“Ay, that is true,” rejoined Mowat, with a cynical smile, “an’ some geese manage, by sayin’ nothin’ at all to anybody, and lookin’ like owls, to pass themselves off as wise men—for a time.”
Bartong, who was being thus freely discussed in the stern of the boat, sat in his place at the bow-oar, pulling a steady stroke and casting serious looks right and left at the banks of the river as they went along. He was a dark fine-looking stalwart man, of what may be called mixed nationality, for the blood of Scotchmen, French Canadians, and Indians flowed in his veins—that of Indians predominating, if one were to judge from appearance. He was what is called in the parlance of the nor’-west a “good” man—that is to say he was mentally and physically well adapted for the work he had to do, and the scenes in the midst of which his lot had been cast. He pulled a good oar; he laboured hard; could do almost any kind of work; and spoke English, French, and Indian almost equally well. He also had a natural talent for finding his way almost anywhere in the wilderness. Hence he had been sent as guide to the expedition, though he had never been at the Ukon River in his life. But he had been to other parts of the Arctic shore, and had heard by report of the character and position of the river in question.
“It iss gettin’ late, Bartong; don’t you think it would be as well to camp here?” asked MacSweenie.
The bowman ceased rowing, and the crew followed his example, while he glanced inquiringly up at the sky and round his limited horizon, as guides and seamen are wont to do when asked for an opinion as to professional movements.
“There will yet be daylight for an hour, and there is a small lake ahead of us. If we cross it, we come to a place where one of the Indians said he would meet us if we came to his country.”
“That is true, Tonal’,” said the leader, turning quickly to his steersman, “I had almost forgot that, it wass so long ago since we met them. Both Nazinred and Mozwa said something about meetin’ us, if we came to settle, though I paid little attention at the time. But are ye sure, Bartong, that this is the lake?”
“I know not. It is not unlikely. If it is the lake, it is small, and we will soon come to the end of it. If it is not the lake, an’ turns out to be big, we can camp on the shore. The night will be fine.”
“Go ahead then, boys,” cried the leader, “we will try.”
The oars were dipped at once, and the men pulled with a will, encouraged by the conversation, which seemed to indicate the approaching end of their voyage.
The lake over the bosom of which they were soon sweeping proved to be a small one, as they had hoped, but whether it was the one referred to by the Indians remained to be seen. A sharp look-out was kept for the smoke of wigwams, but nothing of the kind was seen on either side, and the end of the lake was finally reached without any sign of the presence of natives being observed.