Snowdrift: A Story of the Land of the Strong Cold

by James B. Hendryx

MacFarlane raised his head and listened, his wide-staring eyes fixed upon the black square of the window—that sound—it was—only the moan and

the muffled roar of the wind—but, for a moment it had sounded like the tone of a deep-throated bell—like the booming of the bells of Ste. Anne's. Slowly the man lowered his head to his arms and groped for the thread of his thought where he had left it. Lingeringly, he dwelt upon the happiness that had been theirs, the coming of the little Margot—the infinite love that welled in their hearts for this soft little helpless thing, their delight in her unfolding—the gaining of a pound—the first tooth—the first half-formed word—the first step. He remembered, too, their distress at her tiny ills, real and fancied. Then, his own desire to seek gold—not for himself, but that these two loved ones might enjoy life in a fullness undreamed by the family of a fur trader. He recollected Molaire's opposition, his arguments, his scoffing, and his prediction that by the end of a year he would be back at Lashing Water buying fur for the Company. And he recollected his own retort, that without the gold he would never come back.

And here, in this little thick walled cabin far into the barren grounds, he had come to the end of the long, long trail. MacFarlane raised his head and stared at the crib. But, was it the end? He knew that it was not, and he groped blindly, desperately to picture the end. If it were not for her—for this little one who lay asleep there in the crib, the end would be easy. The man's glance sought the rifle that rested upon its pegs above the window. It

was out of the question to think of returning to Lashing Water, if he would—the baby could not stand five hundred miles of gruelling winter-trail. He could not keep her here and leave her alone while he prospected. He could not remain in the cabin all winter and care for her—he must hunt to live—and game was scarce and far afield. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he were to leave her alone in the cabin with a fire in the stove—or worse, of what might eventually happen if some accident befell him and he could not return to the cabin.

MacFarlane sat bolt upright. He suddenly remembered that a few days before, from a high hill some thirty miles to the westward, he had seen an Indian village nestled against a spruce swamp at a wide bend of a river. It was a small village of a dozen or more tepees, and he had intended to visit it later. Why not take the baby over there and give her into the keeping of some squaw. If he could find one like Neseka all would be well, for Neseka's love for the little Margot was hardly less than his own. And surely, in a whole village there must be at least one like her.

MacFarlane replenished his fire, and groping upon the shelf, found a leather covered note book and pencil. The guttered candle flared smokily and he replaced it with another, and for an hour or more he wrote steadily, filling page after page of the note book with fine lined writing.

When he had finished he thrust the note book into his pocket and again buried his face in his arms.

V

Toward morning the storm wore itself out, and before the belated winter dawn had tinted the east MacFarlane set out for the Indian village. The cold was intense so that his snowshoes crunched on the surface of the flinty, wind-driven snow. Mile after mile he swung across the barrens that lay trackless, and white, and dead, skirting towering rock ledges and patches of scraggly timber. The sun came out and the barrens glared dazzling white. MacFarlane had left his snow-goggles back in the cabin, so he squinted his eyes and pushed on. Three times that day he stopped and built a fire at the edge of a thicket and heated thick caribou gruel which he fed by spoonfuls to the tiny robe-wrapped little girl that snuggled warm in his pack sack. Darkness had fallen before he reached the high hill from which he had seen the village. He scanned the sweep of waste that lay spread before him, its shapes and distances distorted and unreal in the feeble light of the glittering stars. He hardly expected a light to show from a village of windowless tepees in the dead of winter, and he strove to remember which of those vague splotchy outlines was the black spruce swamp against which he had seen the tepees. Suddenly the silence of the night was broken by the

sharp jerky yelp of a stricken dog. The sound issued from one of the dark blotches of timber, and was followed by a rabble of growls and snarls. MacFarlane judged the distance that separated him from the vague outline of the swamp to be three or four miles, but the shrill sounds cut the frozen air so distinctly that they seemed to issue from the foot of the hill upon which he stood. A dull spot of light showed for a moment, rocketed through the air, and disappeared amid a chorus of yelps and howls. An Indian, disturbed by the fighting dogs, had thrown back the flap of his tepee and hurled a lighted brand among them.