Chapter Four.
The Winter Journey.
It was not long before our travellers had a large space cleared of snow, its floor spread with pine-branches, a roaring fire kindled, a couple of ptarmigan roasting and the tea-kettle bubbling, while the dogs in the background solaced themselves with raw birds to their heart’s content.
Then the red-man and the white man smoked a friendly pipe. They would probably have smoked even if it had been an unfriendly pipe!
“I wonder,” said Macnab, who was apt to become speculative and philosophical over his pipe after supper, “I wonder if dogs ever envy us our pipes? You look so comfortable, Big Otter, as you sit there with half-shut eyes letting the smoke trickle from your mouth and nose, that I can’t help thinking they must feel envious. I’m sure that I should if I were not smoking!”
The Indian, who was neither a speculator nor a philosopher—though solemn enough for either or both—replied, “Waugh!”
“Very true,” returned the Highlander, “I have no doubt your opinion is quite correct, though not as clearly put as might be wished. Have you ever been at Fort Dunregan?”
“Once when Big Otter was a little boy, he stood beside the Great River,” answered the Indian, gravely; “but the white man had no tent there at that time.”
“The white man has got some pretty big tents there now—made of wood most of ’em,” returned Macnab. “In a few days you shall judge for yourself, if all goes well.”