Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story

by Mary Hazelton Blanchard Wade

  *CHAPTER IV.*

  _*MAXICA, THE CREE INDIAN.*_

  Wilfred thought his fears were only too well-founded when he saw theIndian lay an arrow on his bow-string and point it towards him. He hadheard that Indians shoot high. Down he flung himself flat on his face,exclaiming, "Spare me! spare me! I'm nothing but a boy."

  The dog growled savagely beside him.

  Despite the crash of the storm the Indian's quick ear had detected thesound of a human voice, and his hand was stayed. He seemed gropingabout him, as if to find the speaker.

  "I am here," shouted Wilfred, "and there is the moose your arrow hasbrought down."

  The Indian pointed to his own swarthy face, saying with a grave dignity,"The day has gone from me. I know it no longer. In the dim, dimtwilight which comes before the night I perceive the movement, but I nolonger see the game. Yet I shoot, for the blind man must eat."

  Wilfred turned upon his side, immensely comforted to hear himselfanswered in such intelligent English. He crawled a little nearer to thewild red man, and surveyed him earnestly as he tried to explain thedisaster which had left him helpless in so desolate a spot. He knew hewas in the hunting-grounds of the Crees, one of the most friendly of theIndian tribes. His being there gave no offence to the blind archer, forthe Indians hold the earth is free to all.

  The chief was wholly intent upon securing the moose Wilfred had told himhis arrow had brought down.

  "I have missed the running stream," he went on. "I felt the willowleaves, but the bed by which they are growing is a grassy slope."

  "How could you know it?" asked Wilfred, in astonishment.

  The Indian picked up a stone and threw it over the bank. "Listen," hesaid; "no splash, no gurgle, no water there." He stumbled against thefallen deer, and stooping down, felt it all over with evident rejoicing.

  He had been medicine man and interpreter for his tribe before theblindness to which the Indians are so subject had overwhelmed him. Itarises from the long Canadian winter, the dazzling whiteness of thefrozen snow, over which they roam for three parts of the year, whichthey only exchange for the choking smoke that usually fills theirchimneyless wig-wams.

  The Cree was thinking now how best to secure his prize. He carefullygathered together the dry branches the storm was breaking and tearingaway in every direction, and carefully covered it over. Then he tookhis axe from his belt and cut a gash in the bark of the nearest tree tomark the spot.

  Wilfred sat watching every movement with a nervous excitement, whichhelped to keep his blood from freezing and his heart from failing.

  The dog was walking cautiously round and round whilst this work wasgoing forward.

  The Cree turned to Wilfred.

  "You are a boy of the Moka-manas?" (big knives, an Indian name for thewhite men).

  "Yes," answered Wilfred.

  When the _cache_, as the Canadians call such a place as the Indian wasmaking, was finished, the darkness of night had fallen. Poor Wilfredsat clapping his hands, rubbing his knees, and hugging the dog to keephimself from freezing altogether. He could scarcely tell what hiscompanion was about, but he heard the breaking of sticks and a steadysound of chopping and clearing. Suddenly a bright flame shot up in themurky midnight, and Wilfred saw before him a well-built pyramid of logsand branches, through which the fire was leaping and running until thewhole mass became one steady blaze. Around the glowing heap the Indianhad cleared away the thick carpet of pine brush and rubbish, banking itup in a circle as a defence from the cutting wind.

  He invited Wilfred to join him, as he seated himself in front of theglowing fire, wrapped his bearskin round him, and lit his pipe.

  The whole scene around them was changed as if by magic. The freezingchill, the unutterable loneliness had vanished. The ruddy light of thefire played and flickered among the shadowy trees, casting brightreflections of distorted forms along the whitening ground, and lightingup the cloudy sky with a radiance that must have been visible for miles.Wilfred was not slow in making his way into the charmed circle. He gotover the ground like a worm, wriggling himself along until his feet wereover the bank, and down he dropped in front of the glorious fire. Hecoiled himself round with a sense of exquisite enjoyment, stretching hisstiffened limbs and spreading his hands to the glowing warmth, andaltogether behaving in as senseless a fashion as the big doggie himself.He had waited for no invitation, bounding up to Wilfred in extravagantdelight, and now lay rolling over and over before the fire, givingsharp, short barks of delight at the unexpected pleasure.

  It was bliss, it was ecstasy, it was paradise, that sudden change fromthe bleak, dark, shivering night to the invigorating warmth and thecheery glow.

  The Cree sat back in dreamy silence, sending great whiffs of smoke fromthe carved red-stone bowl of his long pipe, and watching the dog and theboy at play. Their presence in noways detracted from his Indian comfort,for the puppy and the pappoose are the Cree's delight by his wigwamfire.

  Hunger and thirst were almost forgotten, until Wilfred remembered hispotato, and began to busy himself with roasting it in the ashes. Butthe dog, mistaking his purpose, and considering it a most inappropriategift to the fire, rolled it out again before it was half roasted, andmunched it up with great gusto.

  "There's a shame! you bad old greedy boy," exclaimed Wilfred, when hefound out what the dog was eating. "Well," he philosophised, determinedto make the best of what could not now be helped, "I had a breakfast,and you--why, you look as if you had had neither breakfast, dinner, norsupper for many a long day. How have you existed?"

  But this question was answered before the night was out. The potato washot, and the impatient dog burned his lips. After sundry shakings andrubbings of his nose in the earth, the sagacious old fellow jumped upthe bank and ran off. When he returned, his tongue touched damp andcool, and there were great drops of water hanging in his hair. Upsprang the thirsty Wilfred to search for the spring. The Cree wasnodding; but the boy had no fear of losing himself, with that gloriousfire-shine shedding its radiance far and wide through the lonely night.He called the dog to follow him, and groped along the edge of thedried-up watercourse, sometimes on all fours, sometimes trying to take astep. Painful as it was, he was satisfied his foot was none the worsefor a little movement. His effort was rewarded. He caught the echo of atrickling sound from a corner of rock jutting out of the stunted bushes.The dog, which seemed now to guess the object of his search, led him upto a breakage in the lichen-covered stone, through which a bubblingspring dashed its warm spray into their faces. Yes, it was warm; andwhen Wilfred stooped to catch the longed-for water in his hands, it waswarm to his lips, with a strong disagreeable taste. No matter, it waswater; it was life. It was more than simple water; he had lighted on asulphur spring. Wilfred drank eagerly as he felt its tonic effectsfortifying him against the benumbing cold. For the wind seemed cuttingthe skin from his face, and the snowflakes driving before the blast werechanging the dog from black to white.

  Much elated with his discovery, Wilfred returned to the fire, where theCree still sat in statue-like repose.

  "He is fast asleep," thought Wilfred, as he got down again asnoiselessly as he could; but the Indian's sleep was like the sleep ofthe wild animal. Hearing was scarcely closed. He opened one eye,comprehended that it was Wilfred returning, and shut it, undisturbed bythe whirling snow. Wilfred set up two great pieces of bark like apenthouse over his head, and coaxed the dog to nestle by his side.Sucking the tip of his beaver-skin gloves to still the craving for hissupper, he too fell asleep, to awake shivering in the gray of the dawnto a changing world. Everywhere around him there was one vast dazzlingwhirl of driving sleet and dancing snow. The fire had become asmouldering pile, emitting a fitful visionary glow. On every side dimuncertain shapes loomed through the whitened atmosphere. A scene soweird and wild struck a chill to his heart. The dog moved by Wilfred'sside, and threw off something of the damp, cold weight that wasoppre
ssing him. He sat upright.

  Maxica, or Crow's Foot--for that was the Cree's name--was groping roundand round the circle, pulling out pieces of dead wood from under thesnow to replenish the dying fire. But he only succeeded in making ithiss and crackle and send up volumes of choking smoke, instead of thecheery flames of last night.

  Between the dark, suffocating cloud which hovered over the fire and thewhite whirling maze beyond it, Maxica, with his failing sight, wascompletely bewildered. All tracks were long since buried and lost. Itwas equally impossible to find the footprints of Wilfred's huntingparty, or to follow his own trail back to the birch-bark canoe which hadbeen his home during the brief, bright summer. He folded his arms inhopeless, stony despair.

  "We are in for a two days' snow," he said; "if the fire fails us andrefuses to burn, we are as good as lost."

  The dog leaped out of the sunken circle, half-strangled with the smoke,and Wilfred was coughing. One thought possessed them both, to get backto the water. Snow or no snow, the dog would find it. The Cree yieldedto Wilfred's entreaty not to part company.

  "I'll be eyes for both," urged the boy, "if you will only hold my hand."

  Maxica replied by catching him round the waist and carrying him underone arm. They were soon at the spring. It was gushing and bubblingthrough the snow which surrounded it, hot and stinging as before. Thedog was lapping at the little rill ere it lost itself in theall-shrouding snow.

  In another minute Wilfred and the Cree were bending down beside it.Wilfred was guiding the rough, red hand to the right spot; and as Maxicadrank, he snatched a drop for himself.

  To linger beside it seemed to Wilfred their wisest course, but Maxicaknew the snow was falling so thick and fast they should soon be buriedbeneath it. The dog, however, did not share in their perplexity.Perhaps, like Maxica, he knew they must keep moving, for he dashedthrough the pathless waste, barking loudly to Wilfred to follow.

  The snow was now a foot deep, at least, on the highest ground, andWilfred could no longer make his way through it. Maxica had to lift himout of it again and again. At last he took him on his back, and fromthis unwonted elevation Wilfred commanded a better outlook. The dog wassome way in advance, making short bounds across the snow and leaving asuccession of holes behind him. He at least appeared to know where hewas going, for he kept as straight a course as if he were following somebeaten path.

  But Maxica knew well no such path existed. Every now and then theypaused at one of the holes their pioneer had made, to recover breath.

  "How long will this go on?" thought Wilfred. "If Maxica tires and laysme down my fate is sealed."

  He began to long for another draught of the warm, sulphurous water. Butthe faint hope they both entertained, that the dog might be leading themto some camping spot of hunter or Indian, made them afraid to turn back.

  It was past the middle of the day when Wilfred perceived a round darkspot rising out of the snow, towards which the dog was hurrying. Thesnow beat full in their faces, but with the eddying gusts which almostswept them off their feet the Cree's keen sense of smell detected awhiff of smoke. This urged him on. Another and a surer sign of help athand--the dog had vanished. Yet Maxica was sure he could hear himbarking wildly in the distance. But Wilfred could no longer distinguishthe round dark spot towards which they had been hastening. Maxica stoodstill in calm and proud despair. It was as impossible now to go, backto the _cache_ of game and the sulphur spring as it was to force his wayonward. They had reached a snow-drift. The soft yielding wall of whitethrough which he was striding grew higher and higher.

  In vain did Wilfred's eyes wander from one side to the other. As far ashe could see the snow lay round them, one wide, white, level sheet, inwhich the Cree was standing elbow-deep. Were they, indeed, beyond thereach of human aid?

  Wilfred was silent, hushed; but it was the hush of secret prayer.

  Suddenly Maxica exclaimed, "Can the Good Spirit the white men talk of,can he hear us? Will he show us the path?"

  Such a question from such wild lips, at such an hour, how strangely itstruck on Wilfred's ear. He had scarcely voice enough left to makehimself heard, for the storm was raging round them more fiercely thanever.

  "I was thinking of him, Maxica. While we are yet speaking, will hehear?"

  Wilfred's words were cut short, for Maxica had caught his foot againstsomething buried in the snow, and stumbled. Wilfred was thrown forward.The ground seemed giving way beneath him. He was tumbled through theroof of the little birch-bark hut, which they had been wandering roundand round without knowing it. Wilfred was only aware of a faint glimmerof light through a column of curling, blinding smoke. He thought hemust be descending a chimney, but his outstretched hands were alreadytouching the ground, and he wondered more and more where he could havealighted. Not so Maxica. He had grasped the firm pole supporting thefragile birch-bark walls, through which Wilfred had forced his way. Onetouch was sufficient to convince him they had groped their way to anIndian hut. The column of smoke rushing through the hole Wilfred hadmade in his most lucky tumble told the Cree of warmth and shelterwithin.

  There was a scream from a feeble woman's voice, but the exclamation wasin the rich, musical dialect of the Blackfeet, the hereditary enemies ofhis tribe. In the blind warrior's mind it was a better thing to hidehimself beneath the snow and freeze to death, than submit to thescalping-knife of a hated foe.

  Out popped Wilfred's head to assure him there was only a poor old womaninside, but she had got a fire.

  The latter half of his confidences had been already made plain by thedense smoke, which was producing such a state of strangulation Wilfredcould say no more.

  But the hut was clearing; Maxica once more grasped the nearest pole, andswung himself down.

  A few words with the terrified squaw were enough for the Cree, who knewso well the habits of their wandering race. The poor old creature hadprobably journeyed many hundreds of miles, roaming over their widehunting-grounds, until she had sunk by the way, too exhausted to proceedany further. Then her people had built her this little hut, lit a firein the hastily-piled circle of stones in the middle of it, heaped up thedry wood on one side to feed it, placed food and water on the other, andleft her lying on her blankets to die alone. It was the custom of thewild, wandering tribes. She had accepted her fate with Indianresignation, simply saying that her hour had come. But the rest she somuch needed had restored her failing powers, and whilst her stock offood lasted she was getting better. They had found her gatheringtogether the last handful of sticks to make up the fire once more, andthen she would lie down before it and starve. Every Indian knows whatstarvation means, and few can bear it as well. Living as they doentirely by the chase, the feast which follows the successful hunt istoo often succeeded by a lengthy fast. Her shaking hands were gatheringup the lumps of snow which had come down on the pieces of the brokenroof, to fill her empty kettle.

  Wilfred picked up the bits of bark to which it had been sticking, andthrew them on the fire.

  "My bow and quiver for a few old shreds of beaver-skin, and we aresaved," groaned the Cree, who knew that all his garments were made fromthe deer. He felt the hem of the old squaw's tattered robe, but beaverthere was none.

  "What do you want it for, Maxica?" asked Wilfred, as he pulled off hisgloves and offered them to him. "There is nothing about me that I wouldnot give you, and be only too delighted to have got it to give, when Ithink how you carried me through the snowdrift. These are newbeaver-skin; take them, Maxica."

  A smile lit up the chief's dark face as he carefully felt the profferedgloves, and to make assurance doubly sure added taste to touch. Then hebegan to tear them into shreds, which he directed Wilfred to drop intothe melting snow in the kettle, explaining to him as well as he couldthat there was an oiliness in the beaver-skin which never quite driedout of it, and would boil down into a sort of soup.

  "A kind of coarse isinglass, I should say," put in Wilfred. But theCree knew nothing o
f isinglass and its nourishing qualities; yet he knewthe good of the beaver-skin when other food had failed. It was awonderful discovery to Wilfred, to think his gloves could provide themall with a dinner; but they required some long hours' boiling, and thefire was dying down again for want of fuel. Maxica ventured out tosearch for driftwood under the snow. He carefully drew out a pole fromthe structure of the hut, and using it as an alpenstock, swung himselfout of the hollow in which the hut had been built for shelter, and wherethe snow had accumulated to such a depth that it was completely buried.

  Whilst he was gone Wilfred and the squaw were beside the fire, sittingon the ground face to face, regarding each other attentively.