*CHAPTER VII.*
_*FOLLOWING THE BLACKFEET.*_
There was many a little loophole in Wilfred's hiding-place through whichhe could take a peep unseen. The squaw had let the fire die down to asmouldering heap, and this she had carefully covered over with bark, sothat there was neither spark nor flame to shine through the broken roof.The hut was unusually clear of smoke, and all was still.
Wilfred was soon nodding dangerously behind his billet-stack, forgettingin his drowsy musings the instability of his surroundings. The squawrose up from the floor, and replaced the knot of wood he had sentrolling. He dreamed of Yula's bark in the distance, and wakened to findthe noise a reality, but not the bark. It was not his Yula wanting tobe let in, as he imagined, but a confused medley of sounds suggestive ofthe putting up of tent poles. There was the ring of the hatchet amongthe trees, the crash of the breaking boughs, the thud of the fallingtrunk. Even Wilfred could not entertain a doubt that the Blackfeet wereencamping for the night alarmingly near their buried hut. In silenceand darkness was their only safeguard. It was all for the best Yula hadrun away, his uneasy growls would have betrayed them.
Midnight came and passed; the sounds of work had ceased, but thegalloping of the ponies, released from the travoys, the scraping oftheir hoofs seeking a supper beneath the snow, kept Wilfred on the rack.The echo of the ponies' feet seemed at times so near he quite expectedto see a horse's head looking down through the hole, or, worse still,some unwary kick might demolish their fragile roof altogether.
With the gray of the dawn the snow began again to fall. Was ever snowmore welcome? The heavy flakes beat back the feeble column of smoke,and hissed on the smouldering wood, as they found ready entrance throughthe parting in the bark which did duty for a chimney. No matter, it wasfilling up the path which Maxica had made and obliterating everyfootprint around the hut. It seemed to Wilfred that the great featheryflakes were covering all above them, like a sheltering wing.
The tell-tale duck, the little snow-birds he had hung on the pine branchwould all be hidden now. Not a chink was left in the bark through whichthe gray snow-light of the wintry morning could penetrate.
In spite of their anxiety, both the anxious watchers had fallen asleep.The squaw was the first to rouse. Wilfred's temporary trap-door refusedto move when, finding all was still around them, she had tried to pushit aside; for the hut was stifling, and she wanted snow to refill thekettle.
The fire was out, and the snow which had extinguished it was alreadystiffening. She took a half-burnt brand from the hearth, and, mountingthe stones which surrounded the fireplace, opened the smoke-vent; forthere the snow had not had time to harden, although the frost wassetting in with the daylight. To get out of their hut in another hourmight be impossible. With last night's supper, a spark of her formerenergy had returned. A piece of the smoke-dried bark gave way andprecipitated an avalanche of snow into the tiny hut.
Wilfred wakened with a start. The daylight was streaming down upon him,and the squaw was gone. What could have happened while he slept? How heblamed himself for going to sleep at all. But then he could not livewithout it. As he wondered and waited and reasoned with himself thus,there was still the faint hope the squaw might return. Anyhow, Wilfredthought it was the wisest thing he could do to remain concealed whereshe had left him. If the Indians camping by the pool were her ownpeople, they might befriend him too. Possibly she had gone over totheir camp to ask for aid.
How long he waited he could not tell--it seemed an age--when he heardthe joyful sound of Yula's bark. Down leaped the dog into the very midstof the fireplace, scattering the ashes, and bringing with him anotheravalanche of snow. But his exuberant joy was turned to desperation whenhe could not find his Wilfred. He was rushing round and round, scentingthe ground where Wilfred had sat. Up went his head high in the air, ashe gave vent to his feelings in a perfect yowl of despair.
"Yula! Yula!" called Wilfred softly. The dog turned round and tore atthe billet-stack. Wilfred's defence was levelled in a moment; the woodwent rolling in every direction, and Yula mounted the breach in triumph,digging out his master from the debris as a dog might dig out a fox. Hewould have him out, he would not give up. He tugged at Wilfred's arms,he butted his head under his knees; there was no resisting hisimpetuosity, he made him stand upright. When, as Yula evidentlybelieved, he had set his master free, he bounded round him in an ecstasyof delight.
"You've done it, old boy," said Wilfred. "You've got me out of hiding;and neither you nor I can pile the wood over me again, so now, whatevercomes, we must face it together."
He clasped his arms round the thick tangle of hair that almost hid thetwo bright eyes, so full of love, that were gazing at him.
Wilfred could not help kissing the dear old blunderer, as he called him."And now, Yula," he went on, "since you will have it so, we'll lookabout us."
Wilfred's foot was a good deal better. He could put his boot on for thefirst time. He mounted the stones which the squaw had piled, andlistened. Yes, there were voices and laughter mingling with theneighing of the ponies and the lumbering sounds of the travoys. Thecamp was moving on. The "Far-off-Dawn" was further off than ever fromhim. He had no longer a doubt the squaw had gone with her people.
She had left him her kettle and the piece of skin. To an Indian womanher blanket is hood and cloak and muff all in one. She never goes outof doors without it.
Wilfred smoothed the gloves she had made him and pulled up the blanketsocks. Oh, she had been good to him! He thought he understood it allnow--that farewell kiss, and the desire to hide him until the fiercewarriors of her tribe had passed on. He wrapped the skin over hisshoulders, slung the kettle on his arm, chose out a good strong staff tolean on, and held himself ready for the chapter of accidents, whateverthey might be.
No one came near him. The sounds grew fainter and fainter. Thesilence, the awful stillness, was creeping all around him once again.It became unbearable--the dread, the disappointment, the suspense.Wilfred climbed out of the hut and swung himself into the branches ofthe nearest pine. The duck and the snow-birds were frozen as hard asstones. But the fire was out long ago. Wilfred had no matches, nomeans of lighting it up again. He put back the game; even Yula couldnot eat it in that state. He swung himself higher up in the tree, justin time to catch sight of the vanishing train, winding its way along thevast snow-covered waste. He watched it fading to a moving line. Whatwas it leaving behind? A lost boy. If Wilfred passed the night in thetree he would be frozen to death. If he crept back into the tumble-downhut he might be buried beneath another snow. If he went down to thepool he might find the ashes of the Indians' camp-fires still glowing.If they had left a fire behind them he must see the smoke--thesnow-soaked branches were sure to smoke. The sleet was driving in hisface, but he looked in vain for the dusky curling wreath that must havebeen visible at so short a distance.
Was all hope gone? His head grew dizzy. There were no words on hislips, and the bitter cry in his heart died mute. Then he seemed to hearagain his mother's voice reading to him, as she used to read in far-offdays by the evening fire: "I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. Bestrong, and of a good courage. Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.For the Lord thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest."
The Indian train was out of sight, but the trampling of those fiftyponies, dragging the heavily-laden travoys, had left a beaten track--apath so broad he could not lose it--and he knew that it would bring himto some white man's home.
Wilfred sprang down from the tree, decided, resolute. Better to try andfind this shop in the wilderness than linger there and die. The snowbeneath the tree was crisp and hard. Yula bounded on before him, eagerto follow where the Blackfeet dogs had passed. They were soon upon theroad, trudging steadily onward.
The dog had evidently shared the strangers' breakfast; he was neitherhungry nor thirsty. Not so his poor little master, who was feeling ver
yfaint for want of a dinner, when he saw a bit of pemmican on the ground,dropped no doubt by one of the Indian children.
Wilfred snatched it up and began to eat. Pemmican is the Indians'favourite food. It is made of meat cut in slices and dried. It is thenpounded between two smooth stones, and put in a bag of buffalo-skin.Melted fat is poured over it, to make it keep. To the best kinds ofpemmican berries and sugar are added. It forms the most solid food aman can have. There are different ways of cooking it, but travellers, orvoyageurs, as they are usually called in Canada, eat it raw. It was apiece of raw pemmican Wilfred had picked up. Hunger lent it the flavourit might have lacked at any other time.
With this for a late dinner, and a rest on a fallen tree, he felthimself once more, and started off again with renewed vigour. The sleetwas increasing with the coming dusk. On he toiled, growing whiter andwhiter, until his snow-covered figure was scarcely distinguishable fromthe frozen ground. Yula was powdered from head to foot; moreover, poordog, he was obliged to stop every now and then to bite off the littleicicles which were forming between his toes.
Fortunately for the weary travellers the sky began to clear when themoon arose. Before them stood dark ranks of solemn, stately pines, withhere and there a poplar thicket rising black and bare from the sparklingground. Their charred and shrivelled branches showed the work of therecent prairie fires, which had only been extinguished by the snowstorm.
Wilfred whistled Yula closer and closer to his side, as the forestechoes wakened to the moose-call and the wolf-howl. On, on they walkedthrough the dusky shadows cast by the giant pines, until the strangemeteors of the north lit up the icy night, flitting across the starrysky in such swift succession the Indians call it the dance of the deadspirits.
In a scene so weird and wild the boldest heart might quail. Wilfredfelt his courage dwindling with every step, when Yula sprang forwardwith a bark that roused a sleeping herd, and Wilfred found himself inthe midst of the Indian ponies, snorting and kicking at the disturber oftheir peace. The difficulty of getting Yula out again, without losingthe track or rousing the camp, which they must now be approaching,engrossed Wilfred, and taxed his powers to their uttermost. He couldsee the gleam of their many watch-fires, and guided his course morewarily. Imposing silence on Yula by every device he could imagine, heleft the beaten track which would have taken him into the midst of thedreaded Blackfeet, and slanted further and further into the forestgloom, but not so far as to lose the glow of the Indians' fires. In thefirst faint gray of the wintry dawn he heard the rushing of a mightyfall, and found concealment in a wide expanse of frozen reeds andstunted willows.
Yula had been brought to order. A tired dog is far more manageable. Helay down at his master's feet, whilst Wilfred watched and listened. Hewas wide of the Blackfeet camp, yet not at such a distance as to beunable to distinguish the sounds of awakening life within it from theroar of the waterfall. To his right the ground was rising. He scarcelyfelt himself safe so near the Blackfeet, and determined to push on tothe higher ground, where he would have a better chance of seeing whatthey were about. If they moved on, he could go back to theircamping-place and gather the crumbs they might have let fall, and boilhimself some water before their fires were extinguished, and then followin their wake as before.
He began to climb the hill with difficulty, when he was aware of a thin,blue column of light smoke curling upwards in the morning air. It wasnot from the Indian camp. Had he nearly reached his goal? The light wassteadily increasing, and he could clearly see on the height before himthree or four tall pines, which had been stripped of their branches bythe voyageur's axe, and left to mark a landing-place. These lop-sticks,as the Canadians call them, were a welcome sight. He reached them atlast, and gained the view he had been longing to obtain. At his feetrolled the majestic river, plunging in one broad, white sheet over ahidden precipice.
In the still uncertain light of the early dawn the cataract seemed twiceits actual size. The jagged tops of the pine trees on the other side ofthe river rose against the pale green of coming day. Close above thefalls the bright star of the morning gleamed like a diamond on the rimof the descending flood; at its foot the silvery spray sprang high intothe air, covering the gloomy pines which had reared their dark branchesin many a crack and cleft with glittering spangles.
Nestling at the foot of the crag on which Wilfred stood was thewell-built stockade of the trading-fort. The faint blue line of smokewhich he had perceived was issuing from the chimney of the trader'shouse, but the inmates were not yet astir.
He brushed the tears from his eyes, but they were mingled tears of joyand thankfulness and exhaustion. As he was watching, a party of Indiansstole out from their camp, and posted themselves among the frozen reedswhich he had so recently vacated.
The chief, with a few of the Blackfeet, followed by three or four squawsladen with skins, advanced to the front of the stockade, where theyhalted. The chief was waving in his hand a little flag, to show that hehad come to trade. After a while the sounds of life and movement beganwithin the fort. The little group outside was steadily increasing innumbers. Some more of the Blackfeet warriors had loaded their horses andtheir wives, and were coming up behind their chief, with their heavybags of pemmican hanging like panniers across the backs of the horses,whilst the poor women toiled after them with the piles of skins andleather.
All was bustle and activity inside the trader's walls. Wilfred guessedthey were making all sorts of prudent preparations before they venturedto receive so large a party. He was thinking of the men in ambush amongthe reeds, and he longed to give some warning to the Hudson Bay officer,who could have no idea of the numbers lurking round his gate.
But how was this to be done in time? There was but one entrance to thefort. He was afraid to descend his hill and knock for admittance, underthe lynx-like eyes of the Blackfoot chief, who was growing impatient,and was making fresh signs to attract the trader's attention.
At last there was a creaking sound from the fort. Bolts and bars werewithdrawn, and the gate was slowly opened. Out came the Hudson Bayofficer, carefully shutting it behind him. He was a tall, white-hairedman, with an air of command about him, and the easy grace of a gentlemanin every action. He surveyed his wild visitors for a moment or two, andthen advanced to meet them with a smile of welcome. The chief came astep or two forward, shook hands with the white man, and began to make aspeech. A few of his companions followed his example.
"Now," thought Wilfred, "while all this talking and speechifying isabroad, I may get a chance to reach the fort unobserved."
He slid down the steep hill, with Yula after him, crept along the backof the stockade, and round the end farthest from the reeds. In anothermoment he was at the gate. A gentle tap with his hand was all he daredto give. It met with no answer. He repeated it a little louder. Yulabarked. The gate was opened just a crack, and a boy about his own agepeeped out.
"Let me in," said Wilfred desperately. "I have something to tell you."
The crack was widened. Wilfred slipped in and Yula followed. The gatewas shut and barred behind them.
"Well?" asked the boyish porter.
"There are dozens of Blackfeet Indians hiding among the frozen reeds. Isaw them stealing down from their camp before it was light. I am afraidthey mean mischief," said Wilfred, lowering his voice.
"We need to be careful," returned the other, glancing round at theirmany defences; "but who are you?"
"I belong to some settlers across the prairie. I have lost my way. Ihave been wandering about all night, following the trail of theBlackfeet. That is how I came to know and see what they were doing,"replied Wilfred.
"They always come up in numbers," answered the stranger thoughtfully,"ready for a brush with the Crees. They seem friendly to us."
As the boy spoke he slipped aside a little shutter in the gate, andpeeped through a tiny grill.
In the middle of the enclosure there was a wooden house painted white.Three or fo
ur iron funnels stuck out of the roof instead of chimneys,giving it a very odd appearance. There were a few more huts and sheds.But Wilfred's attention was called off from these surroundings, for awhole family of dogs had rushed out upon Yula, with a chorus of barkingthat deafened every other sound. For Yula had marched straight to theback door of the house, where food was to be had, and was shaking it andwhining to be let in.
The young stranger Gaspe took a bit of paper and a pencil out of hispocket and wrote hastily: "There are lots more of the Blackfeet hidingamongst the reeds. What does that mean?"
"Louison!" he cried to a man at work in one of the sheds, "go outsideand give this to grandfather."
Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story Page 7
