“Savage are they, then?” said McBain. “Not a bit of it!” replied Seth; “they were going to kill them for fun, that was all!”
“Troth?” says Rory, “they must have a drop of the rale ould Oirish blood in them, these same Yacks?”
“They ain’t Yacks quite, though,” says Seth, “though I calls ’em so; they ain’t so indolent as a Yack; they are bigger, too, and a deal more treacherous.”
“Did they kill the poor fellows?” asked McBain. “Not a bit of it!” Seth replied. “Nary a one o’ them. Seth interceded. Though I say it,” continued the trapper, “as mebbe shouldn’t say it, and wouldn’t say it if there was anybody else to say it for me, Seth had some little influence with these wily blueskins—it ain’t red that they be, mind you, but blue. They’ll never forget the first taste of my temper they had. Plunket’s mother were livin’ then, and a fine dog she was, and so was Plunket himself, although not much more’n a year old. The old lady was left to keep the house one day, and Plunket and I went to look for caribou. When we returns in the evening I could tell at a glance the Injuns had been on to us. Everything was upside down; everything was taken away they could carry, and poor Ino was lying wounded and bleeding in a corner; the scoundrels had tomahawked her. You should have seen the way Plunket set his back up and ran round and round the place. But his turn didn’t come then for a bit. We just kept quiet for a few weeks, and nursed Ino back to life. We knew they’d return, and they did. Lying awake I was one morning, when I hears Plunket give a low growl. I knew something was up, so I kept the dogs still and waited to see what the next move would be. Half-an-hour and more passed, then a great brown bare arm stole in through the hole in the door-top; in the hand was a knife, which was moved across the leathern hinges. Gentlemen, Plunket had a mouthful of that arm ere ever you’d say ‘axe’! ‘Hold on, Plunket!’ I cried, and the good dog didn’t need two biddings, I can tell you; he stuck to his prisoner like grim Death to a dead nigger, until, with a bar and a rope, I had made sure the arm couldn’t be withdrawn. Well, you should have heard the yell that blueskin gave. But a louder yell than his rang all around the hut next minute, and I knew then, gentlemen, it was to be war to the knife-hilt. My windows are small, but the walls are strong, and I was safe enough for a bit. I fired through each shutter as a kind of warning to ’em; then I crept upstairs to the little garret and prepared to give them pepper! Fifteen I could count in all, armed with tomahawks and spears; fifteen, and Plunket’s prisoner. Sixteen in all, and only three of us! No use their trying to get in in an ordinary way, they soon gave up that game, and drew off and held a council. I didn’t want to begin the game of killing, gentlemen, or now I could have had three with one bullet. The conclusion they came to was to burn this old trapper out. But you see, gentlemen, this old trapper didn’t mean to be burnt out if he could help it. Shame on the wretches! they didn’t mind even burning the poor Injun who was fast to the door. Well, when they began to make the faggots, I just let them have it as hot as ever I could. It was my six-shooting rifle, and it didn’t seem a moment ere three had bit the dust, and a fourth, wounded, jumped over the ravine yonder. Well, after this it ’peared to me the fight just began in real earnest. They tried to scale the hut, and they tried to scale the trees. From both positions they came down faster than they went up. They threw their hatchets and they threw their spears, but, worse than all, they fired and threw their faggots. In that case, thinks I, it’s time I brought out my reserves, so, giving them one other rattling volley, I got down as quick as feet would take me. ‘Come, good dogs!’ I cried; ‘now to give them fits!’ Gentlemen, I was about as “mad” (a Yankeeism signifying angry) as ever I was in my life, and the dogs were madder, and the way I laid around me with my club when I got out must have been fine to see; but the way that mastiff went for them blueskins was finer. The field was all our own in five minutes; the garrison was unscathed, the enemy had six killed, and it must have taken the others weeks to mend their dog-holes.”
“What about Plunket’s prisoner?” asked Rory.
“Plunket’s prisoner,” said Seth, “came in very handy. It was spring, you see, and there were potatoes to plant and maize and onions to sow, and what not I tied the creature to Plunket for safety. He had plenty of rope, and when he saw I didn’t mean to kill him he started and worked away like a New Hollander. When everything was in the ground—and that took us three weeks—I started him off with a message to Quimo, his chief, and I can tell you, gentlemen, no Yack Injun has ever drawn knife on old Seth since.”
“But,” said Rory, “weren’t you going to tell us about the Norwegian walrus-hunters?”
“Oh!” said Seth, “it was like this. I heard of the shipwreck, and I went right away over with Plunket to see if I could be of any service. And it was well for those hunters I did. I found fires alight to torture them, and irons heating to make them skip and jump. The blueskin chief was in high glee; he was expecting rare fun, he told me, ‘Well, Quimo,’ says I to him, ‘you always was about the peskiest old idgit ever I came across.’ ‘How now,’ says he, ‘great and mighty hunter?’ ‘You’re an almighty squaw,’ says I; ‘why don’t you wear a “neenak” and carry an “awwee”? Come now, Quimo, let me be master of ceremonies, I’ll show you better fun than you could make.’ ‘My white brother,’ said Quimo, ‘is very wise.’ ‘And you’re an old fool,’ says I. This wasn’t flattery, gentlemen, I own, but old Seth knows the Indian character well.”
(Neenak: the short apron of sealskin the women of some tribes of Yack Indians wear.)
(Awwee: baby or young one, applied to animals as well as human beings.)