Lost in the Wilds: A Canadian Story

by Mary Hazelton Blanchard Wade

  *CHAPTER V.*

  _*IN THE BIRCH-BARK HUT.*_

  The squaw was a very ugly woman; starvation and old age combined hadmade her perfectly hideous. As Wilfred sat in silence watching thesimmering kettle, he thought she was the ugliest creature he had everseen. Her complexion was a dark red-brown. Her glittering black eyesseemed to glare on him in the darkness of the hut like a cat's. Hershrivelled lips showed a row of formidably long teeth, which madeWilfred think of Little Red Ridinghood's grandmother, and he hoped shewould not pounce on him and devour him before Maxica returned.

  He wronged her shamefully, for she had been watching his limpingmovements with genuine pity. What did it matter that her gown was scantand short, or that her leggings, which had once been of bright-colouredcloth, curiously worked with beads, were reduced by time to a sort ofno-colour and the tracery upon them to a dirty line? They hid a good,kind heart.

  She loosened the English handkerchief tied over her head, and the long,raven locks, now streaked with white, fell over her shoulders.

  She was a wild-looking being, but her awakening glance of alertness neednot have alarmed Wilfred, for she was only intent upon dipping him a cupof water from the steaming kettle. She was careful to taste it and coolit with a little of the snow still driving through the hole in the roof,until she made it the right degree of heat that was safest for Wilfredin his starving, freezing condition.

  "What would Aunt Miriam think if she could see me now?" mused the boy,as he fixed his eyes on the dying embers and turned away from thesteaming cup he longed to snatch at.

  Yet when the squaw held it towards him, he put it back with a smile,resolutely repeating "After you," for was she not a woman?

  He made her drink. A little greasy water, oh! how nice! Then herefilled the cup and took his share.

  The tottering creature smoothed the blanket from which she had risen onWilfred's summary entrance, and motioned to him to lie down.

  "It will be all glove with us now," laughed Wilfred to himself--"handand glove with the Red Indians. If any one whispered that in uncle'sear, wouldn't he think me a queer fish! But I owe my life to Maxica,and I know it."

  He threw himself down on the blanket, glad indeed of the rest for hisswollen ankle. From this lowly bed he fell to contemplating histemporary refuge. It looked so very temporary, especially the side fromwhich Maxica had abstracted his alpenstock, Wilfred began to fear thenext disaster would be its downfall. He was dozing, when a sudden noisemade him start up, in the full belief the catastrophe he had dreaded hadarrived; but it was only Maxica dropping the firewood he had withdifficulty collected through the hole in the roof.

  He called out to Wilfred that he had discovered his atim digging in thesnow at some distance.

  What his atim might prove to be Wilfred could not imagine. He waschoosing a stick from the heap of firewood. Balancing himself on onefoot, he popped his head through the hole to reconnoitre. He fancied hetoo could see a moving speck in the distance.

  "The dog!" he cried joyfully, giving a long, shrill whistle that broughtit bounding over the crisping snow towards him with a ptarmigan in itsmouth.

  After much coaxing, Wilfred induced the dog to lay the bird down, to lapthe melting snow which was filling the hollows in the floor with littlepuddles.

  The squaw pounced upon the bird as a welcome addition to the beaver-skinsoup. Where had the dog found it? He had not killed it, that wasclear, for it was frozen hard. Yet it had not been frozen to death. Thequick Indian perception of the squaw pointed to the bite on its breast.It was not the tooth of a dog, but the sharp beak of some bird of preywhich had killed it. The atim had found the _cache_ of a great whiteowl; a provident bird, which, when once its hunger is satisfied, storesthe remainder of its prey in some handy crevice.

  The snow had ceased to fall. The moon was rising. The thick whitecarpet which covered all around was hardening under the touch of thecoming frost.

  Another cup from the half-made soup, and Maxica proposed to start withWilfred to search for the supposed store. The dog was no longer hungry.It had stretched itself on the ground at Wilfred's feet for acomfortable slumber.

  An Indian never stops for pain or illness. With the grasp of death uponhim, he will follow the war-path or the hunting track, so that Maxicapaid no regard to Wilfred's swollen foot. If the boy could not walk,his shoulder was ready, but go he must; the atim would lead his ownmaster to the spot, but it would never show it to a stranger.

  Wilfred glanced up quickly, and then looked down with a nod to himself.It would not do to make much of his hurt in such company. Well, he hadadded a word to his limited stock of Indian. "Atim" was Cree for dog,that at least was clear; and they had added the atim to his slenderpossessions. They thought the dog was his own, and why should not headopt him? They were both lost, they might as well be chums.

  This conclusion arrived at, Wilfred caught up the wing of the ptarmigan,and showing it to the dog did his best to incite him to find another.He caught sight of a long strip of moose-skin which had evidently tiedup the squaw's blanket on her journey. He persuaded her to lend it tohim, making more use of signs than of words.

  "Ugh! ugh!" she replied, and her "yes" was as intelligible to Wilfred asDiome's "caween." He soon found that "yes" and "no" alone can go a goodway in making our wants understood by any one as naturally quick andobservant as an Indian.

  The squaw saw what Wilfred was trying to do, and helped him, feeble asshe was, to make a sling for his foot. With the stick in his hand, whenthis was accomplished, he managed to hobble after Maxica and the dog.

  The Cree went first, treading down a path, and partially clearing theway before him with his pole. But a disappointment awaited them. Thedog led them intelligently enough to the very spot where it hadunquestionably found a most abundant dinner, by the bones and feathersstill sticking in the snow. Maxica, guided by his long experience, feltabout him until he found two rats, still wedged in a hole in a decayingtree which had gone down before the gale. But he would not take them,for fear the owl might abandon her reserve.

  "The otowuck-oho," said Maxica, mimicking the cry of the formidablebird, "will fill it again before the dawn. Wait and watch. Maxica havethe otowuck himself. See!"

  With all the skill of the Indian at constructing traps, he began hiswork, intending to catch the feathered Nimrod by one leg the next timeit visited its larder, when all in a moment an alarm was sounded--a crythat rent the air, so hoarse, so hollow, and so solemn Wilfred clung tohis guide in the chill of fear. It was a call that might have roused toaction a whole garrison of soldiers. The Indian drew back. Again thatdread "Waugh O!" rang out, and then the breathless silence whichfollowed was broken by half-suppressed screams, as of some onesuffocating in the throttling grasp of an enemy.

  The dog, with his tail between his legs, crouched cowering at theirfeet.

  "The Blackfeet are upon us," whispered the Cree, with his hand on hisbow, when a moving shadow became visible above the distant pine trees.

  The Cree breathed freely, and drew aside his half-made trap, abandonedat the first word that broke from Wilfred's lips: "It is not human; itis coming through the air."

  "It is the otowuck itself," answered Maxica. "Be off, or it will haveour eyes out if it finds us near its roost."

  He was looking round him for some place of concealment. On came thedreaded creature, sailing in rapid silence towards its favourite haunt,gliding with outstretched pinions over the glistening snow, its greatround eyes flashing like stars, or gleams of angry lightning, as itswept the whitened earth, shooting downwards to strike at some furryprey, then rising as suddenly in the clear, calm night, until it floatedlike a fleecy cloud above their heads, as ready to swoop upon thesparrow nestling on its tiny twig as upon the wild turkey-hen roostingamong the stunted bushes.

  Maxica trembled for the dog, for he knew the special hatred with whichit regarded dogs. If it recognized the thief at i
ts hoard, its doom wassealed.

  Maxica pushed his alpenstock into an empty badger hole big enough forthe boy and dog to creep into. Then, as the owl drew near, he sent anarrow whizzing through the air. It was aimed at the big white breast,but the unerring precision of other days was over. It struck thefeathery wing. The bird soared aloft unharmed, and the archer,crouching in the snow, barely escaped its vengeance. Down it pounced,striking its talons in his shoulder, as he turned his back towards it toprotect his face. Wilfred sprang out of the friendly burrow, snatchedthe pole from Maxica's hand, and beat off the owl; and the dog, unableto rush past Wilfred, barked furiously. The onslaught and the noisewere at least distasteful. Hissing fiercely, with the horn-like feathersabove its glaring eyes erect and bristling, the bird spread its giganticwings, wheeling slowly and gracefully above their ambush; for Wilfredhad retreated as quickly as he had emerged, and Maxica lay on his faceas still as death. More attractive game presented itself. A hawk flewpast. What hawk could resist the pleasure of a passing pounce? Awaywent the two, chasing and fighting, across the snowy waste.

  Wilfred sprang and beat off the owl.]

  When the owl was out of sight, the Cree rose to his feet to complete thesnare. Wilfred crept out of his burrow, to find his fingers as hard andwhite and useless as if they had turned to stone. He had kept hisgloveless hands well cuddled up in the long sleeves of his coat duringthe walk, but their exposure to the cold when he struck at the owl hadchanged them to a lump of ice.

  Maxica heard the exclamation, "Oh, my hands! my hands!" and seizing agreat lump of snow began to rub them vigorously.

  The return to the hut was easier than the outgoing, for the snow washarder. The pain in Wilfred's fingers was turning him sick and faint asthey reached the hut a little past midnight.

  The gloves were reduced to jelly, but the state of Wilfred's handstroubled the old squaw. She had had her supper from the beaver-skinsoup, but was quite ready, Indian fashion, to begin again.

  The three seated themselves on the floor, and the cup was passed fromone to the other, until the whole of the soup was drank.

  The walk had been fruitless, as Wilfred said. They had returned withnothing but the key of the big owl's larder, which, after such anencounter, it would probably desert.

  The Cree lit his pipe, the squaw lay down to sleep, and Wilfred talkedto his dog.

  "Do you understand our bargain, old fellow?" he asked. "You and I aregoing to chum together. Now it is clear I must give you a name. Let ussee which you will like best."

  Wilfred ran through a somewhat lengthy list, for nowhere but in Canadaare dogs accommodated with such an endless variety. There are names inconstant use from every Indian dialect, but of the Atims and theChistlis the big, old fellow took no heed. He sat up before his newmaster, looking very sagacious, as if he quite entered into theimportant business of choosing a name. But clearly Indian would not do.even Mist-atim, which Wilfred could now interpret as "big dog,"--a namethe Cree usually bestows upon his horse,--was heard with a contemptuous"Ach!" Chistli, "seven dogs" in the Sircie dialect, which appeared toWilfred highly complimentary to his furry friend, met with norecognition. Then he went over the Spankers and Ponys and Boxers, towhich the numerous hauling dogs so often responded. No better success.The pricked ears were more erect than ever. The head was turned away inpositive indifference.

  "Are you a Frenchman?" asked Wilfred, going over all the old Frenchnames he could remember. Diome thought the dogs had a special partialityfor French. It would not do, however. This particular dog might hateit. There were Yankee names in plenty from over the border, and uncouthsounding Esquimau from the far north.

  Wilfred began to question if his dog had ever had a name, when Yulacaught his ear, and "Yula chummie" brought the big shaggy head rubbingon Wilfred's knee. Few dogs are honoured with the choice of their ownname, but it answered, and "Yula chummie" was adhered to by boy and dog.

  This weighty matter settled, Wilfred was startled to see Maxica rousehimself up with a shake, and look to the man-hole, as the Cree calledtheir place of exit. He was going. Wilfred sprang up in alarm.

  "Don't leave me!" he entreated. "How shall I ever find my way homewithout you?"

  It might be four o'clock, for the east was not yet gray, and the morningstars shone brightly on the glistening snow. Maxica paused, regardingearth and sky attentively, until he had ascertained the way of the wind.It was still blowing from the north-east. More snow was surely coming.His care was for his canoe, which he had left in safe mooring by theriver bank. No one but an Indian could have hoped, in his forlorncondition, to have recovered the lost path to the running stream. Hisone idea was to grope about until he did find it, with the wonderfulpersistency of his race. The Indian rarely fails in anything he setshis mind to accomplish. But to take the lame boy with him was out ofthe question. He might have many miles to traverse before he reachedthe spot. He tried to explain to Wilfred that he must now pack up hiscanoe for the winter. He was going to turn it keel upwards, among thebranches of some strong tree, and cover it with boughs, until the springof the leaf came round again.

  "Will it be safe?" asked Wilfred.

  "Safe! perfectly."

  Maxica's own particular mark was on boat and paddle. No Indian, nohunter would touch it. Who else was there in that wide, lone land? Asfor Wilfred, his own people would come and look for him, now the stormwas over.

  "I am not so sure of that," said the poor boy sadly, rememberingBowkett's words.--"My aunt Miriam did not take to me. She may nottrouble herself about me. How could I be so stupid as to set heragainst me," he was thinking, "all for nothing?"

  "Then," urged Maxica, "stay here with the Far-off-Dawn"--for that wasthe old squaw's name. In his Indian tongue he called her Pe-na-Koam."Will not the Good Spirit take care of you? Did not he guide us out ofthe snowdrift?"

  Wilfred was silenced. "I never did think much of myself," he said atlast, "but I believe I grow worse and worse. How is it that I know anddon't know--that I cannot realize this love that never will forsake;always more ready to hear than we to ask? If I could but feel it true,all true for me, I should not be afraid."

  Under that longing the trust was growing stronger and stronger in hisheart.

  "I shall come again for the moose," said Maxica, as he shook the red andaching fingers which just peeped out from Wilfred's long sleeve; and sohe left him.

  The boy watched the Indian's lithe figure striding across the snow,until he could see him no longer. Then a cold, dreary feeling crept overhim. Was he abandoned by all the world--forgotten--disliked? Did nobodycare for him? He tucked his hands into the warm fur which folded overhis breast, and tried to throw off the fear. The tears gushed from hiseyes. Well, there was nobody to see.

  He had forgotten Yula. Those unwonted raindrops had brought him,wondering and troubled, to Wilfred's side. A big head was poking itsway under his arm, and two strong paws were brushing at his knee. Yulawas saying, "Don't, don't cry," in every variety of doggie language.Never had he been so loving, so comforting, so warm to hug, so quick tounderstand. He was doing his best to melt the heavy heart's lead thatwas weighing poor Wilfred down.

  He built up the fire, and knelt before it, with Yula's head on hisshoulder; for the cold grew sharper in the gray of the dawn. The squaw,now the pangs of hunger were so far appeased, was sleeping heavily. Butthere was no sleep for Wilfred. As the daylight grew stronger he wentagain to his look-out. His thoughts were turning to Forgill. He hadseen so much more of Forgill than of any one else at his uncle's, and hehad been so careful over him on the journey. It was wrong to think theywould all forget him. He would trust and hope.

  He filled the kettle with fresh snow, and put it on to boil.

  The sun was streaming through the hole in the roof when the squaw awoke,like another creature, but not in the least surprised to find Maxica haddeparted. She seemed thankful to see the fire still burning, and pouredout her gratitude to Wilfred. Her sm
iles and gestures gave the meaningof the words he did not understand.

  Then he asked himself, "What would have become of her if he too had goneaway with Maxica?"

  She looked pityingly at Wilfred's unfortunate fingers as he offered hera cup of hot water, their sole breakfast. But they could not live onhot water. Where was the daily bread to come from for them both?Pe-na-Koam was making signs. Could Wilfred set a trap? Alas! he knewnothing of the Indian traps and snares. He sent out Yula to forage forhimself, hoping he might bring them back a bird, as he had done thenight before. Wilfred lingered by the hole in the roof, watching himdashing through the snow, and casting many a wistful glance to thefar-away south, almost expecting to see Forgill's fur cap and broadcapote advancing towards him; for help would surely come. But there arethe slow, still hours, as well as the sudden bursts of storm andsunshine. All have their share in the making of a brave and constantspirit. God's time is not our time, as Wilfred had yet to learn.