It was all of one hundred and fifty miles to the Mission. There was no road, the snow was unusually deep and the weather intensely cold; yet here were two Indians with a dog-sled upon which was stretched the inanimate body of their friend, and they were willing in the face of great difficulty to undertake this long journey, just because their friend had signified a wish to be interred beside the Mission. Who will say after this that these people have no sentiment?
Now there were six of us to keep the fire burning, and in relays of two we chopped and carried until daylight came, when in gladness we resumed our journey. At any rate we would have plenty of dry wood for the rest of the trip. What food we carried was not of the best. Having no fat in it, it had not the quality essential to keeping out the cold. It takes the heart out of most men to struggle on day after day under such conditions, and in my case there was a complication of troubles, for during the second day out of Maskepetoon's camp I was taken with my first and only attack of "snow-shoe sickness." This is a contraction of the tendons and sinews of the instep, and is exceedingly painful, worse, indeed, than toothache or even earache. It kept me from resting at night, and when we went out of our noon or night camps I would hop along on one foot with the help of a pole, until in sheer weariness I would force my foot to the ground. Our dogs were so thin and weak that they could not draw me on the sled.
Five days of cold and pain and extreme hardship brought us to the Mission. While our friends were glad to see us, they were sorely disappointed that our food report was not more encouraging. There was nothing for the settlement but to be content with potatoes and parched barley for some time to come. During our absence young Hamilton had died, and we buried old Joseph beside him. For some years of this life he could say with him of old, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." And in full hope we laid his mortal remains in the ground, once more to recline on the breast of mother-earth.
Two days at Victoria, and Francis and I and my brother David again set out for Pigeon Lake. There had been no travel, and the snow had deepened so that every step of the road had to be broken. But in spite of this we made the lake in four days, and found our families still alone but well. For thirty-three days their isolation had been complete, and during the latter half of the period their anxiety great. What signified that we had brought little or no provisions? We had reached home, and with four days' rations ahead. From the purely material standpoint our trip had been a miserable failure. We had spent our strength for naught, had undergone untold hardships, and the financial results were nil. But is it not written that "man doth not live by bread only"? We had brought consolation to the sorrowing and dying; we had conveyed to Maskepetoon and his large camp, during a desponding time in their experience, the kind brotherly greetings of the big Church we represented, and the love and profound sympathy of the larger Christianity we professed. We had preached the Gospel of hope and joy to multitudes; we had made men and women forget, for a time at least, their present hunger and cold and pain and suffering, as we told them of that better land where these conditions did not exist. We had been privileged during that trip to sound the glad tidings in ears hitherto strange to such sublime teaching. And if these were some of the present and tangible results of our journey, who will estimate the fruitage of eternity? Verily to men of humble faith such work as ours is a continual paradox. We are hungry, yet always feasting; we are tired and weary, yet constantly gaining strength; we are sad, yet full of joy; we are at times despondent, still ever rejoicing. Verily this Gospel of our Christ is a perennial benediction.
CHAPTER XX.
My brother a "ready-made pioneer"—Hunting rabbits—Two roasted rabbits per man for supper—I find my friend, Firing Stony, in a flourishing condition—Poisoning wolves—A good morning's sport—I secure a wolf, two foxes and a mink—Firing Stony poisons his best dog—I enjoy a meal of bear's ribs—I meet with a severe accident—Samson treats me to a memorable feast.
This was my brother's first trip to Pigeon Lake. He had never been seen so far west in his life before. To him, as to myself, this big country was a constant revelation. After staying with us a few days, he returned alone to Victoria. Had he not been by nature and instinct a "ready-made pioneer," I should have hesitated to let him thus return alone, but in his case I felt no fear.
And now my man and I settled down to taking out timber and whip-sawing lumber. Nor was this our only occupation, for we had nets to mend and clean and fish to catch; and to chop and chisel through the ice and set a net in the dead of a northern winter was not an easy or comfortable task. Rabbits, fortunately, were numerous about us at this time, and gave pleasing variety to our table fare. Taking our dogs and sleds, we would go out a few miles to where the nature of the country was favorable for these "jumping bits of food" for men and wildcats. Choosing a suitable spot for our camp we would fasten our dogs, and each go his own way and kill as many rabbits as he could before dark. Then returning laden to camp, we would gather a good supply of wood for our fire and settle ourselves for the night. As the fire grew strong we would stick each of us a rabbit on an improvised spit, and when these were roasted have supper. Then we cleaned our guns and fed our dogs, and by and by roasted another rabbit apiece and made our second supper. Even then we were not too well satisfied! Two rabbits of an evening per man may seem rather much to him who all his life has had his fresh meat, butter and bacon and beans and bread, and many other foods at each meal. But I will here place it on record that two rabbits straight in one evening, in the face of violent exercise and the all out-doors dining and living room we were in, did but barely satisfy the pangs of hunger for a short time.
About the last of February something impelled me to make a trip out south-eastward of the lake. Taking Francis with me, we packed our sled with fish enough to provide for our dogs and ourselves for four or five days, and started. We took turns in going ahead on snowshoes, and as our dogs were fresh we made good time. Early the second day we came to a solitary lodge of Indians, and entering it found it was the home of Mr. Firing Stony, of whom I already have spoken in this book. He and his family were in a starving state, and they told us of others farther on similarly situated, whom they had seen some ten days before. We gave them some of our fish and told them to make all haste towards the lake, and then we pushed on. But, after two days' search, failing to find any more lodges, we turned back and again came to Firing Stony's camp. They had moved a short distance nearer the lake, but being exceedingly weak, could move only slowly. Firing Stony had tracked deer and hunted them for two days, but had failed to kill any, and now his large family was entirely without food. We had only two small fish left. These I gave to the mother to prepare, and we made our meal of them that night. Early next morning, taking Firing Stony with us, we set off for the lake, bidding the family follow us as fast as they could. I confess that I was never very much good at anything like vigorous exercise taken on an empty stomach, and while these thirty miles were long and difficult to Francis and myself, they must have been a very heavy strain upon our half-famished companion. He was plucky, though, and kept up well. Early in the afternoon we reached the Mission, and very soon my wife was preparing a good meal of such food as we had.