Nineteen hundred miles behind me lay that Musk Rat Creek, by whose banks on that now distant day in October, I had bidden civilization a long good-bye.
Prairie and lakelet, broad river, vast forest, dim spreading lake, silent ridge and waste of wilderness—all lay deep sunken again in that slumber from which my lonely passage had for a moment roused them.
Different faces had at times accompanied me; various dogs had toiled and tugged at the oaken sled, or lain at night around the wintry camp-fires; and yet, still remote lay that giant range, for whose defiles my steps had so long been bound. But amid all changes of time and place and persons, two companions still remained with me. Cerf-vola the Untiring, Spanker the Suspicious, still trotted as briskly as when they had quitted their Dakotan home. If I should feel inclined to doubt their strength and vigour, I had only to look down the hill-side to read a reassurance—a couple of hundred feet beneath where I stood. There Spanker the suspicious might have been observed in company with two other savages, doing his utmost to terminate the career of a yearling calf, which early spring had tempted to the hill-top. It was consolatory to notice that Cerf-vola the untiring took no part in this nefarious transaction. He stood apart, watching it with a countenance expressive of emotions which might be read, either in the light of condemnation of cruelty, or commendation of coming veal cutlets.
About midnight on the 3rd of April I quitted Dunvegan, and turned once more along the frozen river. The moon, verging to its first quarter, shone above the southern shore, lighting half the river, while the remainder lay wrapped in darkness.
A half-breed named Kalder accompanied me—my former servitor having elected to remain at Dunvegan. He had probably heard strange stories of life beyond the mountains. “Miners were fond of shooting; to keep their hand and eye in practice they would shoot him as soon as they caught sight of him,” so it would perhaps be wiser to stay on the eastern slope. He remained behind, and William Kalder, a Scotch half-breed, who spoke French in addition to his Indian tongue, reigned in his stead.
Above Dunvegan, the Peace is a rapid river. We decided to travel by moonlight only, and in the morning, as many places had already become unsound; a great quantity of water lay on the surface of the ice, and wet mocassins and heavy snow-shoes became our constant companions. By daybreak, however, all water would be frozen solid, and except for the effect of the sharp ice on the dogs’ feet, the travelling was excellent at that hour.
At daybreak on the fourth we heard ahead a noise of barking, and presently from the wooded shore a moose broke forth upon the river. The crusted snow broke beneath his weight, and he turned at bay near the southern shore. We were yet a long way off, and we hurried on as fast as dogs could run. When we had reached within a couple of hundred yards of where he stood butting the dogs, a shot rang sharply from the woods; the unshapely animal still kept his head lowered to his enemies, but the shot had struck, for as we came panting up, he rolled heavily amidst his baying enemies, who closed around him while the blood bubbled fast over the pure frosted snow. Above, on the wooded banks, under a giant pine, sat a young Indian quietly regarding his quarry. Not a move of limb or countenance betokened excitement; his face was flushed by a long quick chase down the rugged hill-side; but now, though his game lay stretched beneath him, he made no outward sign of satisfaction. He sat unmoved on the rock above, his long gun balanced above his knee—the fitting background to a picture of wild sport in the wilderness. It was now the time when the Indians leave their winter hunting-grounds, and make a journey to the forts with the produce of their season’s toil. They come, a motley throng; men, women and children; dogs, sleds and hand-tobogans, bearing the precious freight of fur to the trading-post, bringing in the harvest of marten-skins from the vast field of the desert wilds.
On this morning, ere we reached our camping place, a long cavalcade passed us. A couple of braves in front, too proud and lazy to carry anything but their guns; then old women and young ones, bending under their loads, or driving dogs, or hauling hand-sleds laden with meat, furs, mooseskins, and infants. The puppy-dog and the infant never fail in cabin or cortége. Sometimes one may see the two packed together on the back of a woman, who carries besides a load of meat or skins. I believe the term “encumbrance” has sometimes been applied to the human portion of such a load, in circles so elevated that even the humanity of maternity would appear to have been successfully eliminated by civilization. If ever the term carried truth with it, it is here in this wild northern land, where yon wretched woman bears man’s burthen of toil as well as her own. Here the child is veritably an encumbrance; yet in some instincts the savage mother might teach her civilized sister a lesson of womanity. Perhaps here, while this motley cavalcade passes along, we may step aside a moment from the track, and tell the story of a marten.
A couple of cotton kerchiefs, which my lady’s-maid would disdain to be the owner of, and a couple of ten-pound bank-notes from my lady’s purse, mark the two extremes between which lies the history of a marten. We will endeavour to bring together these widely-severed ends.
When the winter is at its coldest, but when the days are beginning to lengthen out a little over the dim pine-woods of the North, the Indian builds a small circular fence of wood, some fourteen inches high. Upon one side this circle is left open, but across the aperture a thick limb or thin trunk of tree is laid with one end resting on the ground. Inside the circle a forked stick holds a small bit of fish or meat as a bait. This forked stick is set so as to support another small piece of wood, upon which in turn rests the half-uplifted log. Pull the baited stick, and you let slip the small supporting one, which in turn lets fall the large horizontal log. Thus runs the sequence. It is a guillotine, with a tree instead of a sharp knife; it is called a “dead fall.” Numbers of them are erected in the woods, where martens’ tracks are plentiful in the snow. Well, then, the line of “dead falls” being made and set, the Indian departs, and silence reigns in the forest. But once a week he starts forth to visit this line of “dead falls,” which may be ten or fifteen miles in length.