The Heart of Unaga

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER IV

  UNAGA

  It was the last of the night watch. The depths of the primeval forestwere alive with sound, those sounds which are calculated to set thehuman pulse athrob. Steve Allenwood crouched over the fire. He wasstill, silent, and he squatted with his hands locked about his knees.

  The fitful firelight only served to emphasize the intensity ofsurrounding darkness. It yielded little more than a point of attractionfor the prowling, unseen creatures haunting the wild. The snow outsidewas falling silently, heavily, for it was late in the year, and Octoberwas near its close! Here there was shelter under the wide canopy whichthe centuries had grown.

  As yet the falling temperature was still above zero. Later it would bedifferent. The cap on the man's head was pressed low over his ears, andhis summer buckskin shirt had been replaced by the furs which wouldstand between him and the fierce breath of winter during the long monthsto come. His eyes were wide. Every sense was alert. For all he wasgazing into the fire, he was listening, always listening to those soundswhich he dared not ignore for one single moment.

  The sounds were many. And each had a meaning which he read with asureness that was almost instinctive. The deep unease of the myriads ofbare tree-trunks about him, supporting their snow-laden canopy, toldhim of the burden which the pitiless northern heavens were thrustingupon them. It also told him of the strength of the breeze which wasdriving the banking snow outside. The not infrequent booming crash of afalling tree spoke of a burden already too great to bear. So with thesplitting of an age-rotted limb torn from the parent trunk.

  Of deeper significance, and more deadly, is the sound which never diesout completely. It is a sound as of falling leaves, pattering softlyupon the underlay of rotting cones and dead pine needles. Its insistenceis peculiar. There are moments when it is distant. And moments, again,when it is near, desperately near.

  It is at times such as the latter that the man at the fire unlocks hishands. With a swift movement, he reaches down to the fire and seizes ablazing brand. For a moment a trail of fire arcs against the blackdepths of the forest and falls to the ground. Then, with a hastyscuttling, the sounds die away in the distance, and a fierce snarlingchallenge is flung from the safer depths.

  The challenge is without effect. The man rises swiftly to his feet, and,a moment later, the smouldering firebrand is gathered up, and all signsof fire where it has fallen are stamped out. Again he returns to thecomforting warmth to continue his watch, whilst his companions sleep onsecurely in their arctic, fur-lined bags.

  But the threat is real and deadly. Woe betide the foolish human soul whoignores it, or fails to read it aright. The eyes of the forest are wideawake. They are everywhere watching. They are there, in pairs,merciless, savage eyes, only awaiting opportunity. It is the primevalforest world where man is no more than those other creatures who seek tosupport the life that is thrust upon them.

  These things were only a few of the voiceless hauntings which neverceased. Steve and his companions knew them all by heart. Every sound,every cadence told its tale. Every danger, with which they weresurrounded, was calculated to a fraction and left them undisturbed.

  Slowly the power of the firelight lessened. For all the stirring andreplenishing, the flickering blaze yielded before the steadily growingtwilight, and presently it sulkily abandoned the unequal contest. Thedawn had come.

  It was sufficient. Steve rose from his seat and stretched himself. Then,moving over to the wood pile he replenished the fire and set the campkettle to boil. After that he passed on to the two figures stillsleeping under their furs.

  Oolak was the first to reach full wakefulness, and he promptly crawledfrom his sleeping-bag. Steve's instructions were brief and to the point.

  "Fix the dogs," he ordered. And Oolak grunted his simple acquiescence.

  As Julyman broke from his spell of dreaming Steve indicated the campkettle.

  "I've set it to boil. I'll take a look outside," he said.

  He passed on without waiting for reply and his way followed the trackwhich the sled had left in the rotting underlay, where over night it hadbeen laboriously hauled into the shelter of the woods.

  His movements were vigorous. The bulk of his outer clothing robbed himof much of such height as he possessed, but it added to the naturalappearance of muscular sturdiness which was always his. His mission wasimportant, for on his accurate reading of the elemental conditionsdepended immediate movements, and safety or disaster for his expedition.

  As he neared the break in the forest, through which their course lay,the twilight gave before the light of day, and through the aisles ofbare tree-trunks ahead he beheld the white carpet which night had laid.Nearly a foot of snow had fallen, and everywhere under its burden thefoliage drooped dismally in the perfect morning light.

  These things, however, were without serious concern. Steve knew that forthe next seven months the earth would lie deep buried under its winterpall. That was the condition under which most of his work was carriedon. It was the sunrise, and the wind, which must tell him the things hedesired to know.

  Passing beyond the shadowed aisles he moved out over the soft snow,where the crisp breeze swept down through the break. He was a fewhundred yards from the summit of the high ridge over which, for miles,to the north and south, the primeval forest spread its mantle. It was abarrier set up and shutting off the view of the final stage of hisjourney; that final stage towards which he had laboured for so manyweeks. He had reached so nearly the heart of Unaga, and beyond,somewhere towards the shores of Hudson's Bay lay that winter goal wherehe hoped to find the friendly shelter of the home of the seal-huntingEskimo who peopled the regions.

  He ploughed his way through the snow towards the summit of the ridge.

  * * * * *

  For all his outward calm Steve Allenwood was deeply stirred. For all heknew the wide Northland, with its mystery, its harshnesses, the sightthat met his gaze from the summit of the ridge was one that left himwondering, and amazed, and not a little overwhelmed.

  The immensity of it all! The harsh, unyielding magnificence! The bitterbreath from the north-east stung his cheeks with its fierce caresses. Hefelt like a man who has stolen into the studio of a great artist andfinds himself confronted with a canvas upon which is roughly outlinedthe masterly impression of a creation yet to be completed. It seemed tohim as if he were gazing upon the bold, rough draft of the AlmightyCreator's uncompleted work.

  The blazing arc of the rising sun was lifting over the tattered skyline,and its light burnished the snow-crowned glacial beds to an almostblinding whiteness. As yet it only caught the hill tops within itsrange. The hollows, the shadowed woodlands, remained lost beneath theearly morning mists. It gave the impression of gazing down upon one vaststeaming lake, out of which was slowly emerging ridges of white-crestedland chequered with masses of primeval forest.

  In all directions it was the same; a hidden world having laboriously tofree itself from the bondage of the mists.

  The churning mists rolled on. They cleared for a moment at a point tolet the sunlight shafts illuminate some sweep of glacial ice. Then theyclosed down again, swiftly, as though to hide once more those secretsinadvertently revealed. The sun rose higher. The movement of the mistsbecame more rapid. They thinned. They deepened once more. And with everychange the sense of urgent movement grew. It was like the panic movementof a beaten force. The all-powerful light of day was absorbing, drainingthe moisture-laden shadows, and reducing them to gossamer.

  It was with the final passing of the mists that a sharp ejaculationbroke from the watching man. It verily seemed to have been wrung fromhim. His gaze was fixed at a point of the broken skyline. A great cloudlay banked above the rising crest of the snowy barrier. It was stirring.It was lifting. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  The moments passed. It was like the rising of the curtain upon awonderful stage picture. Unlike the mists the cloud did not disperse. Itlifted up, up before the man's amazed eyes, and sett
led a dense darkmass to crown that which it had revealed.

  "Gee!"

  The startled monosyllable was thrilling with every emotion of wonder.

  A spire towered over the serrated skyline. Its height was utterly beyondSteve's calculation. Its final peak was lost amidst the heavy cloud.Sheer up it rose. Sheer above its monstrous surroundings. It rose likethe spire of some cathedral of Nature's moulding, and dwarfed the worldabout it. It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendouroutspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock.

  "Boss--look!"

  It was the first intimation of Julyman's presence. Steve accepted itwithout question. He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld. The Indianwas at his side pointing at the monstrous tower.

  "Him Unaga--Unaga Spire. Julyman know. Him Father wise man. Him tell ofUnaga Spire. Him hot. Him hot lak hell. Him all burn up snow--ice. Himburn up all thing. Come. It not good. Him Unaga Spire!"

  * * * * *

  A wide declining expanse stretched out before them as Steve and Julymanswung along over the snow. They were following the track of a dog train,leaving behind them the added tracks of their own snow-shoes to mark theway. Ahead of them lay another short rise whose crest was dotted withtimber bluffs. It was beyond this they hoped to discover the wintershelter they were seeking. Somewhere behind them the indomitable Oolak,silent, enduring, was shepherding their own dog train over their tracks.

  The end of the month had come and their fortunes were at a crisis. Athousand miles of territory had been covered since the early summer daywhen Steve had bade farewell to his wife and child.

  The effort had been tremendous. Far more tremendous than these men knew.And the story of the journey, the endurance, the hardship of it, wouldhave made an epic of man's silent heroism. With Steve each hardship,each difficulty encountered had been a matter of course. Accident was athing simply to be avoided, and when avoidance was impossible then to beaccepted without complaint. And these things had been so many.

  Now the wide Northland had been traversed from west to east and they hadcrossed the fierce bosom of Unaga's plateau. The reality of it was nobetter and only little worse than had been anticipated. It had been ajourney of hills, everlasting hills, and interminable primordialforests, with dreary breaks of open plains. Each season had brought itsown troubles, with always lying ahead the deadly anticipation of thewinter yet to come.

  It was the thought of this, and the indications everywhere about them,that had spurred Steve to hunt down the sled track upon which they hadmiraculously fallen.

  They moved on in silence for a long time. Such was the way of these men.The great silences had eaten into their bones. The life and labours ofthe trail would have been intolerable amidst the chatter of uselesstalk.

  The rolling swing of their gait carried them swiftly to their vantageground, and hope stirred Steve to give expression to his thoughts.

  "It would be queer to find those fancy 'Sleeper Indians' of yours," hesaid.

  Julyman cast a glance over his left shoulder in the direction of thesteely north. Somewhere back there far beyond his view stood the greatSpire of Unaga, and the black cloud hovering about its crest. It hadbeen left far, far behind them, but it still remained a memory.

  "No Sleeper Indian man," he said decidedly. Then he added with a finalshake of his head: "Oh no."

  Steve laughed. It was not often these men laughed on the trail. Justnow, however, the excitement of hope had robbed the white man ofsomething of his habit.

  "Guess your yarn didn't just locate them. Where d'you reckon they are?"

  Julyman slackened his gait as they breasted the final rise where thesled track vanished over the brow of the hill. His dark, questioningeyes were turned enquiringly upon his boss, and he searched the smilingface that looked back at him out of its framing of heavy fur. He fearedto be laughed at. He pointed at the northern horizon.

  "Him--Unaga," was all he said.

  Steve followed the direction of the mitted hand pointing northward, andthe smile died out of his eyes. That strange Spire filled his memorystill in spite of himself. Something of the Indian's awe communicateditself to him.

  But he thrust it from him and gazed out ahead again, searching thetracks they were following.

  "We'll find something, anyway," he said presently. "This track's nothalf a day old. There's folks beyond the rise. Say, maybe we can winterhereabouts, and work along the coast. The coast line's warmer. It neverhits zero on the coast till you make inside the Arctic Circle. We'll getback to home next winter. It'll be good getting back to your squaws onCaribou, eh?"

  There was a note in Steve's voice which did not fail to impress itselfon the Indian's keen understanding. He knew his boss was thinking of hisown white squaw and the pretty blue eyes of the pappoose which made thefather forget every trouble and concern when he gazed down into them.Oh, yes, Julyman understood. He understood pretty well every mood of hisboss. And who should understand them if he did not? Men on the trailtogether learn to read each other like a book.

  "Squaws him trash!" exclaimed the Indian. And he spat to emphasize hiscynical opinion.

  "Some squaws," corrected Steve.

  Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mereslits before the biting drift of the wind.

  "All squaw," he said doggedly. Then he went on. "Squaw him all smile.Him soft. Him mak dam fool of Indian man. Squaw no good--only makpappoose, feed pappoose. Raise him. All the time squaw mak pappoose. Himnot think nothin' more. Just pappoose. Indian man think all things. Himsquaw only mak pappoose an'--trouble."

  "Trouble?" Steve's smile was alight with humour.

  The Indian nodded.

  "All time," he said decidedly. "No man, no pappoose, then squaw him maktrouble all time. It all same. Him find man sure. All man dam fool.Squaw mak him dam fool. Julyman stand by teepee. Him tak rawhide. Himsay, 'do so!' Squaw him do. Julyman mak long trail. Him not care. Himcome back him find plenty much other squaw. So!"

  The Indian's watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead. But hehad seen. The humour had completely vanished out of Steve's eyes. So hadhis smile. Julyman's purpose was not quite clear. He loved and reveredhis chief. He had no desire to hurt him. But Steve knew that the manhad been saying what he had said for his benefit.

  "You're a damn scoundrel, Julyman," he said, and there was less than theusual tolerance in his tone.

  The Indian shrugged under his furs.

  "Julyman wise man," he protested. "All the time white man say, 'onesquaw.' It good! So! It fine! Indian man say one--two--five--ten squaw.Then him not care little dam!"

  Steve made no reply. The man's cynicism was sufficiently brutal to makeit impossible to reply without heat. And Steve had no desire to quarrelwith his chief lieutenant. Besides, he was deeply attached to therascal. So they swung up the last sharp incline in the voiceless mannerin which so much of their work was done.

  It was Steve who reached the brow first, and it was his arm, and hisvoice that indicated the discoveries beyond.

  "Right!" he exclaimed. "Look, Julyman," he went on pointing. "A lodge. Alodge of neches. And--see! What's that?" There was excitement in thetone of his question. "It's--a fort!" he cried, his eyes reflecting theexcitement he could no longer restrain. "A--post! A white man's tradingpost! What in hell! Come on!"

  He moved on impetuously, and in a moment the two men were speeding downthe last incline.

  The last recollection of the Indian's deplorable philosophy had passedfrom Steve's mind. His eyes were on the distant encampment. He had beenprepared for some discovery. But never, in his wildest dreaming, had heanticipated a white man's trading post.

  It was something amazing. As far as Steve could reckon they weresomewhere within a hundred miles of the great inland sea. It might bethirty miles. It might be sixty. He could not tell. Far as the eye couldsee there was little change from what they had been travelling over forweeks. Appalling wastes of snow, and hill,
and forest, with every hereand there a loftier rise supporting a glacial bed. There werewatercourses. Oh, yes, rivers abounded in that wide, unknown land. Butthey were frozen deeply, and later would, freeze doubtless to their verybeds.

  But here was a wide shallow valley with a high range of hill countrydensely forest clad forming its northeastern boundary. The hither sidewas formed by the low rising ground over which they had just passed. Thehollow passed away, narrowing more deeply to the southeast, and lostitself in the dark depths of a forest. To the north-west the valleyseemed to wander on amidst a labyrinth of sharp hills, which, in thedistance, seemed to grow loftier and more broken as they mergedthemselves into the range Steve believed supported the mysterious Spireof Unaga.

  The point of deepest interest and wonder was that which lay in the heartof the valley less than three miles further on. Numberless small bluffschequered the open and suggested the parentage of one which stood outamongst them, wide, and dark, and lofty. Here there was a long waveringline of low bush reaching out down the heart of the valley indicatingthe course of a river. It was on this river bank, snuggled against thefringe of the great pine bluff that a cluster of dome-roofed habitationswere plainly visible.

  But the wonder of all stood a short distance away to the right where thewoods came down towards the river. It was a wide group of buildings oflateral logs, with log roofs, and surrounded by a stockade of similarmaterial. The touch of the white man's hand was unmistakable. No race ofnorthern Indians or Eskimo could have built such a place.

  They sped on over the snow unconscious of the increase of their speed.And as they approached each man realized the same thought. There was nosign of life anywhere. There was not even a prowling dog to be seensearching amongst the refuse of the encampment.

  As they drew nearer they failed to discover any addition to the solitarytrack they were following. It was curious. It was almost ominous. Butits significance was lost in the thought that here at least was shelterfor themselves against the real winter yet to come.

  They reached the banks of the river. It was a good-sized creek frozensolid, and already deep buried under snow. Without a pause they crossedto the other side and broke their way through the scrubby snow-ladenbush on the opposite bank.

  "Hello!"

  The two men came to an abrupt halt. They were confronting a small childof perhaps five or six years. He was clad in furs from head to foot. Apretty, robust, white-skinned child, wide-eyed, and smiling his franklycordial greeting.