An hour or so later, just as night was falling, a weird scream smote our ears. It came from somewhere in the bush and sounded like the haunting wail of something inhuman. “God, a banshee!” murmured the trader, crossing himself. I thought of a strange night bird—a prowling wolf—a lonely Indian dog. Then it came again, this time louder. We left the shack and walked in the direction of the noise. Meanwhile the wail, after echoing faster and faster, had changed into one continuous screech.
Indians—men, women and children—were turning out of their tepees and running towards the sound. We finally reached a small clearing and halted in front of a large spruce tree. We knew instinctively that the thing—whatever it was—was there. It had ceased wailing a few seconds, and we were anxiously peering into the shadows. Suddenly something moved in front of us and we held our breath. Then a small figure, which had been crouching unseen at the foot of the tree, rose, and a savage burst of wild music rang out.
It was “Scotty”, marching out of the darkness, blowing a huge bagpipe clasped in his arms. His face was purple and his eyes were half closed. Round and round he marched, oblivious of everything, while the Indians, stupefied by such an instrument and such a noise, milled around like staring sheep and followed each one of his movements.
For a half hour we listened to the little man. Not once did he stop. His homesick soul was singing through those blood-curdling, shrieking pipes.
Late into the night, after turning in, we still heard him. Followed by the entire native population and surrounded by at least a hundred howling dogs, he was marching away from the Post, following the edge of the lake and playing “The Campbells are Coming”.
Tale XLIV: Gotehe
Last summer I happened to notice an Eskimo woman striving to stop a dog fight. There was nothing very unusual in the sight. Huskies, running loose in a camp, keep up a constant warfare and invariably pile on the top of any unlucky dog which has been pulled down by a stronger one.
What really attracted my attention was the way the woman undertook to save the life of the under dog. Instead of screaming shrilly and using a club of some sort to hit impartially at any head or back she could reach in the writhing, snarling knot of fighting animals, she was hopping around watching for a chance to grab a tail. Then, with a heave and a twist of her body, she would drag one dog out of the scrimmage and fling it over her shoulder, ten feet or so behind her. The unlucky animal generally landed on his head or back, which seemed to surprise and scare it far more than any kind of a blow.