This last occupation is protracted to an advanced age of childhood, a circumstance which probably arises from the fact that the new-born infant receives no nourishment from its mother for four days after its birth, in order that it shall in after life be able to stand the pangs of hunger; but the infant mind is no doubt conscious itself that it is being robbed of its just rights, and endeavours to make up for lost time by this postponement of the age of weaning.
This description does not hold good of the Beaver Indians of Peace River; many of them, men and women, are good-looking enough, but of them more anon.
All these tribes are excellent hunters. The moose in the south and wooded country, the reindeer in the barren lands, ducks and geese in vast numbers during the summer, and, generally speaking, inexhaustible fish in the lakes yield them their means of living. At times, one prodigious feast; again, a period of starvation.
For a time living on moose nose, or buffalo tongue, or daintiest tit-bit of lake and forest; and then glad to get a scrap of dry meat, or a putrid fish to satisfy the cravings of their hunger. While the meat lasts, life is a long dinner. The child just able to crawl is seen with one hand holding the end of a piece of meat, the other end of which is held between the teeth; while the right hand wields a knife a foot in length, with which it saws steadily, between lips and fingers, until the mouthful is detached. How the nose escapes amputation is a mystery I have never heard explained.
A few tents of Chipewyans were pitched along the shores of the Athabasca River, when we descended that stream. They had long been expecting the return of my companion, to whose arrival they looked as the means of supplying them with percussion gun-caps, that article having been almost exhausted among them.
Knowing the hours at which he was wont to travel they had marked their camping-places on the wooded shores, by planting a line of branches in the snow across the river from one side to the other. Thus even at night it would have been impossible to pass their tents without noticing the line of marks. The tents inside or out always presented the same spectacle. Battered-looking dogs of all ages surrounded the dwelling-place. In the trees or on a stage, meat, snow-shoes, and dog sleds, lay safe from canine ravage. Inside, some ten or twelve people congregated around a bright fire burning in the centre. The lodge was usually large, requiring a dozen moose skins in its construction. Quantities of moose or buffalo meat, cut into slices, hung to dry in the upper smoke. The inevitable puppy dog playing with a stick; the fat, greasy child pinching the puppy dog, drinking on all fours out of a tin pan, or sawing away at a bit of meat; and the women, old or young, cooking or nursing with a naïveté which Rubens would have delighted in. All these made up a Chipewyan “Interior,” such as it appeared wherever we halted in our march, and leaving our dogs upon the river, went up into the tree-covered shore to where the tents stood pitched.
Anxious to learn the amount of game destroyed by a good hunter in a season, I caused one of the men to ask Chripo what he had killed. Chripo counted for a time on his fingers, and then informed us that since the snow fell he had killed ten wood buffalo and twenty-five moose; in other words, about seventeen thousand pounds of meat, during four months. But of this a large quantity went to the Hudson’s Bay Fort, at the Forks of the Athabasca.
The night of the 4th of March found us camped in a high wood, at a point where a “cache” of provisions had been made for ourselves and our dogs. More than a fortnight earlier these provisions had been sent from Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca, and had been deposited in the “cache” to await my companion’s arrival. A bag of fish for the dogs, a small packet of letters, and a bag of good things for the master swung from a large tripod close to the shore. Some of these things were very necessary, all were welcome, and after a choice supper we turned in for the night.
At four o’clock next morning we were off. My friend led the march, and the day was to be a long one. For four hours we held on, and by an hour after sunrise we had reached a hut, where dwelt a Chipewyan named Echo. The house was deserted, and if anybody had felt inclined to ask, Where had Echo gone to? Echo was not there to answer where. Nobody, however, felt disposed to ask the question, but in lieu thereof dinner was being hastily got ready in Echo’s abandoned fireplace. Dinner? Yes, our first dinner took place usually between seven and eight o’clock a.m. Nor were appetites ever wanting at that hour either.
Various mishaps, of broken snow-shoe and broken-down dog, had retarded my progress on this morning, and by the time the leading train had reached Echo’s I was far behind. One of my dogs had totally given out, not Cerf-vola, but the Ile à la Crosse dog “Major.” Poor brute! he had suddenly lain down, and refused to move. He was a willing, good hauler, generally barking vociferously whenever any impediment in front detained the trains. I saw at once it was useless to coerce him after his first break-down, so there was nothing for it but to take him from the harness and hurry on with the other three dogs as best I could. Of the old train which had shared my fortunes ever since that now distant day in the storm, on the Red River steamboat, two yet remained to me.