The Young Fur Traders

It was further arranged and agreed upon that the young men should accompany Jacques Caradoc in his canoe. Having become sufficiently expert canoemen to handle their paddles well, they scouted the idea of taking men with them, and resolved to launch boldly forth at once as bona-fide voyageurs. To this arrangement Jacques, after one or two trials to test their skill, agreed; and very shortly after the arrival of the express, the trio set out on their voyage, amid the cheers and adieus of the entire population of Norway House, who were assembled on the end of the wooden wharf to witness their departure, and with whom they had managed, during their short residence at that place, to become special favourites. A month later, the pastor of the Indian village, having procured a trusty guide, embarked in his tin canoe with a crew of six men, and followed in their track.

In process of time spring merged into summer—a season chiefly characterised in those climes by intense heat and innumerable clouds of mosquitoes, whose vicious and incessant attacks render life, for the time being, a burden. Our three voyageurs, meanwhile, ascended the Saskatchewan, penetrating deeper each day into the heart of the North American continent. On arriving at Fort Pitt, they were graciously permitted to rest for three days, after which they were forwarded to another district, where fresh efforts were being made to extend the fur-trade into lands hitherto almost unvisited. This continuation of their travels was quite suited to the tastes and inclinations of Harry and Hamilton, and was hailed by them as an additional reason for self-gratulation. As for Jacques, he cared little to what part of the world he chanced to be sent. To hunt, to toil in rain and in sunshine, in heat and in cold, at the paddle or on the snow-shoe, was his vocation, and it mattered little to the bold hunter whether he plied it upon the plains of the Saskatchewan or among the woods of Athabasca. Besides, the companions of his travels were young, active, bold, adventurous, and therefore quite suited to his taste. Redfeather, too, his best and dearest friend, had been induced to return to his tribe for the purpose of mediating between some of the turbulent members of it and the white men who had gone to settle among them, so that the prospect of again associating with his red friend was an additional element in his satisfaction. As Charley Kennedy was also in this district, the hope of seeing him once more was a subject of such unbounded delight to Harry Somerville, and so, sympathetically, to young Hamilton, that it was with difficulty they could realise the full amount of their good fortune, or give adequate expression to their feelings. It is, therefore, probable that there never were three happier travellers than Jacques, Harry, and Hamilton, as they shouldered their guns and paddles, shook hands with the inmates of Fort Pitt, and with light steps and lighter hearts launched their canoe, turned their bronzed faces once more to the summer sun, and dipped their paddles again in the rippling waters of the Saskatchewan River.

As their bark was exceedingly small, and burdened with but little lading, they resolved to abandon the usual route, and penetrate the wilderness through a maize of lakes and small rivers well known to their guide. By this arrangement they hoped to travel more speedily, and avoid navigating a long sweep of the river by making a number of portages; while, at the same time, the changeful nature of the route was likely to render it more interesting. From the fact of its being seldom traversed, it was also more likely that they should find a supply of game for the journey.

Towards sunset, one fine day, about two weeks after their departure from Fort Pitt, our voyageurs paddled their canoe round a wooded point of land that jutted out from, and partially concealed, the mouth of a large river, down whose stream they had dropped leisurely during the last three days, and swept out upon the bosom of a large lake. This was one of those sheets of water which glitter in hundreds on the green bosom of America’s forests, and are so numerous and comparatively insignificant as to be scarce distinguished by a name, unless when they lie directly in the accustomed route of the fur-traders. But although, in comparison with the fresh-water oceans of the Far West, this lake was unnoticed and almost unknown, it would by no means have been regarded in such a light had it been transported to the plains of England. In regard to picturesque beauty it was perhaps unsurpassed. It might be about six miles wide, and so long that the land at the farther end of it was faintly discernible on the horizon. Wooded hills, sloping gently down to the water’s edge; jutting promontories, some rocky and barren, others more or less covered with trees; deep bays, retreating in some places into the dark recesses of a savage-looking gorge, in others into a distant meadow-like plain, bordered with a stripe of yellow sand; beautiful islands of various sizes, scattered along the shores as if nestling there for security, or standing barren and solitary in the centre of the lake, like bulwarks of the wilderness, some covered with luxuriant vegetation, others bald and grotesque in outline, and covered with gulls and other waterfowl,—this was the scene that broke upon the view of the travellers as they rounded the point, and, ceasing to paddle, gazed upon it long and in deep silence, their hands raised to shade their eyes from the sun’s rays, which sparkled in the water, and fell, here in bright spots and broken patches, and there in yellow floods, upon the rocks, the trees, the forest glades and plains around them.

“What a glorious scene!” murmured Hamilton, almost unconsciously.

“A perfect paradise!” said Harry, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction.—“Why, Jacques, my friend, it’s a matter of wonder to me that you, a free man, without relations or friends to curb you, or attract you to other parts of the world, should go boating and canoeing all over the country at the beck of the fur-traders, when you might come and pitch your tent here for ever!”

“For ever!” echoed Jacques.

“Well, I mean as long as you live in this world.”

“Ah, master,” rejoined the guide, in a sad tone of voice, “it’s just because I have neither kith nor kin nor friends to draw me to any partic’lar spot on arth, that I don’t care to settle down in this one, beautiful though it be.”

“True, true,” muttered Harry; “man’s a gregarious animal, there’s no doubt of that.”

“Anon?” exclaimed Jacques.

“I meant to say that man naturally loves company,” replied Harry, smiling.

“An’ yit I’ve seen some as didn’t, master; though, to be sure, that was onnat’ral, and there’s not many o’ them, by good luck. Yes, man’s fond o’ seein’ the face o’ man.”

“And woman too,” interrupted Harry.—“Eh, Hamilton, what say you?

“‘O woman, in our hours of easeUncertain, coy, and hard to please,When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou.’

“Alas, Hammy! pain and anguish and everything else may wring our unfortunate brows here long enough before woman, ‘lovely woman,’ will come to our aid. What a rare sight it would be, now, to see even an ordinary housemaid or cook out here! It would be good for sore eyes. It seems to me a sort of horrible untruth to say that I’ve not seen a woman since I left Red River; and yet it’s a frightful fact, for I don’t count the copper-coloured nondescripts one meets with hereabouts to be women at all. I suppose they are, but they don’t look like it.”

“Don’t be a goose, Harry,” said Hamilton.

“Certainly not, my friend. If I were under the disagreeable necessity of being anything but what I am, I should rather be something that is not in the habit of being shot,” replied the other, paddling with renewed vigour in order to get rid of some of the superabundant spirits that the beautiful scene and brilliant weather, acting on a young and ardent nature, had called forth.

“Some of these same redskins,” remarked the guide, “are not such bad sort o’ women, for all their ill looks. I’ve know’d more than one that was a first-rate wife an’ a good mother, though it’s true they had little edication beyond that o’ the woods.”

“No doubt of it,” replied Harry, laughing gaily. “How shall I keep the canoe’s head, Jacques?”

“Right away for the p’int that lies jist between you an’ the sun.”

“Yes; I give them all credit for being excellent wives and mothers, after a fashion,” resumed Harry. “I’ve no wish to asperse the character of the poor Indians; but you must know, Jacques, that they’re very different from the women that I allude to and of whom Scott sung. His heroines were of a very different stamp and colour!”

“Did he sing of niggers?” inquired Jacques simply.

“Of niggers!” shouted Harry, looking over his shoulder at Hamilton, with a broad grin; “no, Jacques, not exactly of niggers—”

“Hist!” exclaimed the guide, with that peculiar, subdued energy that at once indicates an unexpected discovery, and enjoins caution, while at the same moment, by a deep, powerful back-stroke of his paddle, he suddenly checked the rapid motion of the canoe.

Harry and his friend glanced quickly over their shoulders with a look of surprise.

“What’s in the wind now?” whispered the former.

“Stop paddling, masters, and look ahead at the rock yonder, jist under the tall cliff. There’s a bear a-sittin’ there, an’ if we can only get to shore afore he sees us, we’re sartin sure of him.”

As the guide spoke he slowly edged the canoe towards the shore, while the young men gazed with eager looks in the direction indicated, where they beheld what appeared to be the decayed stump of an old tree or a mass of brown rock. While they strained their eyes to see it more clearly, the object altered its form and position.

“So it is,” they exclaimed simultaneously, in a tone that was equivalent to the remark, “Now we believe, because we see it.”

In a few seconds the bow of the canoe touched the land, so lightly as to be quite inaudible, and Harry, stepping gently over the side, drew it forward a couple of feet, while his companions disembarked.

“Now, Mister Harry,” said the guide, as he slung a powder-horn and shot-belt over his shoulder, “we’ve no need to circumvent the beast, for he’s circumvented hisself.”

“How so?” inquired the other, drawing the shot from his fowling-piece, and substituting in its place a leaden bullet.

Jacques led the way through the somewhat thinly scattered underwood as he replied, “You see, Mister Harry, the place where he’s gone to sun hisself is jist at the foot o’ a sheer precipice, which runs round ahead of him and juts out into the water, so that he’s got three ways to choose between. He must clamber up the precipice, which will take him some time, I guess, if he can do it at all; or he must take to the water, which he don’t like, and won’t do if he can help it; or he must run out the way he went in, but as we shall go to meet him by the same road, he’ll have to break our ranks before he gains the woods, an’ that’ll be no easy job.”

The party soon reached the narrow pass between the lake and the near end of the cliff, where they advanced with greater caution, and peeping over the low bushes, beheld Bruin, a large brown fellow, sitting on his haunches, and rocking himself slowly to and fro, as he gazed abstractedly at the water. He was scarcely within good shot, but the cover was sufficiently thick to admit of a nearer approach.

“Now, Hamilton,” said Harry, in a low whisper, “take the first shot. I killed the last one, so it’s your turn this time.”

Hamilton hesitated, but could make no reasonable objection to this, although his unselfish nature prompted him to let his friend have the first chance. However, Jacques decided the matter by saying, in a tone that savoured strongly of command, although it was accompanied with a good-humoured smile—

“Go for’ard, young man; but you may as well put in the primin’ first.”

Poor Hamilton hastily rectified this oversight with a deep blush, at the same time muttering that he never would make a hunter; and then advanced cautiously through the bushes, slowly followed at a short distance by his companions.

On reaching a bush within seventy yards of the bear, Hamilton pushed the twigs aside with the muzzle of his gun; his eye flashed and his courage mounted as he gazed at the truly formidable animal before him, and he felt more of the hunter’s spirit within him at that moment than he would have believed possible a few minutes before. Unfortunately, a hunter’s spirit does not necessarily imply a hunter’s eye or hand. Having, with much care and long time, brought his piece to bear exactly where he supposed the brute’s heart should be, he observed that the gun was on half-cock, by nearly breaking the trigger in his convulsive efforts to fire. By the time that this error was rectified, Bruin, who seemed to feel intuitively that some imminent danger threatened him, rose, and began to move about uneasily, which so alarmed the young hunter lest he should lose his shot that he took a hasty aim, fired, and missed. Harry asserted afterwards that he even missed the cliff! On hearing the loud report, which rolled in echoes along the precipice, Bruin started, and looking round with an undecided air, saw Harry step quietly from the bushes, and fire, sending a ball into his flank. This decided him. With a fierce growl of pain, he scampered towards the water; then changing his mind, he wheeled round, and dashed at the cliff, up which he scrambled with wonderful speed.

“Come, Mister Hamilton, load again; quick. I’ll have to do the job myself, I fear,” said Jacques, as he leaned quietly on his long gun, and with a half-pitying smile watched the young man, who madly essayed to recharge his piece more rapidly than it was possible for mortal man to do. Meanwhile, Harry had reloaded and fired again; but owing to the perturbation of his young spirits, and the frantic efforts of the bear to escape, he missed. Another moment, and the animal would actually have reached the top, when Jacques hastily fired, and brought it tumbling down the precipice. Owing to the position of the animal at the time he fired, the wound was not mortal; and foreseeing that Bruin would now become the aggressor, the hunter began rapidly to reload, at the same time retreating with his companions, who in their excitement had forgotten to recharge their pieces. On reaching level ground, Bruin rose, shook himself, gave a yell of anger on beholding his enemies, and rushed at them.

It was a fine sight to behold the bearing of Jacques at this critical juncture. Accustomed to bear-hunting from his youth, and utterly indifferent to consequences when danger became imminent, he saw at a glance the probabilities of the case. He knew exactly how long it would take him to load his gun, and regulated his pace so as not to interfere with that operation. His features wore their usual calm expression. Every motion of his hands was quick and sudden, yet not hurried, but performed in a way that led the beholder irresistibly to imagine that he could have done it even more rapidly if necessary. On reaching a ledge of rock that overhung the lake a few feet, he paused and wheeled about; click went the doghead, just as the bear rose to grapple with him; another moment, and a bullet passed through the brute’s heart, while the bold hunter sprang lightly on one side, to avoid the dash of the falling animal. As he did so, young Hamilton, who had stood a little behind him with an uplifted axe, ready to finish the work should Jacques’s fire prove ineffective, received Bruin in his arms, and tumbled along with him over the rock headlong into the water, from which, however, he speedily arose unhurt, sputtering and coughing, and dragging the dead bear to the shore.

“Well done, Hammy,” shouted Harry, indulging in a prolonged peal of laughter when he ascertained that his friend’s adventure had cost him nothing more than a ducking; “that was the most amicable, loving plunge I ever saw.”

“Better a cold bath in the arms of a dead bear than an embrace on dry land with a live one,” retorted Hamilton, as he wrung the water out of his dripping garments.

“Most true, O sagacious diver! But the sooner we get a fire made the better; so come along.”

While the two friends hastened up to the woods to kindle a fire, Jacques drew his hunting-knife, and, with doffed coat and upturned sleeves, was soon busily employed in divesting the bear of his natural garment. The carcass, being valueless in a country where game of a more palatable kind was plentiful, they left behind as a feast to the wolves. After this was accomplished and the clothes dried, they re-embarked, and resumed their journey, plying the paddles energetically in silence, as their adventure had occasioned a considerable loss of time.

It was late, and the stars had looked down for a full hour into the profound depths of the now dark lake ere the party reached the ground at the other side of the point, on which Jacques had resolved to encamp. Being somewhat wearied, they spent but little time in discussing supper, and partook of that meal with a degree of energy that implied a sense of duty as well as of pleasure. Shortly after, they were buried in repose, under the scanty shelter of their canoe.

Chapter Twenty Six.

An unexpected meeting, and an unexpected deer-hunt—Arrival at the outpost—Disagreement with the natives—An enemy discovered, and a murder

Next morning they rose with the sun, and therefore also with the birds and beasts.

A wide traverse of the lake now lay before them. This they crossed in about two hours, during which time they paddled unremittingly, as the sky looked rather lowering, and they were well aware of the danger of being caught in a storm in such an egg-shell craft as an Indian canoe.

“We’ll put in here now, Mister Harry,” exclaimed Jacques, as the canoe entered the mouth of one of those small rivulets which are called in Scotland burns, and in America creeks; “it’s like that your appetite is sharpened after a spell like that. Keep her head a little more to the left—straight for the p’int—so. It’s likely we’ll get some fish here if we set the net.”

“I say, Jacques, is yon a cloud or a wreath of smoke above the trees in the creek?” inquired Harry, pointing with his paddle towards the object referred to.

“It’s smoke, master; I’ve see’d it for some time, and mayhap we’ll find some Injins there who can give us news of the traders at Stoney Creek.”

“And, pray, how far do you think we may now be from that place?” inquired Harry.

“Forty miles, more or less.”

As he spoke, the canoe entered the shallow water of the creek, and began to ascend the current of the stream, which at its mouth was so sluggish as to be scarcely perceptible to the eye. Not so, however, to the arms. The light bark, which, while floating on the lake, had glided buoyantly forward as if it were itself consenting to the motion, had now become apparently imbued with a spirit of contradiction, bounding convulsively forward at each stroke of the paddles, and perceptibly losing speed at each interval. Directing their course towards a flat rock on the left bank of the stream, they ran the prow out of the water and leaped ashore. As they did so, the unexpected figure of a man issued from the bushes and sauntered towards the spot. Harry and Hamilton advanced to meet him, while Jacques remained to unload the canoe. The stranger was habited in the usual dress of a hunter, and carried a fowling-piece over his right shoulder. In general appearance he looked like an Indian; but though the face was burned by exposure to a hue that nearly equalled the red skins of the natives, a strong dash of pink in it, and the mass of fair hair which encircled it, proved that, as Harry paradoxically expressed it, its owner was a white man. He was young, considerably above the middle height, and apparently athletic. His address and language on approaching the young men put the question of his being a white man beyond a doubt.

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he began. “I presume that you are the party we have been expecting for some time past to reinforce our staff at Stoney Creek. Is it not so?”

To this query young Somerville, who stood in advance of his friend, made no reply, but stepping hastily forward, laid a hand on each of the stranger’s shoulders, and gazed earnestly into his face, exclaiming as he did so—

“Do my eyes deceive me? Is Charley Kennedy before me—or his ghost?”

“What! eh,” exclaimed the individual thus addressed, returning Harry’s gripe and stare with interest, “is it possible? No—it cannot—Harry Somerville, my old, dear, unexpected friend!”—and pouring out broken sentences, abrupt ejaculations, and incoherent questions, to which neither vouchsafed replies, the two friends gazed at and walked round each other, shook hands, partially embraced, and committed sundry other extravagances, utterly unconscious of, or indifferent to, the fact that Hamilton was gazing at them, open-mouthed, in a species of stupor, and that Jacques was standing by, regarding them with a look of mingled amusement and satisfaction. The discovery of this latter personage was a source of renewed delight and astonishment to Charley, who was so much upset by the commotion of his spirits, in consequence of this, so to speak, double shot, that he became rambling and incoherent in his speech during the remainder of that day, and gave vent to frequent and sudden bursts of smothered enthusiasm, in which it would appear, from the occasional muttering of the names of Redfeather and Jacques, that he not only felicitated himself on his own good fortune, but also anticipated renewed pleasure in witnessing the joyful meeting of these two worthies ere long. In fact, this meeting did take place on the following day, when Redfeather, returning from a successful hunt, with part of a deer on his shoulders, entered Charley’s tent, in which the travellers had spent the previous day and night, and discovered the guide gravely discussing a venison steak before the fire.

It would be vain to attempt a description of all that the reunited friends said and did during the first twenty-four hours after their meeting: how they talked of old times, as they lay extended round the fire inside of Charley’s tent, and recounted their adventures by flood and field since they last met; how they sometimes diverged into questions of speculative philosophy (as conversations will often diverge, whether we wish it or not), and broke short off to make sudden inquiries after old friends; how this naturally led them to talk of new friends and new scenes, until they began to forecast their eyes a little into the future; and how, on feeling that this was an uncongenial theme under present circumstances, they reverted again to the past, and by a peculiar train of conversation—to retrace which were utterly impossible—they invariably arrived at old times again. Having in course of the evening pretty well exhausted their powers, both mental and physical, they went to sleep on it, and resumed the colloquial mélange in the morning.

“And now tell me, Charley, what you are doing in this uninhabited part of the world, so far from Stoney Creek,” said Harry Somerville, as they assembled round the fire to breakfast.

“That is soon explained,” replied Charley. “My good friend and superior, Mr Whyte, having got himself comfortably housed at Stoney Creek, thought it advisable to establish a sort of half outpost, half fishing-station, about twenty miles below the new fort, and believing (very justly) that my talents lay a good deal in the way of fishing and shooting, sent me to superintend it during the summer months. I am, therefore, at present monarch of that notable establishment, which is not yet dignified with a name. Hearing that there were plenty of deer about twenty miles below my palace, I resolved the other day to gratify my love of sport, and at the same time procure some venison for Stoney Creek; accordingly, I took Redfeather with me, and—here I am.”

“Very good,” said Harry; “and can you give us the least idea of what they are going to do with my friend Hamilton and me when they get us?”

“Can’t say. One of you, at any rate, will be kept at the creek, to assist Mr Whyte; the other may, perhaps, be appointed to relieve me at the fishing for a time, while I am sent off to push the trade in other quarters. But I’m only guessing. I don’t know anything definitely, for Mr Whyte is by no means communicative.”