The Walrus Hunters: A Romance of the Realms of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (books to read now .TXT) 📕

held out to him and Nazinred, that an expedition might possibly be sent to establish an outpost and open up the fur trade in their immediate neighbourhood on the Ukon River, Mozwa had made more than one trip to the contemplated scene of operations, after the disappearance of his friend Nazinred, with the view of making himself well acquainted with the land, and ascertaining the best site for the new fort. He did not of course suppose that the pale-faces would be guided entirely by his opinion, but he thought it not unlikely that they might weigh that opinion, and, if acted on at once, much time might be saved during the very brief summer season they had in which to place themselves comfortably in winter quarters before the hard weather should set in.

“You are a wise man, Mozwa,” said MacSweenie, when the Indian had explained his views to him in the united smoke of their pipes and the camp-fire. “Your notion of a place for a fort iss not a bad one, an’ efter I hev had a look round I hev no doubt that I will agree wi’ you that this is the very best site in the neighbourhood. Tell him that, Tonal’, an’ say that I am fery much obleeged to him for all the forethought and trouble he hes taken.”

Whether Donald translated all this as it was delivered we know not. From the peculiar cast of his mind, however, coupled with the moderate depth of his knowledge of the Indian tongue, it is probable that his translation was neither literal nor comprehensive. Indeed, it is not unlikely that his subsequent remark to one of his comrades,—“we told Mozwa it was very good of him to come to meet us, an’ the place would do well enough,”—was more like the sentence to which he had reduced it. But whatever he said Mozwa seemed to be quite pleased with it.

“By the way, Tonal’, ask him about his friend Nazinred.”

The serious way in which the Indian shook his head showed that he had no good news to tell. In a short time he had related all that was known about the sudden departure of his friend.

While Mozwa was thus engaged with the leader of the expedition, their guide Bartong was wandering among the wigwams and making himself agreeable to the natives, who, because of his mixed blood and linguistic powers, regarded him as a half-brother.

“Who is this man Nazinred that our leader is always talking about?” he asked of the old chief while seated in his tent.

“He is one of our chiefs, one of our boldest braves—”

“But not so brave as he looks,” interrupted Magadar, who was present; “he is fonder of peace than of fighting.”

“Foolish man!” exclaimed Bartong, with a smile so peculiar that Magadar did not feel quite sure that his remark was sincere. “But has he not left your tribe? I heard our steersman say something about that.”

“He left us in the winter to seek for his daughter, who was carried off by an Eskimo and has never come back since. We don’t expect to see either of them again.”

Magadar said this with a grave countenance, for, however little he cared for the loss of the father, that of the daughter distressed him a little—not much, however; for could he not console himself with another wife?

Having questioned the old chief a little more on this point, he wandered off into other subjects, and finally left—intending to visit the wife of Nazinred on his way back to camp.

Isquay was sitting beside her niece Idazoo, embroidering a moccasin, when Bartong entered, squatted on a deerskin unceremoniously, and began to fill his pipe.

“What kind of a man is your husband?” asked the guide.

“A good man,” replied Isquay, who was tender-hearted, and could not speak of him without moist eyes. “He was a good hunter. None of the young men could equal him. And he was kind. He always had plenty of things to give me and Adolay.”

“They say he did not love war,” remarked Bartong.

“No; he hated it: but he was brave, and a good fighter—the best in the tribe. None of the young men dared to touch him.”

“Was the young brave Alizay afraid to touch him?” asked the guide, with a sly glance at the younger woman.

At this Idazoo flushed and looked up angrily.

“No,” she said sharply; “Alizay fears nothing.”

Bartong took no notice of the remark, but continued gravely to question the other.

“Was Nazinred very fond of his daughter?” he asked.

“Yes, very.”

“And was the girl fond of him and of you?”

“Yes,” replied the poor woman, beginning to weep gently.

“And she seems to have been very fond of this Eskimo, who, they tell me, saved your life once.”

“She was, but I did not think she would go away with him. It was not like her—she was always so good and biddable, and told me everything.”

“Why did your husband go off alone?”

“I cannot tell. I suppose he knew that none of the young men would go with him, or feared they might lose heart and turn back. No doubt he thought it best to go by himself, for he was very brave; nothing would turn him back!”

A fresh though silent dropping of tears occurred here, and a severe pang of remorse shot through the heart of Idazoo as she thought of her unkind report of what had taken place beside the dead tree under the cliff.

“Don’t cry, Isquay; Nazinred will come back, you may be sure of that,” said the guide, in a confident tone, “and he will bring your little girl along with him, for when a man is good and brave he never fails!”

The brevity of summer near the shores of the Arctic Sea rendered it advisable that no time should be wasted in looking about too particularly for a site for the new trading-post; and as MacSweenie was well pleased with Mozwa’s selection he at once adopted it and set to work.

Deeming it important to open the campaign by putting a good taste in the mouths of his friends the Indians, he began by distributing a few gratuities to them—some coloured beads to the women, and a few lines, fish-hooks, and tobacco to the men. Then he marked out a site for the future dwelling-house and store, got out the tools and set to work to fell, saw, and shape suitable timber for the buildings. He constituted Magadar chief hunter to the establishment, supplied him with a new gun, powder and ball, and sent him off to the woods as proud as, and doubtless much happier than, a king. Mozwa he kept by him, as a counsellor to whom he could appeal in all matters regarding the region and the people, as well as an overseer of those among his countrymen who were hired to render assistance. Alizay was sent off in a canoe—much to the satisfaction of Mowat—for that forgotten keg of screw-nails which had lain so heavy on his mind, and the old chief was supplied with unlimited tobacco, and allowed to wander about at will, under the agreeable impression that he was superintendent-general of the works. Isquay, Idazoo, and some of the other women were furnished with moose-deer skins and needles, and employed to make moccasins for the men, as well as to do all the needful repairs to garments.

Thus the plateau on the banks of the Ukon River presented, during the weeks that followed, a scene of lively bustle and unfamiliar noise to the furred and feathered inhabitants of those vast solitudes, and formed to the Red men a new and memorable era in their monotonous existence.

At last there came a day when the roof of the principal dwelling was completely covered, the doors were fixed up, and the glazed windows fitted in.

“Now, Tonal’,” remarked MacSweenie, on the morning of that auspicious day, “it iss a house-warming that I will be giving to-night, for the Indians will be expectin’ something o’ the sort, so you will be telling the cook to make the biggest lump o’ plum-duff he ever putt his hands to; an’ tell him not to spare the plums. It iss not every day we will be givin’ thiss goot people a blow-out, an’ it iss a matter of great importance, to my thinking, that first impressions should be good ones. It iss the duty of a new broom to sweep clean. If it continues, goot and well, but if it does not begin that way it iss not likely to come to it, whatever. There iss far more than people think in sentiment. If you fail to rouse a sentiment of goot-will, or confidence, or whatever it may be, at a first start-off it iss not easy to rouse it afterwards. Hev ye not noticed that, Tonal’?”

“I can’t say that I have,” answered the interpreter, with a matter-of-fact frown at the ground, “but I have noticed that the pit-saw they was usin’ yesterday has been allowed to saw into the holdin’-irons and damaged half o’—”

“Hoots, man! never mind the pit-saw!” exclaimed MacSweenie, with a touch of asperity. “All the planks we want are sawn, an’ if they were not, surely we could mend—tut, man, I wonder ye can play the fuddle. It always seemed to me that a goot fuddler must be a man of sentiment, but ye are the exception, Tonal’, that proves the rule. Away wi’ you an’ gie my orders to the cook, an’ see that you have the fuddle in goot tune, for we will want it to-night. An’ let him hev plenty of tea, for if we gain the women we’re sure o’ the men.”

Mowat retired with a smile on his broad benignant face. He understood his leader, and was not offended by his plain speaking. Besides, it was not easy to make the interpreter take offence. His spirit was of that happy nature which hopeth all things and believeth all things. It flowed calm and deep like an untroubled river. Nothing short of a knock-down blow would have induced Donald Mowat to take offence, but that would certainly have stirred him, and as he possessed vast physical strength, and was something awful to behold when roused, and his comrades were aware of these facts, the serenity of his life was not often or deeply ruffled.

The cook, who was an enthusiast in his art, did his best, and was eminently successful. His plum-duff dumpling was bigger than any gun—at least of ancient type—could have swallowed, and the plums, as Mowat afterwards said, did not need to seek for each other. He made enough of delightfully greasy cakes to feed an army, and, according to his own statement, infused “lashin’s o’ tea.”

Before the hour for the feast arrived that night, Mowat got out his violin and went into one of the rooms of the new house to put it in order. The window of the room looked towards the back of the house, where the forest was seen just beyond the plateau.

Drawing a bench to the window, he sat down and opened the case. Of course he found the first string broken, but that did not break his heart, for he had a good supply of spare strings, and if these should fail—well, there were plenty of deer-sinews in the land. It was soon put to rights, and, leaning his back against the wall, he began to tickle the strings gently. Whatever he was at other times, there is no doubt that the interpreter was full of genuine sentiment the moment he got the violin under his chin.

Now at that moment three young Dogrib braves chanced to be passing under the window, which was about seven feet from the ground. Though equally young, and no doubt equally brave, as well as equally Dogribbed, those three youths were not equally matched, for one was tall and thin, another was short and thick, while the third was middle-sized and fat. They had been hunting—successfully—for the thick man carried