Snowdrift Part 19

CHAPTER XIII

THE CAMP ON THE COPPERMINE

It was mid-afternoon when Brent drank the last of the liquor and threw the bottle into the snow. He was very drunk, and with the utmost gravity, halted the outfit and commanded the Indian to turn the dogs and strike out on the trail of Claw. But Joe Pete merely shrugged, and started the dogs, whereupon Brent faced about and started over the back-trail. When he had proceeded a hundred yards the Indian halted the dogs, and strode swiftly after Brent, who was making poor going of it on his snowshoes. As Joe Pete understood his orders, the journey to the Mackenzie called for no side trips after hooch, and he made this fact known to Brent in no uncertain terms. Whereupon Brent cursed him roundly, and showed fight. It was but the work of a few moments for the big Indian to throw him down, tie him hand and foot and carry him, struggling and cursing, back to the sled, where he rode for the remainder of the day in a most uncomfortable position from which he hurled threats and malediction upon the broad back of the Indian.

The following morning Brent awoke long before daylight. His head ached fiercely and in his mouth was the bitter aftermath of dead liquor. In vain he sought sleep, but sleep would not come. Remorse and shame gripped him as it had never gripped him before. He writhed at the thought that only a day or two ago he had laughed at hooch, and had openly boasted that he was through with it and that he would not take a drink if he possessed a barrel of it. And, at the very first opportunity, he had taken a drink, and after that first drink, he had paid gold that was not his to use for such purpose for more hooch, and had deliberately drank himself drunk. The reviling and malediction which he had hurled at Joe Pete from the sled were words of gentle endearment in comparison with the terrible self-castigation that he indulged in as he tossed restlessly between his blankets and longed for the light of day. To be rid of the torture he finally arose, replenished the fire, and brewed many cups of strong tea. And when Joe Pete stepped from the tent in the grey of the morning it was to find breakfast ready, and Brent busy harnessing the dogs. In silence the meal was eaten, and in silence the two hit the trail. That day was a hard one owing to rough ice encountered upon the lower Gravel River, and the two alternated frequently between breaking trail and working at the gee-pole. The long snow trail had worked wonders for Brent physically, and by evening he had entirely thrown off the effects of the liquor. He ate a hearty supper, and over the pipes beside the fire the two men talked of gold.

As they turned in, Brent slapped Joe Pete on the back: "Just forget what I said yesterday--I was a d.a.m.ned fool."

The Indian shrugged: "The hooch, she all tam' mak' de d.a.m.n fool. She no good. I ain' care w'at de hooch talk 'bout. Som' tam' you queet de hooch. Dat good t'ing. W'en you sober, you good man. You say, Joe Pete, you do lak dis. I do it. W'en de hooch say, Joe Pete you do lak som'

nodder way. I say go to h.e.l.l."

At Fort Norman, Brent bought an additional dog team and outfitted for the trip to the Coppermine. Upon learning from Murchison, the factor, that the lower Coppermine, from Kendall River northward to the coast, had been thoroughly explored and prospected without finding gold, he decided to abandon the usual route by way of Dease Bay, Dease River, the Dismal Lakes, and the Kendall River, and swing southward to the eastern extremity of Conjuror Bay of Great Bear Lake, and then head straight across the barrens, to strike the upper reaches of the Coppermine in the region of Point Lake.

Murchison expressed doubt that there was gold upon any part of the Coppermine, "If there is," he added, "No one's ever got any of it. An'

I'm doubtin' if there's any gold east of the Mackenzie. I've been on the river a good many years, an' I never saw any, except a few nuggets that an old squaw named Wananebish found years ago."

"On the Coppermine?" asked Brent.

Murchison laughed: "I don't know--an' she don't either. She found 'em, an' then her husband was drowned in a rapids and she pulled out of there and she claims she ain't never be'n able to locate the place since, an'

she's spent years huntin' for it an' draggin' a little band of worthless Injuns after her. They're over there now, somewhere. I heard they hit up Hare Indian River, along about the first of September. McTavish at Good Hope, give 'em debt to be rid of 'em. But I don't think they'll find any gold. The formation don't seem to be right on this side of the river."

"Gold has been taken from the bottom of the sea, and from the tops of mountains," reminded Brent, "You know the old saying, 'Gold is where you find it.'"

"Aye," answered Murchison, with a smile, "But, east of the Mackenzie, gold is where you don't find it."

The four hundred mile journey from Fort Norman to the Coppermine was accomplished in sixteen days. A permanent camp-site was selected upon the west bank of the river, and the two worked with a will in constructing a tiny log cabin, well within the shelter of a thick clump of spruce. Brent's eyes had lost the last trace of muddiness, the bloated unhealthy skin had cleared, and his flabby muscles had grown iron-hard so that he plunged into the work of felling and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees, and heaving at logs with a zest and enthusiasm that had not been his for many a long day. He had not even thought of a drink in a week.

When the cabin was finished and the last of the c.h.i.n.king rammed into place, he laughingly faced Joe Pete upon the trampled snow of the dooryard. "Come on now, you old leather image!" he cried, "Come and take your medicine! I owe you a good fall or two for the way you used me on the trail. You're heap _skook.u.m_, all right, but I can put you on your back! Remember you didn't handle the b.u.t.t ends of _all_ those logs!"

And thus challenged the big Indian, who was good for his two hundred pound pack on a portage, sailed in with a grin, and for ten minutes the only sounds in the spruce thicket were the sounds of sc.r.a.pping _mukluks_ on the hard-trampled snow, and the labored breathing of the straining men. Laughter rang loud as Brent twice threw the Indian, rolled him onto his back, and rubbed snow into his face, and then, still laughing, the two entered their cabin and devoured a huge meal of broiled caribou steaks, and pilot bread.

Supper over, Joe Pete lighted his pipe and regarded Brent gravely: "On de trail," he said, "I handle you lak wan leetle baby. Now, you _skook.u.m tillic.u.m_. You de firs mans kin put Joe Pete on de back. De hooch, she no good for h.e.l.l!"

"You bet, she's no good!" agreed Brent, "Believe me, I'm through with it. It's been a good while since I've even thought of a drink."

Joe Pete seemed unimpressed: "You ain't t'ink 'bout a drink cos you ain't got non. Dat better you keep 'way from it, or you t'ink 'bout it dam' queek." And Brent, remembering that morning on the trail when he had said good bye to Claw, answered nothing.

For the next few days, while Joe Pete worked at the building of a cache, Brent hunted caribou. Upon one of these excursions, while following up the river, some three of four miles south of the cabin, he came suddenly upon a snowshoe trail. It was a fresh trail, and he had followed it scarcely a mile when he found other trails that crossed and recrossed the river, and upon rounding a sharp bend, he came abruptly upon an encampment. Three tiny log cabins, and a half-dozen tepees were visible in a grove of scraggling spruce that gave some shelter from the sweep of the wind. Beyond the encampment, the river widened abruptly into a lake.

An Indian paused in the act of hacking firewood from a dead spruce, and regarded him stolidly. Brent ascended the bank and greeted him in English. Receiving no response, he tried the jargon:

"_Klahowya, six?_"

The Indian glanced sidewise, toward one of the cabins, and muttered something in guttural. Then, the door of the cabin opened and a girl stepped out onto the snow and closed the door behind her. Brent stared, speechless, as his swift glance took in the details of her moccasins, deer-skin leggings, short skirt, white _capote_ and stocking cap. She held a high-power rifle in her mittened hand. Then their eyes met, and the man felt his heart give a bound beneath his tight-b.u.t.toned mackinaw.

Instantly, he realized that he was staring rudely, and as the blood mounted to his cheeks, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the cap from his head and stepped forward with hasty apology: "I beg your pardon," he stammered, "You see, I had no idea you were here--I mean, I had not expected to meet a lady in the middle of this G.o.d-forsaken wilderness. And especially as I only expected to find Indians--and I hadn't even expected them, until I struck the trail on the river." The man paused, and for the first time noted the angry flash of the dark eyes--noted, too, that the red lips curled scornfully.

"_I_ am an Indian," announced the girl, haughtily, "And, now you have found us--go!"

"An Indian!" cried Brent, "Surely, you are----"

"Go!" Repeated the girl, "Before I kill you!"

"Oh, come, now," smiled Brent, "You wouldn't do that. We are neighbors, why not be friends?"

"Go!" repeated the girl, "and don't come back! The next time I shall not warn you." The command was accompanied by a sharp click, as she threw a cartridge into the chamber of her rifle, and another swift glance into her eyes showed Brent that she was in deadly earnest. He returned the cap to his head and bowed:

"Very well," he said gravely. "I don't know who you think I am, or why you should want to kill me, but I do know that some day we shall become better acquainted. Good bye--till we meet again."

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE BARRENS

Late that evening Brent and Joe Pete were surprised by a knock upon the door of their cabin. Brent answered the summons and three Indians filed solemnly into the room. Two of them stood blinking foolishly while the third drew from a light pack a fox skin which he extended for Brent's inspection. Brent handed the skin to Joe Pete: "What's all this?" he asked, "What do they want?"

"Hooch," answered the Indian who had handed over the skin.

Brent shook his head: "No hooch here," he answered, "You've come to the wrong place. You are the fellow I saw today in the camp up the river.

Tell me, who is the young lady that claims she's an Injun? And why is she on the war-path?" The three stared stolidly at each other and at Brent, but gave no hint of understanding a word he had uttered. He turned to Joe Pete. "You try it," he said, "See if you can make 'em talk." The Indian tried them in two or three coast dialects, but to no purpose, and at the end of his attempt, the visitors produced two more fox skins and added them to the first.

"They think we're holding out for a higher price," laughed Brent.

"No wonder these d.a.m.ned hooch-peddlers can afford to take a chance. What are those skins worth?"

Joe Pete examined the pelts critically: "Dis wan she dark cross fox, wort' mebbe-so, t'irty dolla. Dis wan, an' dis wan, cross fox, wort'

'bout twenty dolla."

"Seventy dollars for a bottle of hooch!" cried Brent, "It's robbery!"

He handed back the skins, and at the end of five minutes, during which time he indicated as plainly as possible by means of signs, that there was no hooch forthcoming, the Indians took their departure. The next evening they were back again, and this time they offered six skins, one of them a silver fox that Joe Pete said would bring eighty dollars at any trading post. After much patient pantomime Brent finally succeeded in convincing them that there was really no hooch to be had, and with openly expressed disgust, the three finally took their departure.

Shortly after noon a week later, Brent drew the last bucket of gravel from the shallow shaft, threw it onto the dump, and leaving Joe Pete to look after the fire, took his rifle and struck off up the river in search of caribou. "Go down the river," whispered the still small voice of Common Sense, "There are no hunters there." But Brent only smiled, and held his course. And as he swung over the snow trail his thoughts were of the girl who had stepped from the cabin and angrily ordered him from the village at the point of her rifle. Each day during the intervening week he had thought of her, and he had lain awake at night and tried in vain to conjure a reason for her strange behaviour. Alone on the trail he voiced his thoughts: "Why should she threaten to shoot me? Who does she think I am? Why should she declare she is an Injun? I don't believe she's any more Injun than I am. Who ever heard of an Injun with eyes like hers, and lips, yes, and a tip-tilted nose? Possibly, a breed--but, never an Injun. And, I wonder if her warlike att.i.tude includes the whole white race, or a limited part of it, or only me? I'll find out before this winter is over--but, I'll bet she can shoot! She threw that sh.e.l.l into her rifle in a sort of off-hand _practiced_ way, like most girls would powder their nose."

His speculation was cut short by a trail that crossed the river at a right angle and headed into the scrub in a south-easterly direction. The trail was only a few hours old and had been made by a small band of caribou traveling at a leisurely pace. Abruptly, Brent left the River and struck into the trail. For an hour he followed it through the scraggly timber and across patches of open tundra and narrow beaver meadows. The animals had been feeding as they traveled and it was evident that they could not be far ahead. Cautiously topping a low ridge, he sighted them upon a small open tundra, about two hundred yards away. There were seven all told, two bulls, three cows, and two yearlings. One of the bulls and two cows were pawing the snow from the moss, and the others were lying down. Taking careful aim, Brent shot the standing bull. The animals that had been lying down scrambled to their feet, and three more shots in rapid succession accounted for a cow and one of the yearlings, and Brent watched the remaining four plunge off through the snow in the direction of the opposite side of the tundra which was a mile or more in width. When they had almost reached the scrub he was startled to see the flying bull suddenly rear high and topple into the snow, the next instant one of the others dropped, and a moment later a third. Then to his ears came the sound of four shots fired in rapid succession. As Brent stepped out onto the tundra and, sheath knife in hand, walked to his fallen caribou, he saw a figure from the opposite scrub. An exclamation of surprise escaped him. It was the girl of the Indian Village.

"Wonder if she needs any help?" he muttered as he slit the throat of his third caribou. He glanced across the short open s.p.a.ce to see the girl bending over the carca.s.s of the other bull. "Guess I'll take a chance,"

he grinned, "And go and see. I knew she could shoot--three out of four, running shots--that's going some!" When he was half way across the open he saw the girl rise and wipe the blade of her knife upon the hair of the dead bull's neck. She turned and knife in hand, waited for him to approach. Brent noted that her rifle lay within easy reach of her hand, propped against the dead animal's belly. He noted also, that as he drew near, she made no move to recover it.

Jerking at the strings of his cap, he removed it from his head: "That was mighty good shooting," he smiled, "Those brutes were sure traveling!"

"But, they were very close. I couldn't have missed. It took two shots for the last one, but both bullets counted. You did good shooting, too.

Your shots were harder--they were farther away. Did all your bullets count?"

Brent laughed aloud from pure joy. He hardly heard her words. The only thing he could clearly comprehend was the fact that there was no hint of anger in the dark eyes, and that the red lips were smiling. "I'm sure I don't know," he managed to reply, "I didn't stop to look. I think very likely I missed one shot."

"Why do you take your cap off?" she asked, and almost instantly she smiled again: "Oh, yes, I know--I have read of it--but, they don't do it here. Put it on please. It is cold."