This simple but animated repast at an end, the Eskimos settled themselves for a deliberate smoke.
Meanwhile the wants of the Chief Factor and party had been cared for by the resourceful Hopkins, and they were glad to be able, at least for a little time, to rest and be thankful. But their respite was of short duration. Fate had chosen that, at that time and place, they should learn of the awful catastrophe at Fort Future and the harrowing news was travelling fast toward them in the person of Acpa, who was on his way with a party of Eskimos in a whaleboat to take charge of the ruins of the Company’s property at Fort Future in compliance with Kasba’s request, and was on the lookout for a suitable spot to put ashore and camp. Perceiving Eskimo tents dotted along the point of land, those in the boat quickly dropped the sail and pulled to the shore.
“Why, it’s Acpa!” declared George Hopkins, greatly astonished, as the old Eskimo stepped out of the boat. “Wonder what he’s doing here,” and with that he strolled down to greet the old fellow, little dreaming what terrible news he would bring back.
CHAPTER XIX.
KASBA’S SACRIFICE.
Meanwhile Roy Thursby dragged out a miserable existence in the little hut on the bank of the river. Day by day his frame of mind grew more and more despondent and morbid. Everything worth while seemed at an end. Except that at certain times there was the sound of his companions’ movements, and at others only a dreadful stillness for long days together, all “Time” was alike to him; to-day the same as yesterday and to-morrow but a repetition of to-day. He was merely a machine, going through the daily routine of getting up and lying down, eating and drinking, with automatic precision, and the outgoings and incomings of the male members of his party marked the period for each of these acts. It was one long, dreary monotony. He had long since lost count of the days. He was conscious that the occupations of his companions varied as the season wore on and that, in consequence, his diet changed from venison to fish, varied with the flesh of migratory birds, but this interested him not at all. He had long lost all pleasure in food—just eating and drinking to keep the machine going, that was all. A pathetic indifference to everything possessed him. He sat for hours without uttering a word, and when he spoke it was always in monosyllables, and an awed, unnatural silence lay over the house from morn till night, for, as if by tacit consent, the three Indians carried their conversation to the outside of the house.
Thus weeks passed. Sahanderry and David hunted or fished and did the heavier chores. Kasba dressed and smoked deerskins to make into moccasins, made and mended the clothes of herself and companions, cooked the meals and attended to a hundred and one other things.
One day the girl brought Roy his dinner as usual. It was a piece of salmon, the first they had caught. Setting the plate before him, she retired to a seat and took up a garment which required mending. Slowly, and with the indifference of a man without an appetite Roy lifted the food to his mouth, turned it on his tongue, sat a moment as if struck by a sudden thought, and then got unsteadily to his feet, dropping the fork as he arose. He stood a moment like one suddenly awakened from a deep sleep, then: “This is salmon,” he said with a slight inflection as of interest in his voice.
At the sound of his words Kasba started forward, letting the garment fall to the ground. Her lips were parted, her eyes sparkled. This sudden interest might portend a break-up in Roy’s apathy, and to the girl it was as the clear sunshine after days of dismal gloom.
“Yes, Bekothrie,” she answered as soon as emotion would permit her to speak. “We caught the first yesterday.”
“Then this is the middle of July,” he said thoughtfully.