Ungava Bob Part 12

The older woman said something to them and they began to jabber in so high a tone of voice that Bob would have thought they were quarrelling but for the fact that they laughed good-naturedly all the time and came right over to where he lay to shake his hand. They had a good deal to say to him, but he could not understand one word of their language. After greeting him both men removed their outer coats and hoods, and Bob could not but admire the graceful, muscular forms that the buckskin undergarments displayed. Their hair was long, black and straight and around their foreheads was tied a thong of buckskin to keep it from falling over their faces.

They laughed at Bob's inability to understand them, and were much amused when he tried to talk with them. Every effort was made to put him at ease.

When the men were finally seated, the girl dipped out a cup of broth and a dish of venison stew from the kettle which she handed to Bob; then the others helped themselves from what remained. There was no bread nor tea, and nothing to eat but the unflavoured meat.

It was quite dark now and the fire cast weird, uncanny shadows on the dimly-lighted interior walls of the wigwam. The Indians sitting around it in their peculiar dress seemed like unreal inhabitants of some spirit world. Bob's coming to himself in this place and amongst these people appealed to him as miraculous--supernatural. He could not understand it at all. He began to plan an escape. When they were all asleep he could steal quietly out and make his way back to the tilt.

But, then, he reasoned, if they wished to detain him they could easily track him in the snow in the morning; and, besides, he did not know where his snow-shoes were and without them he could not go far.

Neither did he know how far he was from the tilt. After the Indians had found him they may have carried him several days' journey to their camp and whether they had gone west or north he had no way of finding out.

It was, therefore, he realized, an unquestionably hopeless undertaking for him to attempt to reach his tilt alone, and he finally dismissed the idea as impracticable. Perhaps in the morning he could induce them to take him there. That, he concluded, was the only plan for him to follow. So far they had been very kind and he could see no reason why they should wish to detain him against his will.

The Indians were indeed Nascaupee Indians, but instead of being the ruthless cut-throats that the Mountaineers and the legends of the coast had painted them, they were human and hospitable, as all our eastern Indians were before white men taught them to be thieves and drove and goaded them--by the white man's own treachery--to acts of reprisal and revenge.

These Nascaupees, living as they did in a country inaccessible to the white ravishers, had none but kindly motives in their treatment of Bob and had no desire to do him harm. On the morning that Bob fell in the snow s.h.i.+sh-e-ta-ku-s.h.i.+n--Loud-voice--and his son Moo-koo-mahn--Big Knife--had left their wigwam early to hunt. Not far away they crossed Bob's trail. Their practiced eye told them that the traveller was not an Indian, for the snow-shoes he wore were not of Indian make, and also, from the uncertain, wobbly trail, they decided that he was far spent. So they followed the tracks and within a few minutes after Bob had fallen found him. They carried him to the wigwam and rubbed his frosted limbs and face until it was quite safe to wrap him in the deerskins in the warm wigwam.

They did not know who he was nor where he came from, but they did know that he needed care and several days of quiet. He was a stranger and they took him in. These poor heathens had never heard of Christ or His teachings, but their hearts were human. And so it was that Bob found himself amongst friends and was rescued from what seemed certain death.

When morning came Bob tried in every conceivable way to make them understand that he wished to be taken back, but he found it a quite hopeless task. No signs or pantomime could make them comprehend his meaning, and it appeared that he was doomed to remain with them. The shock of exposure had been so great that he was still very weak and not able to walk, as he quickly realized when he tried to move about, and he was compelled to remain within in the company of the women, in spite of his desire to go out and reconnoitre.

Ma-ni-ka-wan, the maiden, took it upon herself to be his nurse. She brought him water to bathe his face, which was very sore from frostbite, and gave him the choicest morsels from the kettle, and made him as comfortable as possible.

At first he held a faint hope that when Bill missed him at the tilt, a search would be made for him and his friends would find the wigwam.

But as the days slipped by he realized that he would probably never be discovered. There came a fear that the news of his disappearance would be carried to Wolf Bight and he dreaded the effect upon his mother and Emily.

But there was one consolation. Emily could go to the hospital now and be cured. Bill would find the silver fox skin and his share of that and the other furs would pay not only his own but his father's debts, he felt sure, as well as all the expense of Emily's treatment by the doctor--and a good surplus of cash--how much he could not imagine and did not try to calculate--for the doctor had said that silver foxes were worth five hundred dollars in cash. This thought gave him a degree of satisfaction that towered so far above his troubles that he almost forgot them.

In a little while he was quite strong and active again. Finally a day came when the Indians made preparations to move. The wigwam was taken down and with all their belongings packed upon toboggans, and under the cold stars of a January morning, they turned to the northward, and Bob had no other course than to go with them even farther from the loved ones and the home that his heart so longed to see.

XIII

A FOREBODING OF EVIL

Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise and confusion that always followed him no less than his little thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side.

He had helped Emily to pa.s.s the time less wearily, often sitting for hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her, or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come back from the fis.h.i.+ng, and then she would realize that he was really gone away, and would turn her face to the wall, that her mother might not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness.

Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fis.h.i.+ng season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her,

"An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?"

And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy."

Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank G.o.d for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the pet.i.tion,

"An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is."

Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for G.o.d was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood.

Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to.

The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up.

Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked:

"Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?"

"'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year."

"An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?"

"A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then."

"'Tis a long while t' wait--a _terrible_ long while t' be waitin'--t'

th' New Year."

"Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up.

But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise."

"An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how _wonderful_ lonesome we were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin'

lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' _dreadful_ lonesome away off in th' bush this long time! He'll _sure_ be comin' at th' New Year!"

After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they pa.s.sed. She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve, and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him.

Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence was always with her.

One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked:

"Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind.

Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine hunt."

"I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off.

I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an'

th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she an' make she walk."

"'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be makin' she well at th' hospital."

"But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well."

"Now don't be lettin' _that_ worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th'

spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I _knows_ He will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid.

He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin'--He _never_ would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way afore _now_ if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th'

freeze up."

"I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th'

Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers th' way as is best."