The Wilderness Castaways

“Don’t strike un, Paul! Don’t strike un!” Dan exclaimed. “’T will do no good. He knows what he says ain’t true, an’ we know it ain’t true. Dad says when a feller knows he’s right, an’ he knows th’ Lord knows he’s right, it don’t matter what folks says or thinks.”

Factor MacTavish laughed, and in the laugh was a note of good humor. The defiance of these two lads scarcely reaching to his shoulder amused him, and he could not but admire the display of courage in the face of odds.

“Well, you’ve got some spunk, and I like spunk. You may stay over night. It’s snowing, and you’d better go to the men’s house for tonight. We always put up travelers one night. James,” to one of the clerks, “show them the men’s house.”

“We won’t stay a single night unless you take back what you said about our being thieves and deserters,” broke in Paul, his defiant attitude unabated. “We’re honest, and we’re not beggars crawling after you.”

“I don’t know whether you’re honest or not, or anything about you. You may be what you say you are. Now, if you want to accept a night’s lodging, it’s open to you, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. James, show these boys to the men’s house.”

“You say you were wrong in calling us thieves?” insisted Paul.

“Perhaps I was. We won’t talk about it now,” and he turned to one of the desks to put an end to the discussion.

“We’ll take that for an apology,” said Paul, somewhat mollified. “Thank you.”

James, the clerk, introduced them to the men’s house, and presently they had their things under cover, secure from the now heavily falling snow, and ate their supper of cold roast lynx from their own larder, supplemented by a pot of hot tea generously donated by the half-breed Indian cook.

CHAPTER XIII

WINTER SHELTER AND HARD WORK

“PAUL,” said Dan, after the half-breed cook who brought them the tea had returned to his preparation of supper, “you’re wonderful brave. I’m thinkin’ now you would have hit th’ master if I hadn’t been interferin’.”

“I’m afraid I would, and then he’d have pitched us both out,” admitted Paul. “It wasn’t because I was brave, though, but I was mad all through when he called us thieves. Think of it!”

“’T were brave o’ you. I’m thinkin’ you’d fight anything if ’t were called for. But when we gets on th’ ice pan, first off, I were misjudgin’ you; you seemed scared and I were thinkin’ you timid. You’re a rare lot braver ’n me.”

“No, I’m not, Dan.”

“Yes you is. See th’ way you fit th’ lynx, an’ killed un, too. An’ th’ way you stands up t’ that man is sure wonderful.”

“I had to fight the lynx; it made me. And that man’s a big coward. What do you suppose he’s going to do with us? Turn us out in the snow to starve or freeze to death? I feel as though I’d like to punch him now!” And Paul clenched his fists. “Called us thieves! Why, Dan, I never had any reason to steal, and you wouldn’t take a pin that didn’t belong to you.”

“Neither of us would steal, an’ I’m thinkin’ he knows un well enough.”

“What shall we do if he turns us out?”

“’Tis hard t’ say. I’m thinkin’ we’ll be goin’ back in th’ bush, an’ stop t’ hunt when we finds a good place.”

The wind had risen to a tempest, and it shrieked and howled around the building now in a way that made the boys appreciate the snug warmth of the shelter, and led Dan to remark:

“We needs clothes. We’ll be sure freezin’ t’ death without un, an’ th’ cold weather comin’ on.”

Somewhere outside a bell clanged several strokes. Presently the door opened, and three men, shaking snow from their caps and stamping it from their feet, entered.

“’Tis a wild nicht,” said one, a big, grizzly bearded fellow, after they had formally greeted Paul and Dan. “Ye arrived just in time, laddies. Are ye up from York Factory?”

“No,” answered Paul, “we came from the north.”

“And how, now, could that be? The ship’s away this lang time.”

Paul explained briefly how they had gone adrift, and their subsequent adventures, up to the time of meeting Factor MacTavish.

“My name,” he added, “is Paul Densmore, and my friend is Dan Rudd.”

“I’m glad t’ meet ye lads. My name is Tammas Ferguson, and this is Sam’l Hogart, and this Amos Tupper,” introducing his companions.

During this conversation and ceremony the men were washing and preparing for supper, and as they sat down Amos invited:

“Set in to the tyble, and ’ave a bite to heat.”

“Thank you, we’ve eaten,” answered Paul.

“Coom, laddies, and have a bite mair,” urged Tammas. “’T will do ye no harm this cowld nicht.”

Chuck, the half-breed cook, at this juncture placed a plate piled high with bread upon the table, and this offered a temptation too great to resist. They were longing for bread above all things in the world, and with a “Thank you” they took the seats assigned them without further objection.

“Ye’ll be bidin’ wi’ us the winter, and ye must no be backward,” encouraged Tammas.

They were not in the least backward. They ate a great deal of Chuck’s indifferent, soggy bread, sopped in black molasses, and thought it delicious, and each drank at least three cups of strong tea.

“And did ye see the master?” asked Tammas when supper was over and all were seated about the hot stove.

“Yes,” answered Paul, “and he told us we could stay only tonight.”

“Did he say that now?”

“’E needs men. ’E’s short’anded, and ’e needs more men,” broke in Amos. “Tomorrow ’e’ll be hengaging you.”

“There’s no doot o’ that. So don’t worry, lads, aboot the morrow,” encouraged Tammas.

The men filled their pipes with tobacco cut from black plugs, and chatted with each other and the boys, whom they drew hospitably into their group. Dan played several airs upon his harmonica, to their great delight, and Paul described the wonders of New York, which Amos always endeavored to discount with descriptions of what he considered the greater wonders of London.

When bedtime finally came, Tammas stepped out of doors for “a look at the weather.”

“’Tis an awfu’ nicht,” he announced upon his return. “’Tis fortunate you lads made post as ye did. Ye’d ha’ perished in the cowld and snow of this nicht.”

Paul and Dan spread their blankets on the floor, and very thankful they were for the shelter. Outside the wind howled dismally, and dashed the snow against the windows.

Morning brought no abatement of the storm. If possible the snow fell more thickly and the wind blew more fiercely. The office building, ten yards from the door of the men’s house, could scarcely be made out, and the boys rejoiced anew at their safety.

Breakfast was eaten by lamplight. Tammas insisted that the lads join in the meal, and when the bell clanged to call the men to work, he admonished:

“If the master is hard, and says ye canna’ remain, coom to me at the smithy. I’ll ne’er be seein’ ye turned out in this awfu’ storm, an’ neither will Sam’l or Amos. If there’s no ither way, we’ll pay for your keep.”

“Aye, that we will,” assented both Amos and Samuel.

“Thank you,” said Paul. “If you do, my father will pay you back.”

“The master’s apt to be ’ard, but stand up to ’im. ’E likes men with grit to stand up and face ’im,” advised Amos, as the three went out to their work.

“Well, those are men with hearts, and true friends, and even if they are rough looking, they’re gentlemen,” remarked Paul, as the door closed.

“’T ain’t clothes or money as makes a man,” said Dan. “Dad says ’tis th’ heart under th’ shirt.”

They dreaded the meeting with David MacTavish, the factor, and for half an hour they hesitated to face the ordeal.

“But they ain’t no use puttin’ un off,” suggested Dan, finally, after they had discussed at some length the probable outcome of the coming interview. “What we has t’ do, we has t’ do, an’ th’ sooner ’tis done th’ sooner ’tis over. An’ you knows wonderful well, Paul, how t’ talk t’ he.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” declared Paul, working up his courage. “Let’s go now and see if he’s in the office.”

Factor MacTavish was in his office, busy with accounts, when they entered, but for full ten minutes he ignored their presence. Finally looking up he said, in a much pleasanter tone than that of the previous evening:

“Come here, boys.”

They stepped up to his desk.

“How did you pass the night?” he asked.

“Very comfortably, thank you,” answered Paul.

“I’ve been thinking about you fellows, and I’ve decided to let you remain at the post and work for your living. We’re shorthanded, and it’s mighty lucky for you that we are, for we can’t keep hangers-on and idlers around here. You—what is your name?”

“Paul Densmore.”

“You go over to the blacksmith’s shop, and help Thomas Ferguson, and do whatever he wants you to do. And you other fellow, what’s your name?”

“Dan’l Rudd, sir.”

“You can help Amos Tupper in the cooper shop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When they haven’t anything for you to do, there’s plenty of wood to saw and split, and enough to keep you busy. Now get out.”

Then Paul and Dan turned to go.

“Hold on! You’ll stay in the men’s house with the others. Are those the only clothes you have?”

“All except some underclothes,” answered Paul.

“Well, they’ll not be enough for winter. James,” to the chief clerk, “have adikeys made for these fellows, and some duffel socks and deerskin moccasins, and a pair of mittens for each. Now if you fellows prove yourselves useful you can stay here for the winter, and if you don’t I’ll kick you both out of the post. You may go.”

It was an effort for Paul to restrain himself from making a defiant reply, but he realized in time that this might get them into trouble. He felt incensed that his word had not been taken, when he promised that his father would pay his own and Dan’s expenses. He was on the whole very glad, however, that even this arrangement had been made, for the storm had brought him a realization of the fruitlessness of any attempt to live in the open with their insufficient equipment, together with the uncertainty of killing sufficient game to sustain them.

And so Paul Densmore, the only son of a king of finance, a youth who would one day be a multi-millionaire in his own right, was glad enough to earn his living as a common laborer.

CHAPTER XIV

A LONELY CHRISTMAS

DAN had been accustomed to work and exposure all his life, and he found his new employment, on the whole, not disagreeable. Paul’s experiences after they had gone adrift had to some extent prepared him, also, for the tasks he was now called upon to perform, and at the end of a week he became fairly well reconciled to his position.

Aside from giving them a curt order now and again, Factor MacTavish rarely spoke to either of them. He invariably treated them as ordinary menials—as he treated the unskilled half-breed servants—useful auxiliaries to the post life, just as the dogs were useful auxiliaries, and save for the fact that he did not kick or beat them, he gave them little more consideration than he gave the dogs.

In accordance with the factor’s instructions, James Benton, the chief clerk, or “clark” as he called himself, supplied each of them with two suits of heavy underwear; a kersey cloth adikey—an Eskimo garment which was pulled over the head like a shirt and was supplied with a hood—an outer adikey made like the other but of smooth cotton cloth, to shed the snow; three pairs of duffel socks made from heavy woolen cloth; a pair of deerskin moccasins made by an Indian woman; a pair of moleskin leggings; and warm mittens; and each was given a pair of bearspaw snowshoes, without which it would have been quite impossible to have walked in the deep snow.

Each outfit, the clerk informed them, was valued at eighteen dollars, and each boy was charged with this amount on the company’s books. They were each to receive their board and three dollars a month wages, the three dollars not to be paid them in money but to be credited to their account until the debt of eighteen dollars was balanced.

Though they had arrived in mid-October, and had begun work at once, Factor MacTavish argued that until they had become accustomed to the duties required of them they would be of little value, and therefore decreed that the munificent wage of three dollars a month should not begin until November. Therefore, they were told, they were virtually bound to the service of the company, with no freedom to leave the post, until the following May, when, if no other purchases were made in the meantime, their debt would be balanced and they would be free to go where they pleased.

“Now if you want the outfit, and want to stay, you’ll have to agree to these terms in writing,” said the clerk. “If you don’t sign a written agreement you’ll have to leave the reservation at once.”

Thus they were forced to become the victims of a system of peonage, for they had no choice but to sign the agreement.

The lads felt the injustice of this treatment keenly. They were well aware that the value of their work would be many times greater than the amount of wages allowed them, but they were wholly at the mercy of the factor.

“It’s an outrage!” exclaimed Paul when he and Dan were alone. “We earn a lot more than three dollars a month. Why Father used to allow me a hundred dollars a month for spending money.”

“Yes,” said Dan, “we earns anyway ten dollars a month. He’s a wonderful hard man. But we’ll have t’ put up with un, I’m thinkin’.”

“He’s got us here,” complained Paul, “and he knows we can’t get away, and he’s going to make all he can out of us. The old skinflint!”

“He’s sure a hard un,” admitted Dan, “but we’ll have t’ put up with un. Dad says that kind o’ man always gets what’s comin’ to un some time, an’ what’s comin’ to un ain’t what they likes, neither.”

“And he pretends he’s doing us a great favor! The old pirate!”

“They’s no use thinkin’ about un. Dad says when th’ wind’s ag’in ye, don’t get worked up about un, an’ cross. Take un cheerful, an’ be happy anyway, an’ she’ll shift around fair after awhile.”

So they gave no hint of discontent, but went cheerfully about the tasks assigned them, as though they really enjoyed them, though much of the philosophy of Dan’s “Dad” had to be evoked at times when their spirits flagged, to drive back rising discontent.

But they had enough to eat, and with their new clothing, supplemented by the things they already had, they were warmly enough clad, even when the short days of December came, with biting, bitter cold.

The storm which overtook them on the evening of their arrival at Fort Reliance, continued intermittently for several days. It was the first real storm of winter. Steadily the weather grew colder. By mid-November the bay was frozen solidly as far as eye could reach.

The Indians, save two or three old men and women who did odd chores around the post, had packed their belongings on toboggans in the first lull in the storm, two days after the arrival of Paul and Dan, and the western wilderness had swallowed them in its mysterious depths.

Post life was exceedingly quiet and humdrum, although it possessed something of spice and novelty for the lads, particularly Paul. The dogs always interested him when they were harnessed to the sledge by Jerry, the half-breed Eskimo servant, and he was always glad to be detailed to accompany Jerry and the team when they were engaged in hauling firewood from the near-by forest. The impetuosity and dash of the dogs upon leaving home, and Jerry’s management of them and the sledge, filled Paul with admiration. But Paul was especially fascinated by Jerry’s dexterity in handling the long walrus hide whip, full thirty feet in length. With it Jerry could reach any lagging dog in the team with unerring aim. He could flick a spot no bigger than a dime with the tip of the lash, and he could crack the whip at will with reports like pistol shots.

Under Jerry’s instruction Paul practiced the manipulation of the whip himself, at every opportunity, and he considered it quite an accomplishment when he was able to bring the lash forward and lay it out at full length in front of him. In his early attempts to do this he generally wrapped it around his legs, and occasionally gave himself a stinging blow with the tip end in the back of his neck. But with patient practice he at length found that he could not only strike an object aimed at with considerable skill, but could crack the whip at nearly every attempt.

Jerry was always good natured and indulgent. He taught Paul the knack of managing the dogs and sledge, and at length permitted him to drive the team upon level, easy stretches of trail. On steep down grades, however, where the dogs dashed at top speed and the loaded sledge in its mad rush seemed ever on the point of turning over or smashing against a stump or rock, he had no desire to try his skill and strength.

But these excursions with the dogs were practically the only adventures that came to the boys. Generally they were kept busy at the woodpile, one at either end of a cross-cut saw, cutting the long wood into stove lengths, and splitting it into proper size; or, when the weather was too stormy for out-of-door employment, Paul assisted Tammas in the blacksmith shop while Dan was kept from idleness by Amos in the cooperage.

Paul was always glad to be with Tammas, who had in a sense adopted both lads, and assumed a fatherly interest in their welfare. He was kindness itself, though he never failed to correct them when he deemed it necessary. Under his instruction Paul soon learned a great deal about the handling of tools and the working of iron. The greatest drudgery, it seemed to the boys, that fell to their lot was the weekly duty of cleaning the offices and scrubbing the unpainted furniture and floors to a whiteness satisfactory to the factor.

The day before Christmas dawned bitterly cold. The snow creaked under foot. Everything was covered with frost rime. The atmospheric moisture hung suspended in the air in minute frozen particles. When the sun reluctantly rose, it shone faintly through the gauzy veil of rime, and gave forth no warmth to the starved and frozen earth.

Paul and Dan were assigned to the woodpile for the day. All forenoon they sawed and split, working for the most part in silence, for they were filled with thoughts of other Christmas eves, and the loved ones at home.

“I wonder if we’ll have to work tomorrow?” asked Paul, when they returned to the saw after dinner.

“I’m thinkin’ not,” answered Dan. “Amos were sayin’ they keeps Christmas as a holiday.”

“If we don’t have to, I want to get out in the bush, away from here, anywhere. I’ll be homesick if I spend Christmas in this place. Can’t we go for a hunt back in the timber, and have a camp fire and a good time?”

“’Twould be fine!” agreed Dan. “Now I were thinkin’ of just that myself. I’m wantin’ t’ get off somewheres wonderful bad. I’ve been a bit lonesome all day, thinkin’ of home an what they’s doin’ there, an’ whether they misses me.”

Dan’s voice choked, and for the first time since their acquaintance began Paul saw tears in his eyes. Dan hastily brushed them away with his mittened hand, ashamed of giving way to his feelings, and continued more cheerfully:

“Mother’s like t’ worry a bit, but Dad won’t let she. Dad’ll be tellin’ she we’re all right. Dad’ll not be fearin’ I can’t take care of myself.”

“I’ve been thinking about my father and mother too—and what they’re doing, and whether they miss me much. We always have such a jolly time on Christmas. Mother gave me this watch last Christmas,” and Paul took his fine gold watch from his pocket, caressed it and returned it to its place again. “It’s a nifty one,” he continued. “Father gave me my pony—the black pony I told you about—‘Pluto’ I call him. But Mother was always afraid he’d hurt me, and never let me go riding alone. Old John—he’s the groom—went with me, and he just kept me to a walk. There wasn’t much fun in that and I soon got tired poking along and didn’t go out much. When I get home again, though, I’m going to have fun with Pluto, and Old John can stay at home.”

“Your father must be wonderful rich. I never did be a-horseback, but I has one o’ the smartest punts in Ragged Cove. Dad made un an’ gives un t’ me. I’m thinkin’ I likes a punt better ’n a horse.”

And so they talked on as they worked, until darkness came, and they left the woodpile to fill in the time until the bell called them to supper, giving Tammas and Amos a hand, Paul in the blacksmith shop, Dan in the cooperage.

When at length the clanging bell called them from work, and they sat down to supper, Tammas announced:

“Weel, laddies, ye’ve earned the holiday ye’ll have tomorrow. I’m not given to praisin’ mair than is a just due, but I may say fairly ye’ve weel earned the holiday.”

“We’ll have the holiday, then?” asked Paul eagerly. “Can we do as we want to?”

“Aye, lad, ye may do as ye wishes. There’s t’ be na work on Christmas day.”

“Dan and I were wondering about it. We’ll go hunting, I guess.”

“We’ll be startin’ with daybreak,” said Dan.

“Ye must na be missin’ the plum duff at dinner, laddies.”

“We want to get away. It is too bad to have to miss plum duff, but I guess we’ll have to let it slide, unless Chuck saves some for us.”

“Have na fear o’ that. I’ll see he saves ye a full share. Go huntin’ if ye’ve set your hearts on goin’, laddies.”

They were away at daybreak. The air was still and piercing cold, driving them to a smart trot to keep their blood in circulation. Dan was an old hand on snowshoes and Paul had already become so adept in their use that he jogged along and kept the pace set by Dan with little difficulty.

They took with them their frying pan, their teakettle (a light aluminum pail) and two cups. Their provisions consisted of a small piece of fat pork, some bread, tea, salt and a bottle of black molasses—for here molasses was used to sweeten tea instead of sugar—which Chuck gave them for their dinner. Each carried a share of the equipment slung upon his back in one of their camp bags.

Paul took his shotgun, Dan the axe and Paul’s rifle, for the cartridges for his own rifle were nearly gone. They had no intention of making an extended hunting trip. Their chief object was a pleasant bivouac in the forest, where they could enjoy an open fire and freedom from post restraints.

First they made for the willows that lined the river bank two miles above the post. Tammas had told them they were certain to find large flocks of ptarmigans there, feeding upon the tender tops of the bushes. This proved to be the case, and without difficulty Paul secured a half dozen of the birds with his shotgun.

Not far beyond they halted among the thick spruce trees, and made a rousing camp-fire. Then Dan with the axe built a lean-to facing the fire, while Paul broke spruce boughs with which to thatch it, and for their seat.

These preparations completed, and the ptarmigans plucked, they lounged back upon the boughs under the shelter of the lean-to, to chat about their homes, their plans, and their home-going, until time to cook dinner.

Two of the ptarmigans were fried with pork, and the bread was toasted, for variety, and it is safe to say that nowhere in the wide world was a banquet eaten that Christmas day with keener relish or greater enjoyment than this simple meal in that far-away spruce-clad wilderness.

Dinner eaten and dishes washed, Dan piled fresh wood upon the fire, and the boys spread themselves luxuriously upon the boughs to bask in the warmth. Paul lay gazing into the blaze, quite lost in thought, while Dan played his harmonica.

One of Dan’s favorite tunes was “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Presently he struck up the air, and immediately a melodious tenor voice, singing to the accompaniment of Dan’s music, began:

“Tom he was a piper’s son,He learned to play when he was young;But all the tune that he could play,Was ‘Over the hills and far away.’”

The boys were startled. They had heard no one approach, and they sprang to their feet.

Standing by the fire opposite them was a tall, lank man of middle age. In the hollow of his left arm a rifle rested. He was dressed as a trapper—a fur cap, buckskin capote, buckskin leggins, and moccasins. Beside him stood an Indian, similarly dressed and nearly as tall and lank as himself.

CHAPTER XV

THE TRAPPER FROM INDIAN LAKE

THE stranger laughed at the startled boys, who gazed at him and the Indian in mute surprise. Wrinkles at the corners of his gray-blue eyes indicated habitual good humor. The eyes themselves seemed always to smile, even when his lips did not.