all to anybody, and lookin' like owls, to pass themselves off as wise men—for a time."

Bartong, who was being thus freely discussed in the stern of the boat, sat in his place at the bow-oar, pulling a steady stroke and casting serious looks right and left at the banks of the river as they went along. He was a dark fine-looking stalwart man, of what may be called mixed nationality, for the blood of Scotchmen, French Canadians, and Indians flowed in his veins—that of Indians predominating, if one were to judge from appearance. He was what is called in the parlance of the nor'-west a "good" man—that is to say he was mentally and physically well adapted for the work he had to do, and the scenes in the midst of which his lot had been cast. He pulled a good oar; he laboured hard; could do almost any kind of work; and spoke English, French, and Indian almost equally well. He also had a natural talent for finding his way almost anywhere in the wilderness. Hence he had been sent as guide to the expedition, though he had never been at the Ukon River in his life. But he had been to other parts of the Arctic shore, and had heard by report of the character and position of the river in question.

"It iss gettin' late, Bartong; don't you think it would be as well to camp here?" asked MacSweenie.

The bowman ceased rowing, and the crew followed his example, while he glanced inquiringly up at the sky and round his limited horizon, as guides and seamen are wont to do when asked for an opinion as to professional movements.

"There will yet be daylight for an hour, and there is a small lake ahead of us. If we cross it, we come to a place where one of the Indians said he would meet us if we came to his country."

"That is true, Tonal'," said the leader, turning quickly to his steersman, "I had almost forgot that, it wass so long ago since we met them. Both Nazinred and Mozwa said something about meetin' us, if we came to settle, though I paid little attention at the time. But are ye sure, Bartong, that this is the lake?"

"I know not. It is not unlikely. If it is the lake, it is small, and we will soon come to the end of it. If it is not the lake, an' turns out to be big, we can camp on the shore. The night will be fine."

"Go ahead then, boys," cried the leader, "we will try."

The oars were dipped at once, and the men pulled with a will, encouraged by the conversation, which seemed to indicate the approaching end of their voyage.

The lake over the bosom of which they were soon sweeping proved to be a small one, as they had hoped, but whether it was the one referred to by the Indians remained to be seen. A sharp look-out was kept for the smoke of wigwams, but nothing of the kind was seen on either side, and the end of the lake was finally reached without any sign of the presence of natives being observed.

"No doubt Mozwa has forgotten, or it may be that he iss away to seek for his frund Nazinred among the Eskimos. No metter. We will camp here, whatever, for the night. I think on the other side o' that point will be a goot campin' ground."

He pointed in the direction indicated, and there was just daylight enough left to enable Mowat to steer into a narrow creek.

There is something calming, if not almost solemnising, in the quietude with which a boat glides ashore, on a dark night, under the overhanging trees of a wilderness lake. The oars are necessarily stopped, and the voices hushed, while the bowman, standing erect, with a long pole in hand, tries to penetrate the thick mysterious darkness that seems to be the very gate of Erebus. Bartong stood ready to thrust the head of the boat off any rocks that might suddenly appear in their course, or give the order to "back all" should the water become too shallow. But no obstacles presented themselves, and the boat forged slowly ahead until it lay alongside a ledge of rock or natural jetty. Then the spell was broken as the men leaped ashore and began to unload the things that were required for the night's bivouac.

Still, the voices were moderated, for it is not easy to shake off the tranquillising effect of such a scene at such an hour, and it was not till the camp-fire was lighted, and the kettles were on, and the pipes going full blast, that the cheering effect of light chased the depressing influence of darkness away.

Then, indeed, MacSweenie, dropping the role of leader, assumed that of bon camarade; and Mowat, descending from the dignity of steersman, enlarged upon his experiences in other days; and Bartong, still retaining his dignity however, relaxed his anxious frown and listened with an air of intelligent appreciation that charmed every speaker, and induced the belief that he could cap every anecdote and story if he only chose to open his mouth; while the men divided their sympathies between the narratives, the tobacco-pipes, and the music of the frying-pan and bubbling kettle.

Then, too, the darkness into which they had penetrated fled away,—not indeed entirely, but forsaking the bright spot thus created in the wilderness, it encircled the camp as with a wall of ebony.

It was not long, however, ere appetites were appeased, and the voyagers sought repose; for men who have to work hard all day at a healthy occupation are not addicted to late hours—at least not in the wildernesses of the nor'-west. Ere long every man was rolled in his blanket, stretched out with his feet to the fire and his head on his coat, while the blaze sank low, until at last the red embers alone remained to render darkness visible.

Among the last to seek repose were the leader of the expedition, the interpreter, and the bowman. Having the cares of state on their shoulders, these three naturally drew together for a little consultation after the others had retired.

"What iss your opeenion, Bartong?" asked MacSweenie, pushing down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of a very blunt and much charred forefinger; "do you think the savitches will come here at all?"

"Maybe they will, and maybe they won't," answered the guide, with a caution worthy of the Scottish portion of his blood. "We niver know what Injins is goin' to do till they do it."

"Umph!" ejaculated the Highlander; "if Solomon had been your grandfather you could scarcely hev made a wiser speech.—What think you, Tonal'?"

"Weel, as ye put it to me, I must say that I'm strongly of Bartong's opeenion."

"Just so," remarked MacSweenie, with a thoughtful air; "so, as I agree wi' you both, I think it iss about time for us all to turn in."

He turned in accordingly, by lying back in his place and drawing his blanket over him.

The other statesmen immediately followed his example, and the camp subsided into silence.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE OUTPOST, AND EFFECT OF A "FUDDLE."

Soon afterwards the expedition of the fur-traders reached the Ukon River, a comparatively insignificant stream, but, from its character and position with reference to the Indians of that region, well suited for the establishment of an outpost. At least so thought the natives who had reported upon it.

"There iss no doubt," remarked MacSweenie, as he surveyed the banks of the river, "that the place is no' that bad, but in my opeenion the summer will be short, whatever, an' the winter it will be long."

"Ye may be sure that you are not far wrong if it's like the rest o' this country," replied Mowat.

"There now, look at that," cried MacSweenie, who was a sketcher, and an enthusiast in regard to scenery; "did ever you see a prettier spot than that, Tonal'? Just the place for a fort—a wee burn dancin' doon the hull, wi' a bit fa' to turn a grindstone, an' a long piece o' flat land for the houses, an' what a grand composeetion for a pictur',—wi' trees, gress, water, sky, an' such light and shade! Man, it's magneeficent!"

"I'm thinkin' that it'll be a bad job if that keg o' screw-nails we forgot at our last camp is lost—"

"Hoot, man, never mind the screw-nails. We can easy send back for it. But, wow! there's a far grander place we're comin' in sight of—an'—iss that an Indian tent I see?"

"Ay, an' there's more than wan tent," said Mowat, giving his steering oar a sweep that sent the boat farther out into the stream, and enabled them better to see what lay beyond the bend of the river in front of them.

"Hold on, lads; stop pullin'!"

The men lay on their oars and turned round to look ahead. The view presented there was indeed a pleasant and inspiring one, though it was scarcely entitled to the appellation "magneeficent," which MacSweenie applied to it.

The river at that place made a wide sweep on the right, round a low cliff which was crowned with luxuriant foliage. The stream opened out into something like a miniature lake, and the water was so calm that the cliff and its foliage made a clear dark reflection. The left bank was edged by a wide grass plateau some fifty yards wide, beyond which was a background of bushes and trees, with another "wee burn," which doubtless suggested to MacSweenie the useful as well as the picturesque. The distance was closed by ground varied in form as well as in character, indicating that a stream of considerable size joined the Ukon at that point.

But that which interested the beholders most of all was a number of Indian wigwams, which were pitched on the grassy plateau above referred to.

"Yonder are our frunds, I make no doubt," said MacSweenie in high glee. "That man Mozwa iss as goot as his word; an' I do believe they have chosen the spot an' been waitin' for us. Gif way, boys; an', Tonal', make for that landin'-slup—it must either be a naitural wan, or the Redskins hev made it for us."

By that time the natives, having observed the boat, had launched several of their canoes. The first man who came alongside was Mozwa himself.

"What cheer? what cheer, Mozwa?" cried the trader as he reached over the side and shook the Indian heartily by the hand.

"Watchee! watchee!" repeated Mozwa, returning the shake with equal good-will, though undisturbed solemnity.

The trader's surmise proved to be correct. Mindful of the prospect which had been held out to him and Nazinred, that an expedition might possibly be sent to establish an outpost and open up the fur trade in their immediate neighbourhood on the Ukon River, Mozwa had made more than one trip to the contemplated scene of operations, after the disappearance of his friend Nazinred, with the view of making himself well acquainted with the land, and ascertaining the best site for the new fort. He did not of course suppose that the pale-faces would be guided entirely by his opinion, but he thought it not unlikely that they might weigh that opinion, and, if acted on at once, much time might be saved during the very brief summer season they had in which to place themselves comfortably in winter quarters before the hard weather should set in.

"You are a wise man, Mozwa," said MacSweenie, when the Indian had explained his views to him in the united smoke of their pipes and the camp-fire. "Your notion of a place for a fort iss not a bad one, an' efter I hev had a look round I hev no doubt that I will agree wi' you that this is the very best site in the neighbourhood. Tell him that, Tonal', an' say that I am fery much obleeged to him for all the forethought and trouble he hes taken."

Whether Donald translated all this as it was delivered we know not. From the peculiar cast of his mind, however, coupled with the moderate depth of his knowledge of the Indian tongue, it is probable that his translation was neither literal nor comprehensive. Indeed, it is not unlikely that his subsequent remark to one of his comrades,—"we told Mozwa it was very good of him to come to meet us, an' the place would do well enough,"—was more like the sentence to which he had reduced it. But whatever he said Mozwa seemed to be quite pleased with it.

"By the way, Tonal', ask him about his friend Nazinred."

The serious way in which the Indian shook his head showed that he had no good news to tell. In a short time he had related all that was known about the sudden departure of his friend.

While Mozwa was thus engaged with the leader of the expedition, their guide Bartong was wandering among the wigwams and making himself agreeable to the natives, who, because of his mixed blood and linguistic powers, regarded him as a half-brother.

"Who is this man Nazinred that our leader is always talking about?" he asked of the old chief while seated in his tent.

"He is one of our chiefs, one of our boldest braves—"

"But not so brave as he looks," interrupted Magadar, who was present; "he is fonder of peace than of fighting."

"Foolish man!" exclaimed Bartong, with a smile so peculiar that Magadar did not feel quite sure that his remark was sincere. "But has he not left your tribe? I heard our steersman say something about that."

"He left us in the winter to seek for his daughter, who was carried off by an Eskimo and has never come back since. We don't expect to see either of them again."

Magadar said this with a grave countenance, for, however little he cared for the loss of the father, that of the daughter distressed him a little—not much, however; for could he not console himself with another wife?

Having questioned the old chief a little more on this point, he wandered off into other subjects, and finally left—intending to visit the wife of Nazinred on his way back to camp.

Isquay was sitting beside her niece Idazoo, embroidering a moccasin, when Bartong entered, squatted on a deerskin unceremoniously, and began to fill his pipe.

"What kind of a man is your husband?" asked the guide.

"A good man," replied Isquay, who was tender-hearted, and could not speak of him without moist eyes. "He was a good hunter. None of the young men could equal him. And he was kind. He always had plenty of things to give me and Adolay."

"They say he did not love war," remarked Bartong.

"No; he hated it: but he was brave, and a good fighter—the best in the tribe. None of the young men dared to touch him."

"Was the young brave Alizay afraid to touch him?" asked the guide, with a sly glance at the younger woman.

At this Idazoo flushed and looked up angrily.

"No," she said sharply; "Alizay fears nothing."

Bartong took no notice of the remark, but continued gravely to question the other.

"Was Nazinred very fond of his daughter?" he asked.

"Yes, very."

"And was the girl fond of him and of you?"

"Yes," replied the poor woman, beginning to weep gently.

"And she seems to have been very fond of this Eskimo, who, they tell me, saved your life once."

"She was, but I did not think she would go away with him. It was not like her—she was always so good and biddable, and told me everything."

"Why did your husband go off alone?"

"I cannot tell. I suppose he knew that none of the young men would go with him, or feared they might lose heart and turn back. No doubt he thought it best to go by himself, for he was very brave; nothing would turn him back!"

A fresh though silent dropping of tears occurred here, and a severe pang of remorse shot through the heart of Idazoo as she thought of her unkind report of what had taken place beside the dead tree under the cliff.

"Don't cry, Isquay; Nazinred will come back, you may be sure of that," said the guide, in a confident tone, "and he will bring your little girl along with him, for when a man is good and brave he never fails!"

The brevity of summer near the shores of the Arctic Sea rendered it advisable that no time should be wasted in looking about too particularly for a site for the new trading-post; and as MacSweenie was well pleased with Mozwa's selection he at once adopted it and set to work.

Deeming it important to open the campaign by putting a good taste in the mouths of his friends the Indians, he began by distributing a few gratuities to them—some coloured beads to the women, and a few lines, fish-hooks, and tobacco to the men. Then he marked out a site for the future dwelling-house and store, got out the tools and set to work to fell, saw, and shape suitable timber for the buildings. He constituted Magadar chief hunter to the establishment, supplied him with a new gun, powder and ball, and sent him off to the woods as proud as, and doubtless much happier than, a king. Mozwa he kept by him, as a counsellor to whom he could appeal in all matters regarding the region and the people, as well as an overseer of those among his countrymen who were hired to render assistance. Alizay was sent off in a canoe—much to the satisfaction of Mowat—for that forgotten keg of screw-nails which had lain so heavy on his mind, and the old chief was supplied with unlimited tobacco, and allowed to wander about at will, under the agreeable impression that he was superintendent-general of the works. Isquay, Idazoo, and some of the other women were furnished with moose-deer skins and needles, and employed to make moccasins for the men, as well as to do all the needful repairs to garments.

Thus the plateau on the banks of the Ukon River presented, during the weeks that followed, a scene of lively bustle and unfamiliar noise to the furred and feathered inhabitants of those vast solitudes, and formed to the Red men a new and memorable era in their monotonous existence.

At last there came a day when the roof of the principal dwelling was completely covered, the doors were fixed up, and the glazed windows fitted in.

"Now, Tonal'," remarked MacSweenie, on the morning of that auspicious day, "it iss a house-warming that I will be giving to-night, for the Indians will be expectin' something o' the sort, so you will be telling the cook to make the biggest lump o' plum-duff he ever putt his hands to; an' tell him not to spare the plums. It iss not every day we will be givin' thiss goot people a blow-out, an' it iss a matter of great importance, to my thinking, that first impressions should be good ones. It iss the duty of a new broom to sweep clean. If it continues, goot and well, but if it does not begin that way it iss not likely to come to it, whatever. There iss far more than people think in sentiment. If you fail to rouse a sentiment of goot-will, or confidence, or whatever it may be, at a first start-off it iss not easy to rouse it afterwards. Hev ye not noticed that, Tonal'?"

"I can't say that I have," answered the interpreter, with a matter-of-fact frown at the ground, "but I have noticed that the pit-saw they was usin' yesterday has been allowed to saw into the holdin'-irons and damaged half o'—"

"Hoots, man! never mind the pit-saw!" exclaimed MacSweenie, with a touch of asperity. "All the planks we want are sawn, an' if they were not, surely we could mend—tut, man, I wonder ye can play the fuddle. It always seemed to me that a goot fuddler must be a man of sentiment, but ye are the exception, Tonal', that proves the rule. Away wi' you an' gie my orders to the cook, an' see that you have the fuddle in goot tune, for we will want it to-night. An' let him hev plenty of tea, for if we gain the women we're sure o' the men."

Mowat retired with a smile on his broad benignant face. He understood his leader, and was not offended by his plain speaking. Besides, it was not easy to make the interpreter take offence. His spirit was of that happy nature which hopeth all things and believeth all things. It flowed calm and deep like an untroubled river. Nothing short of a knock-down blow would have induced Donald Mowat to take offence, but that would certainly have stirred him, and as he possessed vast physical strength, and was something awful to behold when roused, and his comrades were aware of these facts, the serenity of his life was not often or deeply ruffled.

The cook, who was an enthusiast in his art, did his best, and was eminently successful. His plum-duff dumpling was bigger than any gun— at least of ancient type—could have swallowed, and the plums, as Mowat afterwards said, did not need to seek for each other. He made enough of delightfully greasy cakes to feed an army, and, according to his own statement, infused "lashin's o' tea."

Before the hour for the feast arrived that night, Mowat got out his violin and went into one of the rooms of the new house to put it in order. The window of the room looked towards the back of the house, where the forest was seen just beyond the plateau.

Drawing a bench to the window, he sat down and opened the case. Of course he found the first string broken, but that did not break his heart, for he had a good supply of spare strings, and if these should fail—well, there were plenty of deer-sinews in the land. It was soon put to rights, and, leaning his back against the wall, he began to tickle the strings gently. Whatever he was at other times, there is no doubt that the interpreter was full of genuine sentiment the moment he got the violin under his chin.

Now at that moment three young Dogrib braves chanced to be passing under the window, which was about seven feet from the ground. Though equally young, and no doubt equally brave, as well as equally Dogribbed, those three youths were not equally matched, for one was tall and thin, another was short and thick, while the third was middle-sized and fat. They had been hunting—successfully—for the thick man carried a small deer on his lusty shoulders.

On hearing the first notes of the instrument the three youths started into three different attitudes as if of petrified surprise, and remained so, waiting for more.

They had not to wait long, for, after tickling the fiddle once or twice to get it in perfect tune, Mowat raised his eyes to the pine-plank ceiling and glided softly into one of those exquisite Scottish airs by means of which a first-rate performer on the violin can almost draw the soul out of a man's body. We think it was "The Flowers of the Forest."

Whatever it was the three Dogribs were ravished. They turned their heads slowly, as if afraid to break the spell, and looked at each other, showing the whites of their great eyes increasingly, while each raised a hand with spread fingers as if to keep the others from speaking. They had never heard anything approaching to it before. They had never even imagined anything like it. It was an utterly new sensation. What could it be? They had heard of something strange in the musical way from Nazinred and Mozwa, but with the carelessness of youth they had scarce listened to the comments of these men. Now it burst upon their awakened sense like sounds from some other planet. Their mouths opened slowly as well as their eyes, and there was an expression of awe in their faces which betokened a touch of superstitious fear.

Suddenly Mowat drew his bow across all the strings with a skirl that might have shamed the bagpipes, and burst into the Reel o' Tullochgorum.

The effect was electrical. The thick man dropped the deer; the thin man sloped forward; the fat man sprang into the air, and all three made for the woods as if all the spirits of evil were after them in full cry.

We need hardly say, after this, that those Dogrib Indians spent an excited and agreeable evening with the fur-traders. They appreciated the dancing, undoubtedly, though very few of them would condescend to join. They appreciated the plum-duff and the greasy cakes highly, and they more than appreciated the tea—especially the women—which MacSweenie took care to provide hot, strong, and sweet. But there is no doubt that the lion of the evening was—the "fuddle."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY AND A GREAT DISCOVERY.

Putting on the wings of imagination, good reader, let us once more fly over the snow-fields of the lone Nor'-west and return to the regions of thick-ribbed ice. We have to apologise humbly for asking you also to fly back a little in time, and plunge once more into the dreary winter, from which, no doubt, you thought you had fairly escaped.

One morning toward the beginning of spring, referred to in last chapter, while yet the northern seas were covered with their solid garment, Cheenbuk announced to all whom it might concern that he intended to go off on a long journey to the eastward—he called it the place where the Great Light rises—for purposes which he did not see fit publicly to reveal.

At that time the Great Light to which he referred had begun to show symptoms of intention to return to the dark regions which it had forsaken for several months. The glimmer on the eastern sky had been increasing perceptibly each day, and at last had reached the point of producing a somewhat rosy twilight for two or three hours before and after noon. King Frost, however, still reigned supreme, and the dog-sledge as yet was the only mode of travelling among the islands or on the sea.

"Why go you towards the rising sun?" asked Nazinred when Cheenbuk invited him to be one of the party.

"Because it is from my countrymen who dwell there that we get the hard stuff that is so good for our spear-heads, and lances, and arrows. We know not where they find the stuff, and they won't tell. I shall go and find out for myself, and take back plenty of it to our people."

The "hard stuff" referred to was hoop-iron, which, as well as nails and a few hatchets, the Eskimos of the eastern parts of the Arctic shores obtained from whale-ships and passed on to their friends in the more remote regions of the farther north.

"I can tell you how they get it," said the Indian. "White traders to whom our people go with their furs have spoken of such things, and my ears have been open. They say that there are white men who come over the great salt lake from far-off lands in big big canoes. They come to catch the great whales, and it is from them that the hard stuff comes."

For some minutes the Eskimo was silent. A new idea had entered his head and he was turning it over.

"Have you ever seen these white men or their big canoes?" asked Cheenbuk with great interest.

"Never. The salt lake where they kill the whale is too far from my people's hunting-grounds. But the white traders I have visited have seen them. Some traders have come from the same far-off lands in big canoes of the same sort."

"Is it very far from here to the seas to which these whale-killers come?"

"Very far from the hunting-grounds of the Dogribs, but it may not be far from here."

"I will go and see," said Cheenbuk, with much decision, and he went off forthwith to make preparations. The expedition consisted of one large sledge with a team of twelve dogs. Being resolved not to risk failure by taking too many companions, the Eskimo limited the number to seven, besides himself—namely, Nazinred, with his fire-spouter; Oolalik, whom he deemed the strongest and bravest among the young men; Anteek, the most plucky of the big boys; Aglootook, the medicine-man, whom he took "for luck;" and Nootka, as being the most vigorous and hardworking among the women. She could repair the boots, etcetera, and do what little cooking might be required. Cowlik the easy-going was also taken to keep Nootka company.

It was high noon when the party set out on their mysterious journey, and a brighter glow than usual was suffusing the eastern sky, while a gleam of direct sunshine, the first seen that spring, was tipping the peaks of the higher bergs as if with burnished gold.

It was merely a whim that induced Cheenbuk to throw an air of mystery over the expedition. Having no definite idea himself of what he was going in search of, or how long he should be away, he thought it wisest to look solemn and keep his thoughts to himself; thereby impressing his kinsmen with the belief that he was one of the wisest men of the tribe, which in truth he was. Being, as we have said elsewhere, a man of humour and a good-natured fellow, he thought that the presence of the magician, whom he believed to be an arrant humbug, would add mystery as well as interest to the expedition.

Aglootook was himself thoroughly convinced on this point, and sought by every means to induce the leader to disclose his object and plans, but as Cheenbuk maintained inflexible reticence on this matter, the magician made a virtue of necessity, shook his head solemnly when spoken to about it, and gave it to be understood generally that in his and the leader's minds there were rolling about thoughts and intentions that were far too deep for utterance.

Cheenbuk would have offered a seat to Adolay, but her father thought it better to decline for her. She was therefore left in the camp in care of old Mangivik and his amiable spouse.