"H'm!" responded Mozwa. He might have said more, but was busy lighting his pipe at the moment. n.a.z.inred made no further remark at the time, for he was in the full enjoyment of the first voluminous exhalation of the weed.

After a few minutes the chief resumed--

"Our old chief is full of the right spirit. He is losing power with the young men, but I think he can still guide them. I will hope so, and we will return as soon as we can."

Poor n.a.z.inred! If he had known that his only and beloved daughter, even while he spoke, was on her way to the mysterious icy sea in company with one of the despised Eskimos--driven away by the violence of the fire-eaters of the camp--he would not have smoked or spoken so calmly.

But, fortunately for his own peace of mind, he did not know--he did not dream of the possibility of such a catastrophe; and even if he had known and returned home at full speed, he would have been too late to prevent the evil.

For a long time these Indians lay side by side on their outspread blankets, with their feet to the fire, gazing through the branches at the stars, and puffing away in profound silence, but probably deep thought. At least a sudden exclamation by Mozwa warrants that conclusion.

"You think," he said, "that our old chief has the right spirit. How do you know what is the right spirit? Alizay and Magadar, and many of our braves--especially the young ones--think that a fiery spirit, that flares up like powder, and is always ready to fight, is the right one.

You and our old chief think that gentleness and forbearance and unwillingness to fight till you cannot help it is the right spirit. How do you know which is right? You and the war-lovers cannot both be right!"

There was an expression of great perplexity on the Indian's face as he uttered the last sentence.

"My son," replied n.a.z.inred, who, although not much older than his companion, a.s.sumed the parental _role_ in virtue of his chieftainship, "how do you know that you are alive?"

This was such an unexpected answer that Mozwa gazed fixedly upwards for a few minutes without making any reply.

"I know it," he said at length, "because I--I--know it. I--I _feel_ it."

"How do you know," continued the chief, with perplexing pertinacity, "that the sun is not the moon?"

Again Mozwa became astronomically meditative. "Because I see it and feel it," he replied. "The sun is brighter and warmer. It cheers me more than the moon, and gives me more light, and warms me. It warms the bushes and flowers too, and makes them grow, and it draws the beasts out of their holes. Even a rabbit knows the difference between the sun and the moon."

"My son," returned n.a.z.inred, "I have not lived very long yet, but I have lived long enough to see, and feel, and know that the kind spirit is the right spirit, because it warms the heart, and opens the eyes, and gives light, and it is the only spirit that can make friends of foes. Is it not better to live at peace and in good-will with all men than to live as enemies?"

"Ho!" responded Mozwa, by way of a.s.sent.

"Then the peaceful spirit is the right one," rejoined the chief, with a long-drawn sigh that indicated a tendency to close the discussion.

As Mozwa felt himself to be in a somewhat confused mental condition, he echoed the sigh, laid down his pipe, drew his blanket round him, and, without the formality of "Good-night," resigned himself to repose.

n.a.z.inred, after taking a look at the weather, pondering, perchance, on the probabilities of the morrow, and throwing a fresh log on the fire, also wrapped his blanket round him and lost himself in slumber.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WILD DOINGS OF THE FUR-TRADERS AND RED MEN.

In course of time, after many a hard struggle with rushing rapids and not a few narrow escapes from dangerous rocks, the Indian voyagers swept out at last upon the broad bosom of Great Bear Lake.

This mighty inland sea of fresh water--about two hundred miles in diameter, and big enough to engulf the greater part of Scotland--was, at the time we write of, and still is, far beyond the outmost verge of civilisation, in the remotest solitudes of the Great Lone Land.

Here the fur-traders had established a small trading-post close to the sh.o.r.es of the lake. It was in charge of a Scotchman--we had almost said of course; for it would seem as if these hardy dwellers in the north of our island have a special gift for penetrating into and inhabiting the wildest and most unlikely parts of the world. His name was MacSweenie, and he had a few Orkney-men and half-castes to keep him company while vegetating there.

It was a sort of event, a mild excitement, a pink--if not a red--letter day, when our Indians arrived at that lonely outpost, and MacSweenie, who was in the prime of life and the depths of _ennui_, gave the strangers a hearty and warm reception.

n.a.z.inred had been there before, and was able somewhat to subdue his feelings of admiration and not-quite-exhausted surprise at all the wonderful things he saw; but to the others it was comparatively new, and Mozwa had never been at a trading-post in his life. Being a sympathetic man, he found it difficult to retain at all times that solemnity of manner and look which he knew was expected of him. The chief, who was also sympathetic, experienced deep pleasure in watching his companion's face, and observing the efforts he made to appear indifferent, knowing, as he did, from former experience, that he must in reality be full of surprise and curiosity.

And, truly, in the store of the fur-traders there was a display of wealth which, to unaccustomed Indian eyes, must have seemed almost fabulous. For were there not in this enchanted castle bales of bright blue cloth, and bright scarlet cloth, and various other kinds of cloth sufficient to clothe the entire Dogrib nation? Were there not guns enough--cheap flint-lock, blue-barrelled ones--to make all the Eskimos in the polar regions look blue with envy, if not with fear? Were there not bright beads and bra.s.s rings, and other baubles, and coloured silk thread, enough to make the hearts of all the Dogrib squaws to dance with joy? Were there not axes, and tomahawks, and scalping-knives enough to make the fingers of the braves to itch for war? Were there not hooks and lines enough to capture all the fish in Great Bear Lake, and "nests"

of copper kettles enough to boil them all at one tremendous culinary operation? And was there not gunpowder enough to blow the fort and all its contents into unrecognisable atoms?

Yes, there was enough in that store fully to account for the look of awe-stricken wonder which overspread the visage of Mozwa, and for the restrained tendency to laughter which taxed the solemn n.a.z.inred considerably.

"You are fery welcome," said MacSweenie, as he ushered the chief and Mozwa into the store the day after their arrival. "We hev not seen one o' your people for many a day; an' it's thinking I wa.s.s that you would be forgettin' us altogether. Tell them that, Tonal'."

Tonal', (or Donald), Mowat was MacSweenie's interpreter and factotum.

He was a man of middle age and middle height, but by no means middle capacity. Having left his native home in Orkney while yet a youth, he had spent the greater part of his life in the "Nor'-West," and had proved himself to be one of those quick learners and generally handy fellows, who, because of their apt.i.tude to pick up many trades, are too commonly supposed to be masters of none. Mowat, besides being a first-rate blacksmith, had picked up the Indian language, after a fashion, from the Crees, and French of a kind from the Canadian half-castes, and even a smattering of Gaelic from the few Scotch Highlanders in the service. He could use the axe as well as forge it, and, in short, could turn his hand to almost anything. Among other things, he could play splendidly on the violin--an instrument which he styled a fiddle, and which MacSweenie called a "fuddle." His _repertoire_ was neither extensive nor select. If you had asked for something of Beethoven or Mozart he would have opened his eyes, perhaps also his mouth. But at a Strathspey or the Reel o' Tulloch he was almost equal to Neil Gow himself--so admirable were his tune and time.

In a lonesome land, where amus.e.m.e.nts are few and the nights long, the power to "fuddle" counts for much.

Besides being MacSweenie's interpreter, Donald was also his storekeeper.

"Give them both a quid, Tonal', to begin with," said MacSweenie. "It iss always politic to keep Indians in good humour."

Donald cut off two long pieces of Canada twist and handed it to them.

He cut them from a roll, which was large enough, in the estimation of Mozwa, to last a reasonable smoker to the crack of doom. They received the gift with an expression of approval. It would have been beneath their dignity to have allowed elation or grat.i.tude to appear in their manner.

"Solemn humbugs!" thought the trader,--"ye know that you're as pleased as Punch," but he was careful to conceal his thoughts. "Now, then, let us hev a look at the furs."

It took the trader and his a.s.sistant some time to examine the furs and put a price on them. The Indians had no resource but to accept their dictum on the point, for there were no rival markets there. Moreover, the value being fixed according to a regular and well-understood tariff, and the trader being the servant of a Company with a fixed salary, there was no temptation to unfair action on his part. When the valuation was completed a number of goose-quills were handed to the Indians--each quill representing a sum of about two shillings--whereby each man had a fair notion of the extent of his fortune.

"What iss it you will be wanting now?" said the trader, addressing himself to n.a.z.inred with the air of a man whose powers of production are illimitable.

But the chief did not reply for some time. It was not every day that he went shopping, and he was not to be hurried. His own personal wants had to be considered with relation to the pile of quill-wealth at his elbow, and, what was of far greater importance and difficulty to a kind man, the wants of his squaw and Adolay had also to be thought of. Mozwa, having left a squaw, two little daughters, and a very small son, had still greater difficulties to contend with. But they both faced them like men.

"Pasgissegan," said both men, at length, simultaneously.

"I thought so," observed the trader, with a smile, as he selected two trade-guns--the fire-spouters of the Eskimo--and handed them across the counter.

The Indians received the weapons with almost tender care; examined them carefully; took long and steady aim at the windows several times; snapped the flints to make sure that the steels were good, and, generally, inspected every detail connected with them. Being satisfied, they rested them against the wall, the trader withdrew the price of the guns from the two little piles, threw the quills into an empty box under the counter, and looked--if he did not say, "What next?"

Powder, shot, and ball came next, and then the means of hunting and self-defence having been secured, beads and scarlet cloth for the women claimed their attention. It was an interesting sight to see these tall, dark-skinned sons of the forest handling the cloth and fingering the various articles with all the gravity and deliberation of experts, with now and then a low-toned comment, or a quiet question as to the price.

"You'll want that," suggested Mowat, as he threw a small thick blanket-- quite a miniature blanket--towards Mozwa, "your small boy will want it."

"Ho!" exclaimed the Indian, with a look of surprise in spite of himself, "how do you know?"

"I didn't know. I only guessed; but your question shows me I'm right.

Any more?"

"Yes, two more, but bigger."

"Of course bigger, for it's not likely they were all born at the same time," returned Mowat, with a grin.

"What iss this man wantin', Tonal'? I can't make him out at all," asked MacSweenie.