It is easily set down on paper, but the uninitiated can scarcely realise the fearful toil of portaging. If you are an office man, suppose you take an angular box weighing 20 or 30 pounds; if a farmer, double the weight, poise it on your shoulders or otherwise, as you please, and carry it half a mile on a level pavement in cool, bright weather, and I am mistaken if you do not find yourself suffering horribly before the end of a quarter-mile; the last part of the trip will have been made in something like mortal agony.

Remember, then, that each of these portagers was carrying 150 to 250 pounds of broken stuff, not half a mile, but several miles, not on level pavement, but over broken rocks, up banks, through quagmires and brush--in short, across ground that would be difficult walking without any burden, and not in cool, clear weather, but through stifling swamps with no free hand to ease the myriad punctures of his body, face, and limbs whenever unsufficiently protected from the stingers that roam in clouds. It is the hardest work I ever saw performed by human beings; the burdens are heavier than some men will allow their horses to carry.

Yet all this frightful labour was cheerfully gone through by white men, half-breeds, and Indians alike. They accept it as a part of their daily routine. This fact alone is enough to guarantee the industrial future of the red-man when the hunter life is no longer possible.

Next day we embarked on the Little Buffalo River, beginning what should have been and would have been a trip of memorable joys but for the awful, awful, awful--see Chapter IX.

The Little Buffalo is the most beautiful river in the whole world except, perhaps, its affluent, the Nyarling.

This statement sounds like the exaggeration of mere impulsive utterance. Perhaps it is; but I am writing now after thinking the matter over for two and a half years, during, which time I have seen a thousand others, including the upper Thames, the Afton, the Seine, the Arno, the Tiber, the Iser, the Spree, and the Rhine.

A hundred miles long is this uncharted stream; fifty feet its breadth of limpid tide; eight feet deep, crystal clear, calm, slow, and deep to the margin. A steamer could ply on its placid, un.o.bstructed flood, a child could navigate it anywhere. The heavenly beauty of the sh.o.r.es, with virgin forest of fresh, green spruces towering a hundred feet on every side, or varied in open places with long rows and thick-set hedges of the gorgeous, wild, red, Athabaska rose, made a stream that most canoemen, woodmen, and naturalists would think without a fault or flaw, and with every river beauty in its highest possible degree. Not trees and flood alone had strenuous power to win our souls; at every point and bank, in every bend, were living creatures of the north, Beaver and Bear, not often seen but abundant; Moose tracks showed from time to time and birds were here in thousands. Rare winter birds, as we had long been taught to think them in our southern homes; here we found them in their native land and heard not a few sweet melodies, of which in faraway Ontario, New Jersey, and Maryland we had been favoured only with promising sc.r.a.ps when wintry clouds were broken by the sun. Nor were the old familiar ones away--Flicker, Sapsucker, Hairy Woodp.e.c.k.e.r, Kingfisher, Least Flycatcher, Alder Flycatcher, Robin, Crow, and Horned Owl were here to mingle their noises with the stranger melodies and calls of Lincoln Sparrow, Fox Sparrow, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Snipe, Rusty Blackbird, and Bohemian Waxwing.

Never elsewhere have I seen Horned Owls so plentiful. I did not know that there were so many Bear and Beaver left; I never was so much impressed by the inspiring raucous clamour of the Cranes, the continual spatter of Ducks, the cries of Gulls and Yellowlegs.

Hour after hour we paddled down that stately river adding our 3 1/2 miles to its 1 mile speed; each turn brought to view some new and lovelier aspect of bird and forest life. I never knew a land of balmier air; I never felt the piney breeze more sweet; nowhere but in the higher mountains is there such a tonic sense abroad; the bright woods and river reaches were eloquent of a clime whose maladies are mostly foreign-born. But alas! I had to view it all swaddled, body, hands, and head, like a bee-man handling his swarms.

Songs were m.u.f.fled, scenes were dimmed by the thick, protecting, suffocating veil without which men can scarcely live.

Ten billion dollars would be all too small reward, a trifle totally inadequate to compensate, mere nominal recognition of the man who shall invent and realise a scheme to save this earthly paradise from this its d.a.m.ning pest and malediction.

CHAPTER XVIII

DOWN TO FUNDAMENTALS

At 8.30 A. M., 10 miles from the portage, we came to the Clew-ee, or White Fish River; at 6.30 P. M. made the Sa.s.s Tessi, or Bear River, and here camped, having covered fully 40 miles.

Now for the first time we were all together, with leisure to question our guide and plan in detail. But all our mirth and hopes were rudely checked by Corporal Selig, who had entire charge of the commissary, announcing that there were only two days' rations left.

In the dead calm that followed this bomb-sh.e.l.l we all did some thinking; then a rapid fire of questions demonstrated the danger of having a guide who does not speak our language.

It seems that when asked how many days' rations we should take on this Buffalo hunt he got the idea how many days to the Buffalo. He said five, meaning five days each way and as much time as we wished there. We were still two days from our goal. Now what should we do? Scurry back to the fort or go ahead and trust to luck? Every man present voted "go ahead on half rations."

We had good, healthy appet.i.tes; half rations was veritable hardship; but our hollow insides made hearty laughing. Preble disappeared as soon as we camped, and now at the right time he returned and silently threw at the cook's feet a big 6-pound Pike. It was just right, exactly as it happens in the most satisfactory books and plays.

It seems that he always carried a spoon-hook, and went at once to what he rightly judged the best place, a pool at the junction of the two rivers. The first time he threw he captured the big fellow.

Later he captured three smaller ones in the same place, but evidently there were no more.

That night we had a glorious feast; every one had as much as he could eat, chiefly fish. Next morning we went on 4 1/2 miles farther, then came to the mouth of the Nyarling Tessi, or Underground River, that joins the Buffalo from the west. This was our stream; this was the highway to the Buffalo country. It was a miniature of the river we were leaving, but a little quicker in current. In about 2 miles we came to a rapid, but were able to paddle up. About 6 miles farther was an immense and ancient log-jamb that filled the stream from bank to bank for 190 yards. What will be the ultimate history of this jamb? It is added to each year, the floods have no power to move it, logs in water practically never rot, there is no prospect of it being removed by natural agencies. I suspect that at its head the river comes out of a succession of such things, whence its name Underground River.,

Around this jamb is an easy portage. We were far now from the haunts of any but Indians on the winter hunt, so were surprised to see on this portage trail the deep imprints of a white man's boot. These were made apparently within a week, by whom I never learned. On the bank not far away we saw a Lynx pursued overhead by two scolding Redsquirrels.

Lunch consisted of what remained of the Pike, but that afternoon Bezkya saw two Brown Cranes on a meadow, and manoeuvring till they were in line killed both with one shot of his rifle at over 100 yards, the best shot I ever knew an Indian to make. Still, two Cranes totalling 16 pounds gross is not enough meat to last five men a week, so we turned to our Moosehunter.

"Yes, he could get a Moose." He went on in the small canoe with Billy; we were to follow, and if we pa.s.sed his canoe leave a note.

Seven miles above the log-jamb, the river forked south and west; here a note from the guide sent us up the South Fork; later we pa.s.sed his canoe on the bank and knew that he had landed and was surely on his way "to market." What a comfortable feeling it was to remember that Bezkya was a moose-hunter! We left word and travelled till 7, having come 11 miles up from the river's mouth. Our supper that night was Crane, a little piece of bread each, some soup, and some tea.

At 10 the hunters came back empty-handed. Yes, they found a fresh Moose track, but the creature was so pestered by clouds of -------- that he travelled continually as fast as he could against the wind.

They followed all day but could not overtake him. They saw a Beaver but failed to get it. No other game was found.

Things were getting serious now, since all our food consisted of 1 Crane, 1 tin of brawn, 1 pound of bread, 2 pounds of pork, with some tea, coffee, and sugar, not more than one square meal for the crowd, and we were 5 men far from supplies, unless our hunting proved successful, and going farther every day.

Next morning (July 9) each man had coffee, one lady's finger of bread, and a single small slice of bacon. Hitherto from choice I had not eaten bacon in this country, although it was a regular staple served at each meal. But now, with proper human perversity, I developed an extraordinary appet.i.te for bacon. It seemed quite the most delicious gift of G.o.d to man. Given bacon, and I was ready to forgo all other foods. Nevertheless, we had divided the last of it. I cut my slice in two, revelled in half, then secretly wrapped the other piece in paper and hid it in the watch-pocket of my vest, thinking "the time is in sight when the whole crowd will be thankful to have that sc.r.a.p of bacon among them." (As a matter of fact, they never got it, for five days later we found a starving dog and he was so utterly miserable that he conjured that sc.r.a.p from the pocket next my heart.)

We were face to face with something like starvation now; the game seemed to shun us and our store of victuals was done. Yet no one talked of giving up or going back. We set out to reach the Buffalo country, and reach it we would.

That morning we got 7 little Teal, so our lunch was sure, but straight Teal without accompaniments is not very satisfying; we all went very hungry. And with one mind we all thought and talked about the good dinners or specially fine food we once had had.

Selig's dream of bliss was a porterhouse steak with a gla.s.s of foaming beer; Jarvis thought champagne and roast turkey spelt heaven just then; I thought of my home breakfasts and the Beaux-Arts at New York; but Billy said he would he perfectly happy if he could have one whole bannock all to himself. Preble said nothing.

CHAPTER XIX

WHITE MAN AND RED. MEAT, BUT NOTHING MORE

There was plenty of hollow hilarity but no word of turning back.

But hold! yes, there was. There was one visage that darkened more each day, and finally the gloomy thoughts broke forth in words from the lips of--our Indian guide. His recent sullen silence was now changed to open and rebellious upbraiding.

He didn't come here to starve. He could do that at home. He was induced to come by a promise of plenty of flour. "All of which was perfectly true. But," he went on, "We were still 11 days from the Buffalo and we were near the head of navigation; it was a case of tramp through the swamp with our beds and guns, living on the country as we went, and if we didn't have luck the Coyotes and Ravens would."

Before we had time to discuss this prospect, a deciding step was announced, by Jarvis, He was under positive orders to catch the steamer Wrigley at Fort Resolution on the evening of July 10. It was now mid-day of July 9, and only by leaving at once and travelling all night could he cover the intervening 60 miles.

So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for "Bezkya was a moose-hunter."

Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe.

We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat; they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.

Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically, I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food.

A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.

Nothing loath, he set off with Billy. I marked them well as they went, one lithe, sinewy, active, animal-eyed; the other solid and st.u.r.dy, following doggedly, keeping up by sheer blundering strength.

I could not but admire them, each in his kind.

Two hours later I heard two shots, and toward evening the boys came back slowly, tired but happy, burdened with the meat, for Bezkya was a moosehunter.

Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have been on that moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have told it. These men, that do it so well, never can tell it. Yet in the days that followed I picked up a few significant phrases that gave glimpses of its action.

Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son of the woods had set out "straightaway west." A big track appeared crossing a pool, seeming fresh. "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not muddy." Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see bite alder.

Alder turn red in two hours; only half red." Follow long. "Look out, Billy; no go there; wrong wind. Yes, he pa.s.s one hour; see bit willow still white. Stop; he pa.s.s half-hour; see gra.s.s still bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. Stand here, Billy.

He sleep in thick willow there."

Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long wait, the betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that wagged furiously to shake off the winged bloodsuckers. The shot, the rush, the b.l.o.o.d.y trail, the pause in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from both hunters, and the death.

Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, which lay conveniently on the river bank. After pushing through the alders and poling up the dwindling stream for a couple of hours we reached the place two miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no bell, horns only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across, the tips soft and springy; one could stick a knife through them anywhere outside of the basal half.