Kasba (White Partridge): A Story of Hudson Bay

by George R. Ray

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the other. “Is that possible?”

“Yes. The greater part of the flesh below the shaganappi is off already.”

“How ghastly!” said the trader, with a slight shudder. “But the boy?”

“Oh, he’s lively enough.”

“Well, well! we live and learn,” said Thursby. “What would a doctor say of such primitive surgery?” he wondered. “But there, I won’t keep you any longer,” he added.

The old man got to his feet instantly. With a cheerful “Good-night, sir,” he left the room. Outside he was joined by Minnihak, and the two proceeded to Delgezie’s hut together. On the way they met an Eskimo woman, whom they passed with a slight greeting.

With characteristic curiosity she turned and watched them. She was a “runner.” A band of Eskimo had found it impossible to reach the post that day and had sent her on in advance to get the usual gratuity of tee-pli-tow (tobacco) and carry it back to them.

The old Chipewyan’s face brightened when he approached his humble home, where a pale light welcomed him from the window. He lifted the catch softly, while a look of pleased anticipation stole over his face, for was he not to see his only child whom he loved better than anything on all God’s earth? He had been away from her many days—long, weary days, haunted by the fearful dread that he might return to find her gone, as her mother had gone years before. For there was a tragedy in the old man’s life. Leaving his wife in the best of health, he had gone on a trip to an Indian encampment, and had returned to find her dead and buried. She had died of some contagious disease. This was a terrible blow to him, for he loved her fondly. He had shortly before embraced the Christian faith, and this great affliction—this taking away of all he loved best on earth—tried the simple-hearted man sorely. It seemed monstrously unjust. He probably could not have put his feelings into words, but that was what he felt. It was hard for him to believe in a God who could do this thing—a God whom the missionary invariably presented as a “God of love.” What had he done to deserve such misery? All that was just and righteous in the gentle-minded man rose up in revolt. And was this to be wondered at? How many of us so-called highly-civilized people have not at some time or other questioned the wisdom of God with infinitely less cause? Well, then, may we sympathize with this poor, uneducated, half-pagan Indian. The bereaved man’s grief was terrible to witness. For days he sat disconsolate and desolate, moaning to himself, and neither eating nor sleeping. When the missionary called to comfort him, he rose slowly to his feet and in a voice that cut the preacher to the heart cried: “My wife, where is she?” Then with a sweep of the arm to take in the whole of his tribe, he asked: “Was there no other woman your God could take?” The missionary, greatly distressed, felt that the kindest thing he could do was to go away. Time passed on and the poor fellow again took up his accustomed duties. But he was never afterwards the same man. He never forgot his dead wife and secretly and sincerely mourned her all the rest of his days. He never took another, but showered all the love of his bruised heart upon his orphaned child, and never left the Fort without an overwhelming fear that something might happen to his treasure while he was away. But he was home again now and all was well. The com-it-uk had claimed most of his attention when he had driven up to the Fort, but his eyes nevertheless sought eagerly for Kasba, whom he discovered standing meekly in the background after her wont, ready to carry his “bag” to the house. They had not yet spoken, for Kasba never intruded herself when Bekothrie was nigh. She knew her father’s work came first. But she was inside the house, he well knew, to welcome him; and never did a lover’s heart flutter and throb as did the heart of this poor old home-coming Indian father.

True to his expectations, his daughter was waiting for him within. She was standing by the stove. Instantly the girl’s face glowed with pleasure, and with a little cry of delight she flew to him and, encircling his neck with her arms, drew his face down on a level with her own, and gazed searchingly into it for a moment, as if to see whether he had taken any harm during his long absence. The old man gave a short, contented laugh, then his feelings welled up within him and tears of joy gleamed in his eyes. Reluctantly putting her from him, he took off his out-door garments while Kasba greeted the Eskimo and flew back to the stove, on which a pot was boiling merrily. A savory smell filled the room but the old man remarked it not. His eyes were following his daughter’s movements with the wistful gaze of loving solicitude. He paused in the act of drying his hands on a coarse towel to smile whenever his eyes caught hers in her flittings. His ablutions completed, Kasba helped him into his jacket. Then, taking him by the shoulder she playfully forced him to a seat. The Eskimo seated himself at the table at a gesture from Kasba, and soon food was set before the men. Hardly a word was exchanged between them, and in a marvellously short space of time they had finished supper and were feeling for their pipes. Fumbling in one pocket after another, Delgezie pulled out pipe, knife and a plug of nigger-head from profound depths. Then he proceeded to cut up enough of the tobacco to fill his pipe. Minnihak produced his pu-lu-yet-ti (pipe) from his fire-bag and with scrupulous carefulness filled its little black bowl with a mixture of tobacco and a particular kind of weed which grows among the rocks in the vicinity.

This pu-lu-yet-ti had been fashioned from soft stone and ornamented with little brass bands in a manner and after a pattern peculiar to the Eskimo. The stem was of wood and frequently renewed. But the old stems were never thrown away; they were hoarded up against a tobacco famine when they would be cut up very fine and smoked.