Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

"The Walrus Hunters", by R.M. Ballantyne (1825-1894), 1893.

This book is full of action.  It deals with both a tribe of Red Indians,
of the Dogrib nation, and a tribe of Eskimos.  Normally a certain
animosity existed between these two, but this tale relates how under
certain circumstances, members of these tribes could not only become
close friends, and work together towards a common goal, but also
intermarry.

There is no doubt but that the reader will have a greater knowledge of
the ways and thoughts of the Indian and the Eskimo, and kindly feelings
towards both, after reading this book--an easy task, for it is a good
and absorbing read.

In this little preface we have deliberately used the old-fashioned terms
for the two races, fully aware that they are both inexact, and that
today we would, for instance, use the term Inuit instead of Eskimo.
However, this book was written in 1893, and things were different then.

It has been written of Ballantyne that, in the last years before his
death in 1894, the quality of his work was failing and indeed
repetitive.  Anyone reading this book can see that this is untrue, for
it is one of his very best.  Indeed it is a strange thing that his
earlier books, which were well-promoted upon their publication, should
still be so much more read than his later ones.  While working upon this
edition of "The Walrus Hunters" we found ourselves several times
reflecting upon this strange state of affairs.

Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894.  He was
educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with
the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northern
Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848.  The letters he
had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods
life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should
construct a book based on these letters.  Three of his most enduring
books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders",
"Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences
with the H.B.C.  In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and
"Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by
Ballantyne.  Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these
books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about.  With
these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for
teenagers.  He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade,
the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph
cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the
life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet,
ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the
lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for
weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived.

He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he
encountered with great care and attention to detail.  His young readers
looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and
1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year,
all very good reading.  The rate of production diminished in the last
ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed.

He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for
very young children under the pseudonym "Comus".

For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what
we would nowadays call "pi".  In part that was the way people wrote in
those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red
River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little
dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how
they ought to behave, as he felt he had been.

Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages.  These books
formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less
pocket-money.  These books are particularly well-written and researched,
because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for
their money.  They were published as six series, three books in each
series.

THE WALRUS HUNTERS, A TALE OF LIFE ON THE ARCTIC SHORES OF CANADA, BY
R.M. BALLANTYNE.

CHAPTER ONE.

A ROMANCE OF THE ICE-WORLD.

A SURPRISE, A COMBAT, AND A FEED.

There is a river in America which flows to the north-westward of Great
Bear Lake, and helps to drain that part of the great wilderness into the
Arctic Sea.

It is an insignificant stream compared with such well-known waterways as
the Mackenzie and the Coppermine; nevertheless it is large enough to
entice the white-whale and the seal into its waters every spring, and it
becomes a resting-place for myriads of wild-fowl while on their passage
to and from the breeding-grounds of the Far North.

Greygoose River was the name given to it by the Dogrib Indians who dwelt
in its neighbourhood, and who were wont, every spring and autumn, to
descend its waters nearly to the sea in quest of game.  The Eskimos,
who, coming from the mysterious north, were in the habit of ascending it
a short way during open water in pursuit of their peculiar prey, named
it Whale River.

The Indians and Eskimos did not often meet while on these trips.  They
did not like meeting, because the result was apt to be disastrous.
Besides, the land was wide and the game plentiful enough for both, so
that they were not much tempted to risk a meeting.  Occasionally,
however, meetings and encounters did take place, and sometimes bitter
feuds arose, but the possession of fire-arms by the Indians--who were
supplied by the fur-traders--rendered the Eskimos wary.  Their
headstrong courage, however, induced the red men to keep as much as
possible out of their way.  In short, there was a good deal of the
spirit of "let-be for let-be" between the two at the time of which we
write.

One morning in the spring-time of the year, soon after the floods caused
by the melting snows had swept the ice clean out of Greygoose or Whale
River, a sturdy young Eskimo urged his sharp kayak, or skin-covered
canoe, up the stream in pursuit of a small white-whale.  But the
creature gave him the slip, so that, after an energetic chase, he turned
his light vessel towards the left bank of the stream, intending to land.

Cheenbuk, for such was his name, was one of those sedate beings whose
energies run calm and deep, like a mighty river.  This feelings,
whatever they might be, did not usually cause much agitation on the
surface.  Disappointment did not visibly depress, nor did success unduly
elate him.  The loss of the whale failed to disturb the placid look of
grave contentment which sat on his good-looking countenance.

For it must be noted here that Cheenbuk was a handsome savage--if,
indeed, we are entitled to style him a savage at all.  His features were
good, and strongly marked.  His young beard and moustache were black,
though not bushy.  His dark eyes were large and full of tenderness,
which expression, by an almost imperceptible raising of eyelid and
contraction of brow, was easily transmuted into a gaze of ferocity or
indignation.  His bulky frame was clothed in the seal-skin garb peculiar
to his people; his hair was straight, voluminous, and unkempt, and his
motions gave indication of great strength combined with agility.

And no wonder, for a large part of our young Eskimo's life had been
spent in battling with the forces of Nature, and the hardships of life
as displayed in the Arctic regions--to say nothing of frequent conflicts
with the seal, the walrus and the polar bear.

Running his kayak among the rushes of a small inlet, Cheenbuk stepped
out of the hole in its centre into the stream.  The water was
ankle-deep, but the youth suffered no discomfort, for he wore what may
be styled home-made waterproof boots reaching to above the knees.  These
had been invented by his forefathers, no doubt, in the remote ages of
antiquity--at all events, long before india-rubber had been discovered
or Macintosh was born.

Drawing his little craft out of the water, the young man took some food
from its interior, and was about to begin his truly simple meal by
eating it raw, when a distant sound arrested his hand on the way to his
mouth.  He turned his head slightly on one side and remained for some
moments like a singularly attentive statue.

Presently the voice of a wild-goose was faintly heard in the far
distance.  Evidently the young Eskimo desired a change of fare, for he
laid down the slice of raw seal, on which he had been about to regale
himself, and disengaged a long slender spear from the bow of his kayak.

It is well-known that wild-geese will, with proverbial stupidity, answer
to an imitation of their cry, particularly in spring.  Indeed, they will
answer to a very bad imitation of it, insomuch that the poorest
counterfeit will turn them out of their course and attract them towards
the crier.

Availing himself of this weakness, our Eskimo hid himself behind a bush,
and was opening his mouth to give vent to a stentorian goose-call when
he was checked, and apparently petrified, by a loud report, which echoed
among the neighbouring cliffs.

The youth knew the sound well.  He had heard it only once before, but,
once heard, it could never be forgotten.  It was the gun, or, as his
people called it, the fire-spouter, of an Indian.  Plunging quietly into
the underwood, he hastened towards the spot where a little wreath of
smoke betrayed the position of what may be almost styled his hereditary
foe.

Cautiously, carefully, and with a catlike motion that could hardly have
been excelled by an Indian brave, Cheenbuk advanced until he reached the
edge of a partially clear space, in which he beheld an Indian leisurely
engaged in pushing the head of a large grey goose under his belt.  At
his side, leaning against a tree, was the long-barrelled fowling-piece,
which he had just reloaded.  It was one of those common, cheap,
flint-lock affairs which were supplied by the fur-traders in those days.

The Indian was a tall, powerfully built middle-aged man, and, from his
look and manner, was evidently unsuspicious of the presence of a foe.
He seemed to be quite alone.

The Eskimo poised his light spear, but hesitated to launch it.  He
shrank from killing a defenceless foe.  The hesitation betrayed him, for
at the moment the sharp ear of the red man heard, and his eye discovered
him.

The gun flew to the Indian's shoulder, and the Eskimo launched his
spear, but by good fortune both weapons failed.  The well-directed spear
was cleverly dodged, and the gun missed fire.

To re-cock the weapon, take a more deadly aim, and pull the trigger, was
the work of three seconds; but again the flint proved faithless.
Cheenbuk, however, divined the meaning of the attempt, and sprang upon
his foe to prevent a repetition of the action, though he was now
practically unarmed,--for the little stone knife which he carried in his
bosom was but ill suited for deadly combat.

The Indian clubbed his gun to meet the onset, but the Eskimo, evading
the first blow, caught hold of the weapon with both hands, and now began
a fierce and prolonged struggle for possession of the "fire-spouter."

Both hands of each combatant being engaged, neither could venture to
draw his knife, and, as the men were pretty equally matched, both as to
size and strength, they swayed to and fro with desperate energy for a
considerable time, each endeavouring to throw the other, while the sweat
poured down their faces and their breathing came in fitful gasps.

At length there was a pause in the conflict.  It seemed as if they had
stopped by mutual consent to recover breath for a final effort.

As they glared into each other's faces, each felt surprised to see
little or nothing of the evidence of that deadly hatred which usually
characterises implacable foes.  Suddenly Cheenbuk relaxed his grip of
the gun and stepped back a pace.  In so doing he put himself, to some
extent at least, at the mercy of his adversary.  With quick perception
the Indian recognised the fact.  He drew himself up and dropped the gun
on the ground.

"Why should we fight?  The hunting-grounds are wide enough!" he said, in
the grave sententious tones peculiar to his race.

"That is just what came to my thought when I let go," answered the more
matter-of-fact Eskimo.

"Let us part, then, as friends," returned the red man, "and let us do it
in the manner of the pale-faced traders."

He extended his right hand as he spoke.  Cheenbuk, who had heard a
rumour of the white man's customs--probably from men of his race who had
met with the crews of whalers--advanced, grasped the extended hand, and
shook it in a way that might have done credit to any Englishman!  He
smiled at the same time with a slightly humorous expression, but the
other maintained his solemnity.  Fun is not a prominent characteristic
of the red man.

"But there is no need that we should part before feeding," said the
Eskimo.

"Waugh!" replied the Indian, by which it is to be presumed he signified
assent.

The reconciled foes being both adepts in the art of cookery, and--one of
them at least--in woodcraft, it was not long before a large fire was
blazing under a convenient fir-tree, and the grey goose soon hissed
pleasantly in front of it.  They were a quiet and self-contained couple,
however, and went about their work in profound silence.  Not that they
lacked ideas or language--for each, being naturally a good linguist, had
somehow acquired a smattering of the other's tongue,--but they resembled
each other in their disinclination to talk without having something
particular to say, and in their inclination to quietness and sobriety of
demeanour.

Here, however, the resemblance ceased, for while the Eskimo was free and
easy, ready to learn and to sympathise, and quick to see and appreciate
a joke, the Indian was sternly conservative, much impressed with his own
rectitude of intention, as well as his capacity for action, and
absolutely devoid of the slightest tinge of humour.  Thus the Eskimo's
expression varied somewhat with the nature of the subjects which chased
each other through his mind, while that of the red man never changed
from the calm of dignified immobility--except, of course, when, as
during the recent struggle, his life was in danger.

While the goose was roasting, the erstwhile foes sat down to watch the
process.  They had not to watch long, for the fire was strong and
neither of them was particular.  Indeed, the Eskimo would gladly have
eaten his portion raw, but waited patiently, out of deference to what he
deemed his companion's prejudices.

"You are alone?" said the Eskimo interrogatively.

"Yes--alone," returned the Indian.

To such men, this was mental food for at least a quarter of an hour.  By
the end of that time one side of the bird was sufficiently done.  The
Indian turned the stick on which it was impaled, drew his
scalping-knife, and commenced on the side that was ready while the other
side was being done.  Cheenbuk drew his stone knife, cut a large slice
of the breast, and also fell to work.  They ate vigorously, yet the
process was not soon over, for the goose was large and their appetites
were strong.  Of course they had no time or inclination for conversation
during the meal.  When it was finished, the grey goose was reduced to a
miserable skeleton.  Then both men sighed the sigh of contentment, wiped
their knives on the grass, and looked gravely at each other.

Cheenbuk seemed as if about to speak, but was arrested in his intention
by the strange and unaccountable proceedings of his companion, who now
drew forth a gaily decorated bag which hung at his belt behind him.
From this he extracted a whitish implement with a little bowl at one
end, and having leisurely filled it with a brown substance, also drawn
from the bag, he put the other or small end of the instrument between
his teeth.  Then he took up a burning stick and applied it to the bowl.

The Eskimo had been gazing at him with ever-widening eyes, but at this
his mouth also began to open, and he gave vent to a gentle "ho!" of
unutterable surprise, for immediately there burst from the Indian's lips
a puff of smoke as if he had suddenly become a gun, or fire-spouter and
gone off unexpectedly.

There was profound interest as well as astonishment in the gaze of our
Eskimo, for he now became aware that he was about to witness a
remarkable custom of the red men, of which he had often heard, but which
he had never clearly understood.

"Does it not burn?" he asked in breathless curiosity.

"No," replied his friend.

"Do you like it?  Hi--i!"

The exclamation was induced by the Indian, who at the moment sent a
stream of smoke from each nostril, shut his eyes as he did so, opened
his mouth, and otherwise exhibited symptoms of extreme felicity.

"Would you like to try it?" he asked after one or two more whiffs.

Cheenbuk accepted the offer and the pipe, drew a voluminous whiff down
into his lungs and exploded in a violent fit of coughing, while the
tears overflowed his eyes.

"Try again," said the Indian gravely.

For some minutes the Eskimo found it difficult to speak; then he
returned the pipe, saying, "No.  My inside is not yet tough like yours.
I will look--and wonder!"

After being admired--with wonder--for a considerable time, the Indian
looked at his companion earnestly, again offered him the pipe, and said,
"Try again."

The obliging Eskimo tried again, but with the caution of a child who,
having been burnt, dreads the fire.  He drew in a little smoke by means
of the power of inhalation and choked again slightly, but, being now on
his mettle, he resolved not to be beaten.  The Indian regarded him
meanwhile with grave approval.  Then it occurred to Cheenbuk to apply
the power of suction instead of inhalation.  It was successful.  He
filled his mouth instead of his lungs, and, in his childlike delight at
the triumph, he opened his mouth to its full extent, and sent forth a
cloud with a gasp which was the combined expression of a puff and a
"ho!"  Again he tried it, and was again successful.  Overjoyed at this,
like a child with a new toy, he went in for quite a broadside of puffs,
looking round at his friendly foe with a "ho!" between each, and
surrounding his head with an atmosphere of smoke.

Suddenly he stopped, laid down the pipe, rose up, and, looking as if he
had forgotten something, retired into the bush.

The Indian took up the discarded pipe, and for the first time displayed
a few wrinkles about the corners of his eyes as he put it between his
lips.

Presently Cheenbuk returned, somewhat paler than before, and sat down in
silence with a look, as if of regret, at the skeleton-goose.

Without any reference to what had passed, the Indian turned to his
companion and said, "Why should the men of the ice fight with the men of
the woods?"

"Why?" asked Cheenbuk, after a few moments' profound meditation, "why
should the men of the woods attack the men of the ice with their
fire-spouters?"

This question seemed to puzzle the Indian so much that he proceeded to
fill another pipe before answering it.  Meanwhile the Eskimo, being more
active-minded, continued--

"Is it fair for the men of the woods to come to fight us with
fire-spouters when we have only spears?  Meet us with the same weapons,
and then we shall see which are the best men."

The Indian looked at his companion solemnly and shook his head.

"The strongest warriors and the best fighters," he said, "are not always
the best men.  He who hunts well, keeps his wives supplied with plenty
of food and deerskin robes, and is kind to his children, is the best
man."

Cheenbuk looked suddenly in the face of his sententious companion with
earnest surprise in every feature, for the sentiments which had just
been expressed were in exact accordance with his own.  Moreover, they
were not what he expected to hear from the lips of a Dogrib.

"I never liked fighting," he said in a low voice, "though I have always
been able to fight.  It does nobody any good, and it always does
everybody much harm, for it loses much blood, and it leaves many women
and children without food-providers--which is uncomfortable for the men
who have enough of women and children of their own to hunt for.  But,"
continued the youth with emphasis, "I always thought that the men of the
woods loved fighting."

"Some of them do, but I hate it!" said the Indian with a sudden look of
such ferocity that the Eskimo might have been justified in doubting the
truth of the statement.

The flash, however, quickly disappeared, and a double wreath of smoke
issued from his nose as he remarked quietly, "Fighting lost me my
father, my two brothers, and my only son."

"Why, then, do you still come against us with fire-spouters?" asked
Cheenbuk.

"Because my people will have it so," returned the red man.  "I do what I
can to stop them, but I am only one, and there are many against me."

"I too have tried to stop my people when they would fight among
themselves," returned the Eskimo in a tone of sympathy; "but it is
easier to kill a walrus single-handed than to turn an angry man from his
purpose."

The Indian nodded assent, as though a chord had been struck which
vibrated in both bosoms.

"My son," he said, in a patronising tone, "do not cease to try.  Grey
hairs are beginning to show upon my head; I have seen and learned much,
and I have come to know that only he who tries, and tries, and tries
again to do what he knows is right will succeed.  To him the Great
Manitou will give his blessing."

"My father," replied the other, falling in readily with the fictitious
relationship, "I will try."

Having thus come to a satisfactory agreement, this Arctic Peace Society
prepared to adjourn.  Each wiped his knife on the grass and sheathed it
as he rose up.  Then they shook hands again after the fashion of the
pale-faces, and departed on their respective ways.  The red man returned
to the wigwams of his people, while the young Eskimo, descending the
river in his kayak, continued to hunt the white-whale and pursue the
feathered tribes which swarmed in the creeks, rivulets, and marshes that
bordered the ice-encumbered waters of the polar seas.

CHAPTER TWO.

WARUSKEEK.

Alas for the hopes and efforts of good men!  At the very time that
Cheenbuk and the Indian were expressing their detestation of war,
elsewhere a young Eskimo was doing his best to bring about that unhappy
and ruinous condition of things.

He was an unusually strong young Arctic swashbuckler, with considerably
more muscle than brains, a restless spirit, and what may be styled a
homicidal tendency.  He was also tyrannical, like many men of that
stamp, and belonged to the same tribe as Cheenbuk.

Walrus Creek was the summer residence of the tribe of Eskimos to which
Cheenbuk belonged.  It was a narrow inlet which ran up into a small
island lying some distance off the northern shores of America, to
discover and coast along which has been for so many years the aim and
ambition of Arctic explorers.  How it came by its name is not difficult
to guess.  Probably in ages past some adventurous voyagers, whose names
and deeds have not been recorded in history, observing the numbers of
walruses which scrambled out of the sea to sun themselves on the cliffs
of the said creek, had named it after that animal, and the natives had
adopted the name.  Like other aborigines they had garbled it, however,
and handed it down to posterity as Waruskeek, while the walruses,
perhaps in order to justify the name, had kept up the custom of their
forefathers, and continued to sun themselves there as in days of yore.
Seals also abounded in the inlet, and multitudes of aquatic birds
swarmed around its cliffs.

The Eskimo village which had been built there, unlike the snow-hut
villages of winter, was composed chiefly of huts made of slabs of stone,
intermingled with moss and clay.  It was exceeding dirty, owing to
remnants of blubber, shreds of skins, and bones innumerable, which were
left lying about.  There might have been about forty of these huts, at
the doors of which--or the openings which served for doors--only women
and children were congregated at the time we introduce them to the
reader.  All the men, with the exception of a few ancients, were away
hunting.

In the centre of the village there stood a hut which was larger and a
little cleaner than the others around it.  An oldish man with a grey
beard was seated on a stone bench beside the door.  If tobacco had been
known to the tribe, he would probably have been smoking.  In default of
that he was thrown back upon meditation.  Apparently his meditations
were not satisfactory, for he frowned portentously once or twice, and
shook his head.

"You are not pleased to-day, Mangivik," said a middle-aged woman who
issued from the hut at the moment and sat down beside the man.

"No, woman, I am not," he answered shortly.

Mangivik meant no disrespect by addressing his wife thus.  "Woman" was
the endearing term used by him on all occasions when in communication
with her.

"What troubles you?  Are you hungry?"

"No.  I have just picked a walrus rib clean.  It is not that."

He pointed, as he spoke, to a huge bone of the animal referred to.

"No, it is not that," he repeated.

"What then?  Is it something you may not tell me?" asked the woman in a
wheedling tone, as she crossed her legs and toyed with the flap of her
tail.

Lest the civilised reader should be puzzled, we may here remark that the
costume of the husband and wife whom we have introduced--as, indeed, of
most if not all Eskimo men and women--is very similar in detail as well
as material.  Mangivik wore a coat or shirt of seal-skin with a hood to
it, and his legs were encased in boots of the same material, which were
long enough to cover nearly the whole of each leg and meet the skirt of
the coat.  The feet of the boots were of tough walrus-hide, and there
was a short peak to the coat behind.  The only difference in the costume
of the woman was that the hood of her coat was larger, to admit of
infants and other things being carried in it, and the peak behind was
prolonged into a tail with a broad flap at the end.  This tail varied a
little in length according to the taste of the wearer--like our ladies'
skirts; but in all cases it was long enough to trail on the ground--
perhaps we should say the ice--and, from the varied manner in which
different individuals caused it to sweep behind them, it was evident
that the tail, not less than the civilised skirt, served the purpose of
enabling the wearers to display more or less of graceful motion.

"There is nothing that I have to hide from my woman," said the amiable
Eskimo, in reply to her question.  "Only I am troubled about that
jump-about man Gartok."

"Has he been here again?" asked the wife, with something of a frown on
her fat face.  "He is just as you say, a jump-about like the little
birds that come to us in the hot times, which don't seem to know what
they want."

"He is too big to look like them," returned the husband.  "He's more
like a mad walrus.  I met him on one of the old floes when I was after a
seal, and he frightened it away.  But it is not that that troubles me.
There are two things he is after: he wants to stir up our young men to
go and fight with the Fire-spouters, and he wants our Nootka for a
wife."

"The dirty walrus!" exclaimed Mrs Mangivik, with as much vigour as if
she had been civilised, "he shall _never_ have Nootka.  As for fighting
with the Fire-spouters, I only hope that if he does go to do so, he will
get killed and never come back."

"H'm!" grunted Mangivik, "if he does get killed he's not likely to come
back."

"Who is not likely to come back?" asked a young girl, with an
affectionate expression in her pretty brown eyes, issuing from the hut
at that moment and seating herself close to the old man.  The girl's
face, on the whole, was unusually pretty for that of an Eskimo, and
would have been still more so but for the grease with which it was
besmeared--for the damsel had just been having a little refreshment of
white-whale blubber.  Her figure was comparatively slim and graceful,
and would have been obviously so but for the ill-fitting coat and clumsy
boots with which it was covered.

"Your mother and I were talking of a bad man, Nootka," said Mangivik.

"Ay, a very very bad man," exclaimed Mrs Mangivik, with a decided nod
of her head.

"If he is so very bad," returned Nootka, "it would be good that he
should never come back.  Who is it?"

"Gartok," answered her mother, with the air of one who has mentioned the
most hateful thing in creation.

Nootka laughed.

"Surely you are not fond of him!" exclaimed Mangivik, regarding his
daughter with a look of anxiety.

"You know that I'm not," answered the girl, playfully hitting her sire
on the back with the flap of her tail.

"Of course not--of course not; you could not be fond of an ugly walrus
like him," said the father, replying to her pleasantry by fondly patting
her knee.

Just then a young man was seen advancing from the beach, where he had
left his kayak.

"It is Oolalik," said Mrs Mangivik, shading her eyes with her hand from
the sun, which, in all the strength of its meridian splendour, was
shining full on her fat face.  "He must have made a good hunt, or he
would not have come home before the others."

As she spoke Nootka arose hastily and re-entered the hut, from out of
which there issued almost immediately the sounds and the savoury odours
of roasting flesh.

Meanwhile Oolalik came up and gave vent to a polite grunt, or some such
sound, which was the Eskimo method of expressing a friendly salutation.

Mangivik and his wife grumped in reply.

"You are soon back," said the former.

"I have left a walrus and two seals on the rocks over there," answered
the youth, sitting down beside the old man.

"Good," returned the latter.  "Come in and feed."

He rose and entered the hut.  The young man who followed him was not so
much a handsome as a strapping fellow, with a quiet, sedate expression,
and a manly look that rendered him attractive to most of his friends.
Conversation, however, was not one of his strong points.  He volunteered
no remarks after seating himself opposite to Nootka, who handed him a
walrus rib which she had just cooked over the oil lamp.  Had Nootka been
a civilised girl she might have been suspected of conveying a suggestion
to the youth, for she was very fond of him, but, being an Eskimo of the
Far North, she knew nothing about ribs or of Mother Eve.  The young man
however required no delicate suggestion, for he was equally fond of
Nootka, and he endeavoured to show his feelings by a prolonged stare
after he had accepted the food.

One is irresistibly impressed with the homogeneity of the human race
when one observes the curious similarities of taste and habit which
obtain alike in savage and civilised man.  For a few moments this
youth's feelings were too much for him.  He stared in admiration at the
girl, apparently oblivious of the rib, and sighed profoundly.  Then he
suddenly recovered himself, appeared to forget the girl, and applied
himself tooth and nail to the rib.  Could anything be more natural--even
in a European prince?

Nootka did not speak--young women seldom do among savages, at least in
the company of men,--but she looked many and very unutterable things,
which it is impossible, and would not be fair, to translate.

"Will the others be back soon?" asked Mangivik.

Oolalik looked over the rib and nodded.  (In this last, also, there was
indication of homogeneity.)

"Have they got much meat?"

Again the young man nodded.

"Good.  There is nothing like meat, and plenty of it."

The old man proceeded to illustrate his belief in the sentiment by
devoting himself to a steak of satisfying dimensions.  His better-half
meanwhile took up the conversation.

"Is Gartok with them?" she asked.

"Yes, he is with them," said the youth, who, having finished the rib,
threw away the bone and looked across the lamp at Nootka, as if asking
for another.  The girl had one ready, and handed it to him.

Again Oolalik was overcome.  He forgot the food and stared, so that
Nootka dropped her eyes, presumably in some confusion; but once more the
force of hunger brought the youth round and he resumed his meal.

"Has Gartok killed much?" continued the inquisitive Mrs Mangivik.

"I know nothing about Gartok," replied the young man, a stern look
taking the place of his usually kind expression; "I don't trouble my
head about him when I am hunting."

He fastened his teeth somewhat savagely in the second rib at this point.

"Do you know," said Mangivik, pausing in his occupation, "that Gartok
has been trying to get the young men to go to the Whale River, where you
know there are plenty of birds and much wood?  He wants to fight with
the Fire-spouters."

"Yes, I know it.  Gartok is always for fighting and quarrelling.  He
likes it."

"Don't you think," said the old man suggestively, "that you could give
him a chance of getting what he likes without going so far from home?"

"No, I don't choose to fight for the sake of pleasing every fool who
delights to brag and look fierce."

Mrs Mangivik laughed at this, and her daughter giggled, but the old man
shook his head as if he had hoped better things of the young one.  He
said no more, however, and before the conversation was resumed the voice
of a boy was heard outside.

"Anteek," murmured Nootka, with a smile of pleasure.

"The other hunters must have arrived," said Oolalik, polishing off his
last bone, "for Anteek was with them."

"He always comes first to see me when he has anything to tell," remarked
Mrs Mangivik, with a laugh, "and from the noise he makes I think he has
something to tell to-day."

If noise was the true index of Anteek's news he evidently was brimful,
for he advanced shouting at the top of his voice.  With that
unaccountable ingenuity which characterises some boys, all the world
over, he produced every sort of sound except that which was natural to
him, and caused the surrounding cliffs to echo with the mooing of the
walrus, the roaring of the polar bear, the shriek of the plover, the
bellow of the musk-ox, and, in short, the varied cries of the whole
Arctic menagerie.  But he stopped short at the door of the hut and
looked at Oolalik in evident surprise.

"You are back before me?" he said.

"That is not strange: I am stronger."

"Yes, but I started off long before you."

"So you thought, but you were mistaken.  I saw you creeping away round
the point.  When you were out of sight I carried my kayak over the neck
of land, and so got here before you."

"Have you told?" asked the boy anxiously.

"Never said a word," replied Oolalik.

"Here," said Nootka, holding out a piece of half-cooked blubber to the
boy, "sit down and tell us all about it.  What is the news?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Anteek, accepting the food as if he appreciated it.
"Well, I've killed my first walrus--all alone too!"

"Clever boy! how was it?" said Mrs Mangivik.

"This was the way.  I was out by myself--all alone, mind--among the
cliffs, looking for eggs; but I had my spear with me, the big one that
Cheenbuk made for me just before he went off to the Whale River.  Well,
just as I was going to turn round one of the cliffs, I caught sight of a
walrus--a big one--monstrous; like that," he said, drawing an imaginary
circle with both arms, "fat, brown, huge tusks, and wide awake!  I knew
that, because his back was to me, and he was turning his head about,
looking at something in the other direction.  I was astonished, for
though they climb up on the cliffs a good height to sun themselves on
the warm rocks, I had never seen one climb so high as that.

"Well, I drew back very quick, and began to creep round so as to come at
him when he didn't expect me.  I soon got close enough, and ran at him.
He tried to flop away at first, but when I was close he turned and
looked fierce--terrible fierce!  My heart jumped, but it did not sink.
I aimed for his heart, but just as I was close at him my foot struck a
stone and I fell.  He gave a frightful roar, and I rolled out of his
way, and something twisted the spear out of my hand.  When I jumped up,
what do you think?  I found the spear had gone into one of his eyes, and
that made the other one water, I suppose, for he was twisting his head
about, but couldn't see me.  So I caught hold of the spear, pulled it
out, and plunged it into his side; but I had not reached the heart, for
he turned and made for the sea.

"There was a steep place just there, and he tumbled and rolled down.  I
lost my foothold and rolled down too--almost into his flippers, but I
caught hold of a rock.  He got hold at the same time with his tusks and
held on.  Then I jumped up and gave him the spear again.  This time I
hit the life, and soon had him killed.  There!"

On concluding his narrative the excited lad applied himself to his yet
untasted piece of blubber, and Nootka plied him with questions, while
Oolalik rose and went off to assist his comrades, whose voices could now
be heard as they shouted to the women and children of the colony to come
and help them to carry up the meat.

CHAPTER THREE.

PEACE OR WAR--WHICH?

Soon afterwards the Mangivik family received another visitor.  This was
the bellicose Gartok himself, whose heart had been touched by the fair
Nootka.

Like his rival, he sat down opposite the maiden, and stared at her
impressively across the cooking-lamp.  This would seem to be the usual
mode of courtship among those children of the ice; but the girl's mode
of receiving the attentions of the second lover varied considerably.
She did not drop her eyes shyly under his gaze, but stared him full in
the face by way of a slight rebuff.  Neither did she prepare for him a
savoury rib, so that he was obliged to help himself--which he did with
much coolness, for the laws of hospitality in Eskimo-land admit of such
conduct.

After some desultory conversation between Gartok and his host, the
latter asked if it was true that there was a talk of the tribe paying a
visit to Whale River.

"Yes, it is true," answered the young man.  "I came to see you about
that very thing, and to tell you that there is to be a meeting outside
the big hut to-day.  We shall want your advice."

"Why do the young men wish to go there?" asked Mangivik.

"To get food, and wood for our spear-handles and sledges, and berries,
and to have a good time.  Perhaps also to fight a little with the
Fire-spouters."

The youth glanced furtively at Mangivik as he concluded.

"To get food, and wood, and berries is good," observed the old man; "but
why fight with the Fire-spouters?  We cannot conquer them."

"You can ask that at the meeting.  It is useless to ask it of me."

"Good, I will do so.  For my part, I am too old to go on long
expeditions, either to hunt or fight--but I can give advice.  Is
Cheenbuk to be at the meeting?"

"Did you not know?  Cheenbuk has already gone to the Whale River.  We
only propose to follow him.  He may not like our business, but he'll
have to join us when we are there."

Having picked his rib clean, and receiving no encouragement from Nootka
to remain, Gartok rose and departed.

That afternoon there was a large meeting of the heads of families in
front of what was known as the big hut.  There was no formality about
the meeting.  Unlike the war councils of the Indians, it was a sort of
free-and-easy, in which blubber and other choice kinds of food did duty
for the red man's pipe.  The women, too, were allowed to sit around and
listen--but not to speak--while the hunters discussed their plans.

Gartok, being the biggest, most forward, and presumptuous among them
all, was allowed to speak first--though this was contrary to the wishes,
and even the custom, of the tribe.  He did not make a set speech.
Indeed, no one thought of delivering an oration.  It was merely a
palaver on a large scale.

"We want spear-handles," said Gartok, "and wood for our kayak-frames,
and deer for food, as well as birds and rabbit-skins for our
underclothing."

"That is true," remarked one of the elderly men; "we want all these
things, and a great many more things, but we don't want fighting.  There
is no use in that."

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed several voices in approval.

"But we do want fighting," retorted Gartok firmly; "we want the pretty
coloured things that the Fire-spouters sew on their clothes and shoes;
also the iron things they have for cutting wood; and we want the
spouters, which will make us more than a match for them in war; and we
can't get all these things without fighting."

"Do without them, then," observed Mangivik sharply; "why should we want
things that we never had, and don't need?  Listen to me, young men--for
I see by your looks that some of you would like a little fighting,--even
if we had the spouting things, we could not make them spout."

"That is a lie!" exclaimed Gartok, with the simple straightforwardness
peculiar to the uncivilised.  "Once I met one of the Fire-spouters when
I was out hunting at the Whale River.  He was alone, and friendly.  I
asked him to show me his spouter.  He did so, but told me to be very
careful, for sometimes it spouted of its own accord.  He showed me the
way to make it spout--by touching a little thing under it.  There was a
little bird on a bush close by.  `Point at that,' he said.  I pointed.
`Now,' said he, `look along the spouter with one eye.'  I put one end of
it against my cheek and tried to look, but by accident I touched the
little thing, and it spouted too soon!  I never saw the little bird
again; but I saw many stars, though it was broad daylight at the time."

"Ho! hoo!" exclaimed several of the younger men, who listened to this
narration with intense eagerness.

"Yes," continued Gartok, who had the gift of what is called "the gab,"
and was fond of exercising it,--"yes; it knocked me flat on my back--"

"Was it alive, then?" asked Anteek, who mingled that day with the men as
an equal, in consequence of his having slain a walrus single-handed.

"No, it was not quite, but it was very nearly alive.--Well, when I fell
the man laughed.  You know his people are not used to laugh.  They are
very grave, but this one laughed till I became angry, and I would have
fought with him, but--"

"Ay," interrupted Anteek, "but you were afraid, for he had the spouter."

Before Gartok could reply Mangivik broke in.

"Boo!" he exclaimed contemptuously, "it is of no use your talking so
much.  I too have been to the Whale River, and have seen the
fire-spouters, and I know they are _not_ nearly alive.  They are dead--
quite dead.  Moreover, they will not spout at all, and are quite
useless, unless they are filled with a kind of black sand which is
supplied by the white men who sell the spouters.  Go to the Whale River
if you will, but don't fight with any one--that is my advice, and my
hair is grey."

"It is white, old man, if you only saw it," murmured Anteek, with native
disrespect.  He was too good-natured, however, to let his thoughts be
heard.

"Come, Oolalik," said Mangivik, "you are a stout and a wise young man,
let us hear what you have got to say."

"I say," cried Oolalik, looking round with the air of a man who had much
in his head, and meant to let it out, "I say that the man who fights if
he can avoid it is a fool!  Look back and think of the time gone away.
Not many cold times have passed since our young men became puffed up--
indeed, some of our old men were little better--and made a raid on the
Fire-spouters of the Whale River.  They met; there was a bloody fight;
six of our best youths were killed, and numbers were wounded by the
little things that come out of the spouters.  Then they came home, and
what did they bring? what had they gained?  I was a boy at the time and
did not understand it all; but I understood some of it.  I saw the
fighters returning.  Some were looking very big and bold, as if they had
just come from fighting and conquering a whole tribe of bears and
walruses.  Others came back limping.  They went out young and strong
men; they came back too soon old, helped along by their companions.  Two
were carried--they could not walk at all.  Look at them now!"

Oolalik paused and directed attention to what may be called an
object-lesson--two men seated on his right hand.  Both, although in the
prime of life, looked feeble and prematurely old from wounds received in
the fight referred to.  One had been shot in the leg; the bone was
broken, and that rendered him a cripple for life.  The other had
received a bullet in the lungs; and a constitution which was naturally
magnificent had become permanently shattered.

"What do you think?" continued Oolalik.  "Would not these men give much
to get back their old strength and health?"

He paused again, and the men referred to nodded emphatically, as if they
thought the question a very appropriate one, while some of the
peacefully disposed in the assembly exclaimed "ho!" and "hoo!" in tones
of approval.

"Then," continued the speaker, "I passed by some of our huts and heard
sounds of bitter weeping.  I went in and found it was the wives and
sisters of the men whose bodies lie on the banks of the Whale River.
There would be reason in fighting, if we had to defend our huts against
the Fire-spouters.  Self-defence is right; and every one has a good word
for the brave men who defend their homes, their women, and their
children.  But the Fire-spouters did not want to fight, and the men who
lost their lives at the fight I am speaking of, threw them away for
nothing.  They will never more come home to provide their families with
food and clothes, or to comfort them, or to play with the children and
tell them of fights with the walrus and the bear when the nights are
black and long.  Most of those poor women had sons or man-relations to
care for them, but there was one who had no relation to hunt for her
after her husband was killed--only a little daughter to take care of
her.  I speak of old Uleeta, who is--"

"That is a lie!" cried Gartok, springing up and looking fierce.  "Old
Uleeta is, as you all know, my mother.  She had _me_ to hunt for her
when father was killed, and she has me still."

"You!" exclaimed Oolalik, with a look of scorn, "what are you?  A
hunter?  No, only a fool who wants to be thought very brave, and would
leave his mother and sister to the care of old men and boys while he
goes away to fight with the Fire-spouters!  No," he continued, turning
away from the angry young man with cool contempt, "old Uleeta has no
son."

Gartok was so taken aback with this behaviour of Oolalik, who was
recognised as one of the gentlest and most peacefully disposed of the
tribe, that he stood gaping for a moment in surprise.  Then, observing
the half-amused, half-contemptuous looks of the men around him, he
suddenly caught up the unfinished handle of a spear that leaned against
the wall of the hut beside him, and made a desperate blow with it at the
head of Oolalik.

But that youth had expected some such demonstration, and was prepared
for it.  Being very agile, he made a step swiftly to one side, and the
handle came down on the skull of a walrus which hung on the wall, with a
violence that would have surprised its original owner had it been
within.

Before the blow could be repeated Oolalik sprang towards his assailant.

Eskimos know nothing of a blow "straight from the shoulder," but they
know how to cuff.  Oolalik brought his open hand down on Gartok's cheek
with a pistol-shot crack that tumbled that fire-eater head over heels on
the ground.

The man was too strong, however, to be knocked insensible in that way.
He recovered himself, sitting-wise, with his mouth agape and his eyes
astonied, while the whole assembly burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
High above the rest was heard the juvenile voice of the delighted
Anteek.

What the fire-eater thought we cannot tell, but he had the wisdom to
accept his punishment in silence, and listened with apparent interest
while Oolalik concluded his remarks.

The effect of this belligerent episode was to advance the cause of the
peace-party considerably--at least for a time--and when the meeting
broke up, most of the people returned to their various homes with a firm
determination to leave the poor Fire-spouters alone.

But Gartok, who was still smarting under the disgrace to which he had
been subjected at the hands of Oolalik, managed to rekindle and blow up
the war-spirit, so that, two days later, a strong party of the more
pugnacious among the young men of the tribe set off in their kayaks for
the Whale River, taking with them a few of the women in one of their
open boats or oomiaks--chiefly for the purpose of keeping their garments
in repair.

CHAPTER FOUR.

WAR PREVAILS.

It would seem, at times, as if there were really some sort of spiritual
communication between people whose physical frames are widely sundered.

For at the very time that the Eskimos, in their remote home on the
ice-encumbered sea, were informally debating the propriety of making an
unprovoked attack on the Dogrib Indians--whom they facetiously styled
Fire-spouters--the red men were also holding a very formal and solemn
council of war as to the advisability of making an assault on those
presumptuous Eskimos, or eaters-of-raw-flesh, who ventured to pay an
uncalled-for visit to the Greygoose River--their ancestral property--
every spring.

One of their chiefs, named Nazinred, had just returned from a visit to
the river, and reported having met and fought with one of the Eskimos.

Immediately on hearing this, the old or head chief summoned the council
of war.  The braves assembled in the council-tent in solemn dignity,
each classically enveloped in his blanket or leathern robe, and
inflated, more or less, with his own importance.  They sat down silently
round the council fire with as much gravity as if the fate of nations
depended on their deliberations,--and so, on a small scale, it did.

After passing round the pipe--by way of brightening up their
intellects--the old chief held forth his hand and began in a low voice
and deliberate manner.

"My braves," said he, "those filthy eaters-of-raw-flesh have, as you
know, been in the habit of coming to Greygoose River every spring and
trespassing on the borders of our hunting-grounds."

He paused and looked round.

"Waugh!" exclaimed his audience, in order to satisfy him.

With a dark frown the old chief went on.

"This is wrong.  It is not right.  It is altogether unbearable, and more
than the Dogribs can stand.  They _won't_ stand it!"

"Waugh!" again said the audience, for the old man had delivered the last
sentence with considerable vehemence, and meant that it should tell.

Being apparently destitute of a flow of ideas at that time, the speaker
had recourse to a not uncommon device among civilised orators: he
cleared his throat, looked preternaturally wise, and changed the
subject.

"When the sun of spring rises over the ice-hills of the great salt
lake," he continued, pointing towards the Pole, "when it melts the snow,
opens the lakes and rivers, and brings the summer birds to our land, the
braves of the great Dogrib nation take their guns, and bows, and canoes,
and women, and travel nearly as far as the icy sea, that they may hunt
and feed--and--sleep, and--and--enjoy the land.  Nobody dares to stop
us.  Nobody dares to hinder us.  Nobody dares even to look at us!"

He paused again, and this flight of oratory was received with a very
decided "ho!" of assent, as it well might be, for during nearly all the
year there was nobody in that uninhabited land to attempt any of those
violent proceedings.  Dilating his eyes and nostrils with a look of
superlative wisdom, he continued:

"But at last the Eskimos dared to come and look at our hunting-grounds.
We were peacefully disposed.  We warned them not to come again.  They
came again, notwithstanding.  We took our guns and swept them away like
leaves that are swept by the winter winds.  Are not their scalps drying
in our lodges?  What we did then we will do again.  Has not one of our
chiefs--Nazinred--been attacked by one of them?  No doubt more will
follow that one.  My counsel is to send out a band of our braves on the
war-path.  But first we would like to know something.  As the Eskimo did
not take the scalp of Nazinred, how is it that Nazinred did not bring
home the scalp of the Eskimo?"

The old chief ceased, amid many "ho's!" and "hoo's!" with the air of one
who has propounded an unanswerable riddle, and all eyes were at once
turned upon Nazinred.  Accepting the challenge at once he stretched
forth his hand:

"My father has spoken," he said, "but his words are not the words of
wisdom.  Why should we fight the Eskimos again, and lose some of our
best young men, as we lost them in the last great fight?  The Eskimos
have come near our lands, but they have not of late hunted on them.
They have only looked and gone away.  And even if they did hunt, what
then?  The land is wide.  We cannot use it all.  We cannot kill all the
birds and deer, and even if we could we cannot eat them all.  Would it
not be wise to live at peace with the Eskimos?  They have many great
teeth of the walrus and skins of the seal.  Might not the white traders,
who take our furs and give us guns and powder, be willing to take these
things too?  Thus we could buy from the one and sell to the other, and
fill our lodges with tobacco, and guns, and beads, and cloth, and powder
and ball, and other good things."

The Indian stopped at this point to ascertain the effect of his remarks,
but only a few faint "ho's!" greeted him.  The councillors did not feel
quite sure of their own minds.  His remarks about peace and war were not
palatable, and his suggestions about trade were a novelty.  Evidently
Nazinred was born much in advance of his time.

"It is true," he continued, "that I had a struggle with a young Eskimo;
but he was very strong, and so was I.  Before I could kill him he caught
hold of my gun, but he could not force it from me, and I could not force
it from him.  As we strove we looked into each other's eyes and we each
saw peace and good-will there!  So we ceased to fight.  We kindled a
fire and sat down and fed together.  As the light slowly increases while
the sun rises, so light came into my mind.  The Dogribs have always
talked of the Eskimos as if they were fools.  I found that this young
man was not a fool--that he was wise--wiser than some of our own braves.
His mind was deep and wide.  He did not talk only of food and sleep and
hunting.  He spoke of things past and present and future, and of the
Great Spirit, and the world to come.  Also of peace and war; and we both
agreed that peace was good and war hateful.  More than that, we found
that it was foolish.  Then we parted.  He went, I suppose, to his people
on the sea of ice, and I came home.

"He told me that none of his people were with him--that he was alone.
There is therefore no occasion for the young men to look fierce or go on
the war-path."

Having thus tried to throw oil on the troubled waters Nazinred came to
an abrupt pause.

Instantly one of the younger councillors, named Magadar, sprang to his
feet.  He was unusually excitable for an Indian.  Indeed, he differed a
good deal from his companions in other respects, being passionate,
impulsive, hasty, and matter-of-fact; in his speech-making too he
scorned the use of symbol and metaphor, but went straight to the point
at once in the simplest and most forcible language at his command.

"Braves," he said, looking at the previous speaker with a dark frown,
"the Dogribs know nothing of those strange and stupid notions that have
just come out of the lips of Nazinred.  He says that this dirty Eskimo
is a deep thinker and a man who loves peace.  How does he know that one
of that sort may not think so deeply as to deceive him?  How does he
know that the young man is not a liar--that many of his warriors may not
be in our hunting-grounds even at this moment, though he says there are
none?  As for his talk about the Great Spirit and the future, what does
he know about either the one or the other?  Is he wiser than the
Dogribs?  Does his attack on Nazinred look like a lover of peace?  His
leaving off when he found that Nazinred was his match seems to me more
like sly wisdom than the hatred of war.  My advice is not to trust these
dirty men of the ice, but to take our guns at once and drive them from
the land."

It was quite evident from the way in which this speech was received that
the war-party was in the ascendant, and there is no doubt that Magadar's
advice would have prevailed, and a war-party been organised forthwith,
but for the arrival of a band of successful hunters, who had been out
for some time in quest of food.

For a considerable part of that winter those Indians had been in a
condition of semi-starvation.  They had managed with difficulty to
sustain themselves and families on rabbits, which were scarce that year.
With the return of spring and the wild-fowl, however, things had begun
to improve, and the hunting party above referred to was the first of the
season that had returned to camp heavily laden with geese, ducks,
plover, and other supplies of food, so that the half-famished people
gave themselves up to feasting, and had no time to think further of war.

Thus many days were passed without any reference being made to a fight
with the Eskimos, and Nazinred, believing that the fancy to go on the
war-path had passed away, set off on what was to be a long hunting
expedition with three of his comrades who were like-minded with himself.
Among other plans, this party intended to visit the establishment of
the fur-traders on Great Bear Lake.

Thus when the belligerent party of Eskimos arrived at the mouth of
Greygoose, or Whale, River, they found the place, as they had been
accustomed to find it, a complete solitude.

At first they expected to overtake their comrade Cheenbuk there, but he
was not found, having gone a considerable way inland in pursuit of game.
Being aware of his peaceful proclivities, however, the Eskimos were not
sorry to miss him, and they set about making an encampment on the shore
at the mouth of the river, intending to leave the women there while they
should be engaged in hunting and in searching for the Fire-spouters.

Meanwhile these Fire-spouters, having eaten and slept, and eaten and
slept again, to the extent of their capacities, began to experience a
revival of the war-spirit.

In front of one of the lodges or leather tents, one morning early, there
sat two squaws engaged in ornamenting moccasins and discussing the news
of their little world.

It was one of those bright genial mornings in spring peculiar to Arctic
lands, in which Warmth comes out with a burst victorious, and Cold
shrinks away discomfited.  Everything looked as if a great revival of
Nature were at hand--as in truth it was, for the long Arctic winter is
always driven away with a rush by the vigour, if not the violence, of
the brief Arctic spring.

One of the women was young and pretty--yes, we might almost say
beautiful.  It is quite a mistake to suppose that all savages are
coarse, rough, and ugly.  Many of them, no doubt--perhaps most of them--
are plain enough, but not a few of the Indian squaws are fairly
good-looking, and this one, as we have said at the risk of being
doubted, was beautiful; at all events she had a fine oval face, a smooth
warm-coloured skin, a neat little nose, a well-formed mouth, and
jet-black hair, with large lustrous eyes, to say nothing of her teeth,
which, like the teeth of most Indians, were regular and brilliantly
white.  Her name was Adolay--that being the Indian name for Summer.

The other squaw was her mother.  She was usually styled Isquay--which
means woman--by her husband when he was at home, but, being a great
hunter, he was not often at home.  Poor Isquay might have been
good-looking in her youth, but, alas! hard work, occasional starvation,
and a rough life, had prematurely dissipated her beauty, whatever it
might have been; yet these conditions could not put to flight the lines
and dimples of kindliness which played about her weatherworn eyes and
cheeks.  You see, she had a gentle, indulgent husband, and that made her
happy and kept her so.

"Magadar is stirring up the young men again to go on the war-path," said
the younger woman, without looking up from the embroidered moccasin with
which she was engaged.

"Yes, I know it.  I heard him as he passed our tent talking to Alizay.
I don't like Alizay; he is like gunpowder: the least thing sets him off,
and he flashes up horribly."

"But many of our other braves have no desire to quarrel with the
Eskimos," said Adolay; "indeed, some are even fond of them.  And some of
the men of the ice are very handsome.  Don't you remember that one,
mother, that we met when we went last spring with some of our men to
shoot at the Greygoose River?  He was a fine man--big and strong, and
active and kind--almost good enough to be a Dogrib."

"I remember him well," returned Isquay, "for he saved my life.  Have you
forgotten that already?"

"No, I have not forgotten it," answered the girl, with a slight smile.
"Did I not stand on the riverbank with my heart choking me when I saw
the ice rushing down with the flood and closing on your canoe--for I
could do nothing to help you, and none of our men were near!  And did I
not see the brave man of the ice, when he heard my cry, come running
like the deer and jump into the river and swim like the otter till he
got to you, and then he scrambled on a big bit of ice and lifted you and
the canoe out of the water as if he had the strength of a moose-deer,
after which he guided the ice-lump to the bank with one of your paddles!
Forget it! no.  I only wish the brave Eskimo was an Indian."

"I think you would be offering to be his squaw if he was," said the
mother with a short laugh.

"Perhaps I would.  But he's only an eater-of-raw-flesh!"  Adolay sighed
as gently as if she had been a civilised girl!  "But he has gone away to
the great ice lake, so I suppose we shall never see him again."

"Unless," said Isquay, "he comes back this spring with his people, and
our braves have a fight with them--then you would be likely to see his
scalp again, if not himself."

Adolay made no reply to this; neither did she seem shocked at the
suggestion.  Indeed, Indian women are too much accustomed to real
shocking to be much troubled with shocks of the imagination.  Holding
out her moccasin at arm's-length, the better to note the effect of her
work, she expressed regret that her father had gone off with the
hunters, for she felt sure he would have been able to allay the
war-fever among the young braves if he had remained at home.

"Ay, he would easily have put down Alizay and Magadar; but the old chief
can do nothing, he is growing too old.  The young men don't mind him
now.  Besides, he is warlike as well as they."

While they were conversing thus, the young men referred to had finally
decided to go on the war-path--to search for the Eskimo who had fought
with their chief Nazinred, find him and kill him, and then continue the
search for his companions; for they had set him down as a liar,
believing that no Eskimo had the courage to visit their hunting-grounds
by himself.

To resolve and to act were almost simultaneous proceedings with those
energetic savages.  In a very short time between twenty and thirty of
them left the village in single file, armed with the deadly gun, besides
tomahawks and scalping-knives, and took their way to a neighbouring
creek on the banks of which their canoes were lying.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A RENCONTRE AND FLIGHT.

Thus it naturally came to pass that the two bands of men who had gone to
the same place to meet each other met in the course of time.

There was a good deal of wandering about, however, before the actual
meeting took place, for the Eskimos had to provide a quantity of food on
landing on the Arctic shore, not only for themselves, but to supply the
four women who had accompanied them, and were to be left on the coast to
fish and mend their spare garments and boots, and await their return.

"We shall not be long of coming back," said Gartok as he was about to
leave his mother, old Uleeta, who was in the crew of one of the oomiaks.

"I wish I saw you safe back, my son," returned the woman, with a shake
of her head, "but I fear the Fire-spouters."

"_I_ don't fear them," returned the young man boastfully, "and it does
not matter much what you fear."

"He will never come back," said one of the other women when he was gone.
"I know that because I feel it.  There is something inside of me that
always tells me when there is going to be misfortune."

The woman who thus expressed her forebodings was a mild young creature,
so gentle and inoffensive and yielding that she was known throughout her
tribe by the name of Rinka, a name which was meant to imply weakness.
Her weakness, however, consisted chiefly in a tendency to prefer others
before herself--in which matter Christians do not need to be told that
she was perhaps the strongest of all her kin.

As the weather was comparatively warm, the women contented themselves
with a tent or bower of boughs for their protection.  They were not long
in erecting it, being well accustomed to look after themselves.  In less
than an hour after their men had left them they were busy with
seal-steaks over the cooking-lamp, and the place was rendered somewhat
home-like by several fur garments being spread on the rocks to dry.

"Yes, Gartok will get himself killed at last," said old Uleeta, drawing
her finger across the frizzling steak and licking it, for her appetite
was sharp-set and she was impatient, "He was always a stubborn boy."

"But he is strong, and a good fighter," remarked Rinka, as she spread a
seal-skin boot over her knee with the intention of patching it.

"I wish all the other men were as strong as he is, and ready to fight,"
said one of the other women, giving the steak a turn.

It must not be supposed that, although the Eskimos are known to their
Indian friends--or foes--as eaters-of-raw-flesh, they always prefer
their food in the raw condition.  They are only indifferent on the
point, when the procuring of fire is difficult, or the coldness of the
weather renders it advisable to eat the flesh raw, as being more
sustaining.

"I only wish that they would not fight at all," said Rinka with a sigh,
as she arranged the top-knot of her hair.  "It makes the men too few and
the women too many, and that is not good."

The fourth woman did not express an opinion at all.  She was one of
those curiously, if not happily, constituted creatures, who seem to have
no particular opinion on any subject, who listen to everything with a
smile of placid content, who agree with everybody and object to nothing.
They are a sort of comfort and relief in a world of warfare--especially
to the obstinate and the positive.  Her name was Cowlik.

"There is no reason why we should continue to roast our seal-meat over a
lamp now," observed old Uleeta.  "There is plenty of wood here.  Come,
we will gather sticks and make a fire."

The others agreeing to this, three of them rose and went into the bush,
leaving Cowlik to watch the steaks.

Meanwhile the young men who had followed the lead of Gartok--fifteen in
number--were cautiously ascending the Greygoose River, each in his
kayak, armed with a throwing-spear, lance, and bow.  One of their number
was sent out in advance as a scout.  Raventik was his name.  He was
chosen for the duty because of his bold, reckless nature, sharpness of
vision, general intelligence, and his well-known love for excitement and
danger.

"You will always keep well out of sight in advance of us," said Gartok
to this scout, "and the first sight you get of the Fire-spouters, shove
in to some quiet place, land, haul up your kayak, and creep near them
through the bushes as quietly and cleverly as if you were creeping up to
a bear or a walrus.  Then come back and tell us what you have seen.  So
we will land and attack them and throw them all into the river."

"I will do my best," answered Raventik gravely.

"It is not likely," added Gartok, "that you will find them to-day, for
they seldom come down as far as here, and they don't know we are
coming."

The scout made no reply.  Having received his orders he stepped into his
kayak and paddled off into the stream, against which he made but slow
progress, however, for the river happened to be considerably swollen at
the time.  He was also impeded at first by his comparative ignorance of
river navigation.  Being accustomed to the currentless waters of the
ocean, he was not prepared by experience to cope with the difficulty of
rushing currents.  He went too far out into the stream at first, and was
nearly upset.  Natural intelligence, however, and the remembrance of
talks to which he had listened between men of his tribe who had already
visited the place, taught him to keep close in to the banks, and make as
much use of eddies and backwater as possible.  The double-bladed paddle
hampered him somewhat, as its great length, which was no disadvantage in
the open sea, prevented him from keeping as close to the banks as he
desired.  Despite these drawbacks, however, Raventik soon acquired
sufficient skill, and in a short time a curve in the river hid him from
the flotilla which followed him.

Now it so happened that the Indians who were supposed to be a
considerable distance inland were in reality not many miles from the
spot where the Eskimos had held their final conference, which ended in
Raventik being sent off in advance.  It was natural that, accustomed as
they were to all the arts of woodcraft, they should discover the
presence of the scout long before he discovered them; and so in truth it
turned out.

The Indians had ten birch-bark canoes, with three warriors in most of
them--all armed, as we have said, with the dreaded fire-spouters and
tomahawks, etcetera--for, as they were out on the war-path for the
express purpose of driving the dirty Eskimos off their lands, Magadar
had resolved to make sure by starting with a strong and well-equipped
force.

Of course Magadar's canoe led the van; the others followed in single
file, and, owing to the nature of their paddles, which were
single-bladed, and could be dipped close to the sides of the canoes,
they were able to creep along much nearer to the bank than was possible
to the kayaks.

At a bend in the river, where a bush-covered point jutted out into a
large pool, Magadar thrust his canoe in among some reeds and landed to
reconnoitre.  Scarcely had he raised his head above the shrubs when he
caught sight of Raventik in his kayak.

To stoop and retire was the work of a few seconds.  The men in the other
canoes, who were watching him intently, at once disembarked, and, at a
signal from their chief, carried their light barks into the bushes and
hid them there, so that the Eskimo scout would certainly have passed the
place in half an hour without perceiving any sign of his foes, but for
an incident which enlightened him.

Accidents will happen even in the best regulated families, whether these
be composed of red men or white.  Just as the last canoe was
disappearing behind its leafy screen, one of the young braves, who was
guilty of the unpardonable offence of carrying his gun on full-cock,
chanced to touch the trigger, and the piece exploded with, in the
circumstances, an appalling report, which, not satisfied with sounding
in the ears of his exasperated comrades like a small cannon, went on
echoing from cliff to cliff, as if in hilarious disregard of secrecy,
and to the horror of innumerable rabbits and wild-fowl, which
respectively dived trembling into holes or took to the wings of terror.

"Fool!" exclaimed Magadar, scarce able to refrain from tomahawking the
brave in his wrath--"launch the canoes and give chase."

The order was obeyed at once, and the flotilla dashed out into the
stream.

But Raventik was not to be caught so easily as they had expected.  He
had turned on hearing the report, and swept out into the middle of the
river, so as to get the full benefit of the current.  His kayak, too,
with its sharp form, was of better build and material for making headway
than the light Indian canoes--propelled as it was with the long
double-bladed paddle in the strong hands of one of the stoutest of the
Eskimos.  He shot down the stream at a rate which soon began to leave
the Indians behind.

Seeing this, Magadar laid aside his paddle for a moment, raised his gun
to his shoulder, and fired.

Again were the echoes and the denizens of the woods disturbed, and two
other Indians fired, thus rendering confusion worse confounded.  Their
aims were not good, however, and Raventik was interested and surprised--
though not alarmed--by the whizzing sounds that seemed close to his
ears, and the little splashes in the water just ahead of him.
Fortunately a bend in the river here concealed him for some time from
the Indians, and when they once more came in sight of him he was almost
out of range.

In the meantime his comrades, amazed by the strange sounds that burst on
their ears, put hastily on shore, carried their kayaks into the bushes,
and climbed to the summit of a rising ground, with the double purpose of
observing the surrounding country and of making it a place of defence if
need be.

"Raventik must have found our enemies," said Gartok to Ondikik, his
lieutenant, as he led his men up the slope.

"That is certain," returned Ondikik, "and from the noise they are
making, I think the Fire-spouters are many.  But this is a good place to
fight them."

"Yes, we will wait here," said Gartok.

As he spoke Raventik was seen sweeping into view from behind a point in
the middle of the most rapid part of the river, and plying his long
paddle with the intense energy of one whose life depends on his
exertions.  The Eskimos on the knoll gazed in breathless anxiety.  A few
minutes later the canoe of Magadar swept into view.

"The Fire-spouters!" exclaimed Ondikik.

"Three men in it!" cried Gartok.  Then, as one after another of the
canoes came into view, "Four! six! ten of them, and three men in each!"

"And all with fire-spouters!" gasped the lieutenant.

"Come," exclaimed Gartok, "it is time for us to go!"

The Eskimos were by no means cowardly, but when they saw that the
approaching foe was double their number, and reflected that there might
be more behind them, all armed with guns, it was no wonder that they
bethought themselves of retreat.  To do them full credit, they did not
move until their leader gave the word--then they sprang down the
hillock, and in three minutes more were out in their kayaks making for
the mouth of the river at their utmost speed.

On seeing this the Indians uttered a wild war-whoop and fired a volley.
But the distance between them was too great.  Only a few of the balls
reached the fugitives, and went skipping over the water, each wide of
its mark.

"Point high," said Magadar to Alizay, who had just re-charged his gun.

The Indian obeyed, fired, and watched for the result, but no visible
result followed.

"That is strange," muttered the chief; "my brother must have pointed too
high--so high that it has gone into the sun, for I never yet saw a
bullet fired over water without coming down and making a splash."

"It may have hit a canoe," said Alizay.  "I will try again."

The second shot was, to all appearance, not more effective than the
first.

"Perhaps my brother forgot to put in the balls."

"Is Alizay a squaw?" asked the insulted brave angrily.

Magadar thought it wise to make no answer to this question, and in a few
seconds more the kayaks doubled round a point that jutted into the
stream and were hid from view.

But the two bullets had not missed their billets.  One--the first
fired--had dropped into Gartok's canoe and buried itself in his left
thigh.  With the stoicism of a bold hunter, however, he uttered no cry,
but continued to wield his paddle as well as he could.  The other ball
had pierced the back of his lieutenant Ondikik.  He also, with the
courage of a savage warrior, gave no sign at first that he was wounded.

At this point, where the Eskimos were for a time sheltered by the
formation of the land, the Greygoose River had a double or horse-shoe
bend; and the Indians, who knew the lie of the land well, thought it
better to put ashore and run quickly over a neck of land in the hope of
heading the kayaks before they reached the sea.  Acting on this belief
they thrust their canoes in among the reeds, and, leaping on shore,
darted into the bushes.

The Eskimos, meanwhile, knowing that they could beat the Indians at
paddling, and that the next bend in the stream would reveal to them a
view of the open sea, kept driving ahead with all the force of their
stout arms.  They also knew that the firing would have alarmed their
women and induced them to embark in their oomiak, push off to sea, and
await them.

And this would have turned out as they had expected, but for an
unforeseen event which delayed the women in their operations until too
late--at least for one of the party.

CHAPTER SIX.

A SURPRISE, A STRUGGLE, AND A CAPTURE.

When the Eskimo women, as before related, made up their minds to discard
the cooking-lamp and indulge in the luxury of a wood fire, they sent one
of their number into the bush to gather sticks.  The one selected for
this duty was Rinka, she being active and willing, besides being
intelligent, which last was a matter of importance in one totally
unaccustomed to traversing the pathless woods.

The girl obeyed orders at once, and soon had collected a large armful of
dried branches, with which she prepared to return to the encampment.
But when she looked up at the small trees by which she was surrounded,
she felt considerably puzzled as to the direction in which she ought to
walk.  Of course, remembering that her back had been toward the sea when
she set out, nothing seemed simpler than to turn round with her face
towards it and proceed.  But she had not done this for many minutes,
when it occurred to her that she must have turned about more or less,
several times, during her outward journey.  This brought her to an
abrupt halt.  She looked up and around several times, and then, feeling
quite sure that the shore must lie in a certain direction pointed out by
Hope, set off in that direction at a good round pace.  As the wood
seemed to get thicker, however, she concluded that she was wrong, and
changed direction again.  Still the undergrowth became more dense, and
then, suddenly coming to the conclusion that she was lost, she stood
stock-still and dropped her bundle of sticks in dismay.

For a few moments she was stunned, as if her position were unbelievable.
Then she became horrified and shouted to her companions, but her
feeble, unassertive voice was unable to travel far, and drew forth no
response.  Indeed, she had wandered so far into the forest that, even if
possessed of a man's voice, she might have failed to attract the
attention of the women.  Then the sound of distant firing began to
salute her ears, and in an agony of anxiety she ran hither and thither
almost blindly.

But there were other ears besides those of Rinka which were startled by
the guns.

Sitting under a tree--all ignorant of the presence of his brethren or of
the warlike Indians--Cheenbuk was regaling himself on the carcass of a
fat willow-grouse which he had speared a little before the firing began.

Our Eskimo was making for the coast where he had left his kayak, and had
halted for a feed.  The sport in the woods, after its novelty wore off,
had lost interest for one whose natural game, so to speak, was bears and
walruses, and he was on his way back when this rattle of musketry
arrested him.

The sudden eruption of it was not more puzzling to him than its abrupt
cessation.  Could it be that some of his tribe had followed him to the
river and fallen in with the men of the woods?  He thought it not
unlikely, and that, if so, his assistance, either as fighter or
peacemaker, might be required.

Bolting the remainder of the willow-grouse precipitately, he jumped up,
grasped his weapons, and made for the coast, as near as he could guess,
in the direction of the firing.

It happened, at the same time, that one of the young Indians, who was on
his first war-path, and thirsted for scalps as well as distinction,
chanced to keep a more easterly direction than his fellows, when they
took to the bush, as already related.  This man, coming to an open glade
whence he could see the shore, beheld the Eskimo women launching their
oomiak in a state of frantic alarm.  They were also signalling or
beckoning eagerly as if to some one in the woods.  Casting a hurried
glance to his right, he observed poor Rinka, who had just got clear of
the forest, and was running towards her companions as fast as her short
legs could carry her.

Without a moment's hesitation, he took aim at her and fired.  The poor
girl uttered a loud shriek, threw up her arms, and fell to the ground.
It chanced that Cheenbuk was within a hundred yards of the spot at the
moment, but the bushes prevented his seeing what had occurred.  The
report, however, followed by the woman's shriek, was a sufficient spur
to him.  Darting forward at full speed, he quickly cleared the underwood
and came suddenly in view of a sight that caused every nerve in his body
to tingle--Rinka prostrate on the ground with blood covering her face
and hands, and the young Indian standing over her about to operate with
the scalping-knife.

The howl of concentrated rage and horror uttered by Cheenbuk instantly
checked the savage, and made him turn in self-defence.  He had run to
finish his horrible work, and secure the usual trophy of war without
taking time to re-load his gun, and was thus almost unarmed.  Grasping
his powder-horn he attempted to rectify this error--which would never
have been committed by an experienced warrior,--but before he could
accomplish half the operation, the well-aimed spear of Cheenbuk went
whistling through the air, and entering his chest came out at his back.
He fell dead almost without a groan.

Cheenbuk did not stop to finish the work by stabbing or scalping, but he
kneeled beside the wounded girl and gently raised her.

"Rinka," he said, softly, while he undid her jacket and sought for the
wound, "is it bad?  Has he killed you?"

"I feel that I am dying.  There is something here."  She laid her hand
upon her side, from a small wound in which blood was issuing freely.

The heart of the man was at once torn by tender pity and bitter
indignation, when he thought of the gentle nature of the poor creature
who had been thus laid low, and of the savage cruelty of the Indian who
had done it--feelings which were not a little complicated by the
reflection that the war-spirit--that is, the desire to kill for mere
self-glorification--among some of his own people had probably been the
cause of it all.

"It is useless.  I am dying," gasped the girl, drawing her bloody hand
across her forehead.  "But don't leave me to fall into the hands of
these men.  Take me home and let me die beside my mother."

She was yet speaking when old Uleeta and her companions came forward.
Seeing that no other Indian appeared, and that the one who had shot
Rinka was dead, they had quelled their alarm and come to see what had
occurred.  Cheenbuk, after stanching the flow of blood, availed himself
of their aid to carry the wounded girl to the oomiak more comfortably
than could have been possible if he had been obliged to carry her in his
own strong arms.

With much care they placed her in the bottom of the boat, then the women
got in, and Cheenbuk was about to follow, when the report of a gun was
heard, and a bullet whizzed close past old Uleeta's head--so close,
indeed, that it cut off some of her grey hair.  But the old creature was
by no means frightened.

"Quick, jump in!" she cried, beginning to push off with her paddle.

Cheenbuk was on the point of accepting the invitation, but a thought
intervened--and thought is swifter than the lightning-flash.  He knew
from slight, but sufficient, experience that the spouters could send
only one messenger of death at a time, and that before another could be
spouted, some sort of manipulation which took time was needful.  If the
Indian should get the manipulation over before the oomiak was out of
range, any of the women, as well as himself, might be killed.

"No," he cried, giving the boat a mighty shove that sent it out to sea
like an arrow, "be off!--paddle!--for life!  I will stop him!"

Old Uleeta did not hesitate.  She was accustomed to obedience--even when
there were no fire-spouters astern.  She bent to her paddle with Arctic
skill and vigour.  So did her mates, and the oomiak darted from the
shore while the Indian who had fired the shot was still agonising with
his ramrod--for, happily, breech-loaders were as yet unknown.

Cheenbuk was quite alive to his danger.  He rushed up the beach towards
his foe with a roar and an expression of countenance that did not
facilitate loading.  Having left his spear in the body of the first
Indian, he was unarmed, but that did not matter much to one who felt in
his chest and arms the strength of Hercules and Samson rolled into one.
So close was he to the Indian when the operation of priming was reached,
that the man of the woods merely gave the stock of his gun a slap in the
desperate hope that it would prime itself.

This hope, in the artillery used there at that time, was not often a
vain hope.  Indeed, after prolonged use, the "trade gun" of the
"Nor'-west" got into the habit of priming itself--owing to the enlarged
nature of the touch-hole--also of expending not a little of its force
sidewise.  The consequence was that the charge ignited when the trigger
was pulled, and the echoes of the cliffs were once more awakened; but
happily the Eskimo had closed in time.  Grasping the barrel he turned
the muzzle aside, and the ball that was meant for his heart went
skipping out to sea, to the no small surprise of the women in the
oomiak.

And now, for the second time since he had landed on those shores, was
Cheenbuk engaged in the hated work of a hand-to-hand conflict with a
foe!

But the conditions were very different, for Alizay was no match for the
powerful Eskimo--in physique at least, though doubtless he was not much,
if at all, behind him in courage.

Cheenbuk felt this the moment they joined issue, and on the instant an
irresistible sensation of mercy overwhelmed him.  Holding the gun with
his right hand, and keeping its muzzle well to one side, for he did not
feel quite certain as to its spouting capacities, he grasped the
Indian's throat with his left.  Quick as lightning Alizay, with his free
hand, drew his scalping-knife and struck at the Eskimo's shoulder, but
not less quick was Cheenbuk in releasing the throat and catching the
Indian's wrist with a grip that rendered it powerless.

For a minute the Eskimo remained motionless, considering how best to
render his adversary insensible without killing him.

That minute cost him dear.  Five of Alizay's comrades, led by Magadar,
came upon the scene, and, as it happened, Cheenbuk's back chanced to be
towards them.  They did not dare to fire, for fear of hitting their
comrade, but they rushed unitedly forward with tomahawk and
scalping-knife ready.

"Take him alive," said Magadar.

Cheenbuk heard the voice.  He disposed of poor Alizay by hurling him
away as if he had been a child, and was in the act of facing round when
Magadar threw his arms round his body and held him.  To be seized thus
from behind is to most men a serious difficulty, but our Eskimo made
short work of his assailant.  He bent forward with his head to the
ground so violently that the Indian was flung completely over him, and
fell flat on his back, in which position he remained motionless.  But it
was impossible for Cheenbuk to cope with the other four Indians, who
flung themselves on him simultaneously, and seized him by arms, legs,
and throat.

Of course they could have brained or stabbed him easily, but,
remembering their chief's order to take the man alive, they sought to
quell him by sheer force.  Stout and sinewy though the four braves were,
they had their hands full during a good many minutes, for the Eskimo's
muscles were tougher and harder than india-rubber; his sinews resembled
whip-cord, and his bones bars of iron.  So completely was he overwhelmed
by the men who held him down, that little or nothing of him could be
seen, yet ever and anon, as he struggled, the four men seemed to be
heaved upward by a small earthquake.

Alizay, who had risen, stood looking calmly on, but rendered no
assistance, first, because there was no room for him to act, and second,
because his left wrist had been almost broken by the violence of the
throw that he had received.  As for Magadar, he was only beginning to
recover consciousness, and to wonder where he was!

Suddenly Cheenbuk ceased to strive.  He was a crafty Eskimo, and a
thought had occurred to him.  He would sham exhaustion, and, when his
foes relaxed their grip, would burst away from them.  He knew it was a
forlorn hope, for he was well aware that, even if he should succeed in
getting away, the spouters would send messengers to arrest him before he
had run far.  But Cheenbuk was just the man for a forlorn hope.  He rose
to difficulties and dangers as trouts to flies on a warm day.  The
Indians, however, were much too experienced warriors to be caught in
that way.  They eased off their grip with great caution.  Moreover
Magadar, having risen, and seeing how things were going, took off his
belt and made a running noose of it.  He passed the loop deftly round
Cheenbuk's legs and drew it tight, while the others were still trying
vainly to compress his bull-neck.

The moment that Cheenbuk felt the noose tighten on his legs he knew that
it was all over with him.  To run or fight with his legs tied would be
impossible, so, like a true philosopher, he submitted to the inevitable
and gave in.  His captors, however, did not deem it wise or safe to
relax their hold until they had swathed his body with deerskin thongs;
then they removed the belt from his legs and assisted him to rise.

It is not the custom of Indians to indulge in much conversation with
vanquished foes.  They usually confine their attentions to scowling,
torturing, and ultimately to killing and scalping them.  The Dogribs who
had captured Cheenbuk could not speak the Eskimo tongue, and being
unaware of his linguistic powers, did not think it possible to speak to
him, but one of their number stood by him on guard while the others dug
a grave and buried the Indian whom he had slain.

We have already made reference to our young Eskimo's unusually advanced
views in regard to several matters that do not often--as far as we
know--exercise the aboriginal mind.  While he stood there watching the
Indians, as they silently toiled at the grave, his thoughts ran somewhat
in the following groove:--

"Poor man!  Sorry I killed him, but if I had not he would have killed
me--and then, perhaps, some of the women, for they had not got far away,
and I don't know how far the spouter can send its little arrows.  I
wonder if they _are_ little.  They must be surely, for I've never seen
one.  Hoi! hoi! what fools men are to kill one another!  How much better
to let each other alone!  I have killed _him_, poor man! and they will
kill me.  What then?  The ice and snow will come and go all the same.
No one will be the better for it when we are gone.  Some will surely be
the worse.  Some wife or mother may have to rub her eyes for him.  No
one will care much for _me_.  But the walrus and the seal-hunt will not
be so big when I am gone.  I wonder if the Maker of all cares for these
things!  He must--else he would not have made us and put us here!  Did
he make us to fight each other?  Surely not.  Even I would not shape my
spear to destroy my kayak--and he must be wiser than me.  Yet he never
speaks or shows himself.  If I had a little child, would I treat it so?
No--I must be wrong, and he must be right.  Speech is not always with
the tongue.  Now it comes to my mind that we speak with the eyes when we
look fierce or pleased.  Perhaps he whispers to me inside, sometimes,
and I have not yet learned to understand him."

Cheenbuk had now dropped into one of his frequent reveries, or trains of
thought, in which he was apt to forget all that was going on around him,
and he did not waken from it until, the burial being concluded, one of
the Indians touched him on the shoulder and pointed to Magadar, who had
shouldered his gun and was entering the bushes.

Understanding this to be a command to follow, he stepped out at once.
The others fell into line behind him, and thus, bound and a captive, our
Eskimo turned his back finally--as he believed--on what we may style his
native home--the great, mysterious northern sea.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

FLIGHT AND MISFORTUNE.

While the scene we have described was being enacted, the other Indians,
who had crossed the neck of land for the purpose of cutting off the men
in the kayaks, failed in the attempt, partly owing to the distance being
greater than their memories had assigned to it, and partly to the great
speed of the kayaks when propelled by strong men fleeing for their
lives.

All the kayaks were well out of gunshot range when the shore was
reached, except one which lagged behind.  At this one the Indians
discharged several volleys, but without effect, and soon after, it also
was beyond range.

The little vessel which thus lagged behind belonged to the unfortunate
Gartok, whose leg, it will be remembered, was wounded by one of the
balls discharged by Alizay.  Despite his energy, and desperate though
the situation was, Gartok could not overcome the depressing influence of
pain and haemorrhage.  He fell gradually behind the others, each of whom
was too anxious about his own safety to think much of his comrades.

When the firing ceased and the flotilla was well out of range, Gartok
laid down his paddle and bound up his wounded limb with some scraps of
seal-skin; at the same time, hailing the kayak nearest to him.  As soon
as it was discovered that their chief was wounded, all the Eskimos came
clustering round him.  Among them was his lieutenant Ondikik.

"You also are wounded," said Gartok, observing the pallor of his face.

"Yes; I can find no arrow, but there is blood."

"Is it bad?" asked the chief, with an angry exclamation at their
misfortune.

"I cannot tell," replied Ondikik, "but--"

He finished the sentence in the most expressive manner by fainting dead
away, and falling over to one side so heavily that he would have
infallibly upset the little craft if his comrades had not been close at
hand to prevent that catastrophe.

"Hail the oomiak!" cried Gartok, in a voice that, for him, felt
singularly feeble.  "Put him into it, and let two of the women change
with two of the men."

In a few minutes the women's large open boat was alongside, and poor
Ondikik was, with some difficulty, transferred to it.  Two men then gave
up their kayaks to two of the women, and took their places in the
oomiak.  While this was being done some of the people gave a shout of
alarm, for it was observed that Gartok himself had quietly fallen back
in a state of insensibility.

The men, therefore, lifted him also out of his kayak and laid him beside
his lieutenant.

This accomplished, the little fleet paddled out to sea, and they soon
lost sight of the Arctic shore.  They did not again pause until they
reached a group of small islets, on one of which they encamped for the
night.

Fortunately the weather at this time was calm and warm, so that those
hardy inhabitants of the icy north required no better lodging or bed
than the cold ground, with the star-spangled sky for curtains.  With
lamps flaring, seal-steaks and wild-fowl simmering, and hot oil flowing,
they quickly made themselves comfortable--with the exception, of course,
of the warlike Gartok and the hot-headed Ondikik.  These two, being
fellow-sufferers, were laid beside each other, in order, perhaps, to
facilitate mutual condolence.  To do them justice, they did not grumble
much at their fate, but entertained each other with a running commentary
on the events of the day.

"And that is strange news that my old mother tells me," resumed Gartok,
after a short pause in the conversation.  "Cheenbuk must have given the
Fire-spouters sore heads from the way he gripped them."

"I wish I had been there," growled Ondikik.

"I'm glad I was _not_ there," returned Gartok.  "I could not have saved
him from so many, and it would not have been pleasant to go into
slavery--if not to torture and death.  Poor Cheenbuk! he was ever
against war--yet war has been forced on him.  I fear we shall never see
him again.  Hoi! my leg is bad.  I can't understand how the
Fire-spouters could hit it without the little thing going through my
back first."

"I wish all the Fire-spouters were deep in the inside of a whale's
belly," growled Ondikik, whose wound was beginning to render him
feverish and rusty.  "Arrows and spears can be pulled out, but when the
little spouter things go in we don't know where they go to.  They
disappear and leave an ugly hole behind them."

At this point Raventik, on whom the command had devolved, came forward
with a choice piece of juicy walrus blubber on a flat stone for a plate.

"Our chiefs will eat," he said, "it will do them good--make their hearts
strong and ease the wounds."

"No," said Gartok decisively, "none for me."

"Take it away!" cried the other sharply.

"No?" exclaimed Raventik in surprise.  You see, he had never in his life
been wounded or ill, and could not understand the possibility of
refusing food, except when too full of it.  Being a sympathetic soul,
however, he pressed it on the invalids, but received replies so very
discouraging that he was induced to forbear.

Old Uleeta turned out to be a more intelligent, it not more kindly,
nurse.  After she had eaten her supper and succeeded in bolting the last
bite that had refused to go down when she could eat no more, she came
forward with a bladder full of water, and some rabbit-skins, for the
purpose of dressing the wounds.

"Gently, mother," said Gartok with a suppressed groan, "you lay hold of
me as if I were a seal."

"You are quite as self-willed, my son," replied the old woman.  "If you
had not gone out to fight you would not have come back with a hole in
your leg."

"If I had not come into the world I should not have been here to trouble
you, mother."

"There's truth in that, my son," returned the woman, as if the idea were
new to her.

At this Ondikik groaned--whether at the contemptibly obvious character
of the idea, or at ideas in general, or in consequence of pain, we
cannot tell.

"You said, mother, that Cheenbuk gave them a good deal of trouble?"

"Ay, he gave them sore hearts and sore bodies."

"They deserved it! what right had they to come with their fire-spouters
to attack us?"

"What right had you to go without your fire-spouters to attack _them_?"
demanded old Uleeta, somewhat maliciously.

Gartok, who was destitute neither of intelligence nor of humour,
laughed, but the laugh slid into a most emphatic "hoi!" as his mother
gave the leg a wrench.

"Softly, mother, softly!  Treat me as you did when I was so big," he
exclaimed, indicating about one foot six between his hands.

The old woman chuckled, or rather "hee! hee'd!" a little and continued:

"Yes, Cheenbuk fought like a bear.  We could not see him, for they were
all on top of him at once, but hi! how he made them heave!  I wonder
they did not use their knives."

"They felt sure they had him," said her son, "they wanted to drive him
to their huts and kill him slowly to amuse their women."

This was such a horrible idea that the old woman became unusually grave.

"These Fire-spouters are worse than white bears," she said, "for these
never torture other beasts, though they often kill them."

"True, mother.  Now I wish you would go away and leave my leg alone.
Ondikik there needs your help.  Go to him and hurt him as much as you
please.  I won't grumble."

"You were always a thankless boy--ever since you could speak," replied
the dame, reproachfully.

"Did you ever hear of any one being thankless before he could speak?--
hoi! mother, you've tied it too tight.  Slack it a little."

After complying with her son's request, old Uleeta went to Ondikik, to
whom, however, she could render but little service, owing to the nature
of his wound.  Then she paid a visit to Rinka, whose injuries, however,
proved to be more alarming than severe; after which she joined the rest
of the tribe at supper.

While the Eskimos were thus proceeding to their home among the islands
of the Arctic sea, the captors of Cheenbuk were paddling up-stream to
the lands of the Dogrib Indians.

At first the stout Eskimo meditated an attempt to escape.  Indeed he
made one vigorous effort when they were leading him through the bush
with his hands tied behind him.  Just as they came to the place where
the canoes were lying, the thought of home, and of his probable fate as
a prisoner, pressed so heavily on him that he suddenly became furious,
tripped up the man beside him with his foot, kicked over the one behind
him with his heel, ran his head like a battering-ram into the back of
the man in front of him, and then strove to burst his bonds with a
succession of mighty wriggles, but, not being quite equal to Samson, he
failed, and on seeing that two savages stood over him with drawn
scalping-knives, while Magadar put the muzzle of a gun to his head, he
deemed it wise to give in and uttered the exclamation "hoi!" with the
air of one who feels that his game is played out.  He marched forward
after that in submissive silence.

On reaching the canoes, however, a fresh burst of indignation assailed
him, and for a moment he meditated sending his foot through the bottom
of the frail craft which was to carry him into exile, but on second
thoughts he decided to delay the performance of that violent measure
till they were well out in the middle of the current, when there would
be the chance of drowning some of his foes as well as himself.  By the
time the desired position was reached, however, his spirit had calmed
down a little and his philosophic mind--to say nothing of his heart--had
begun to suggest the uselessness of gratifying his feelings by a revenge
which he probably could not enjoy much while in the process of drowning,
and, doubtless, could not enjoy at all after he was drowned.

Thus it came to pass that our hero restrained his passions, and, in
process of time, found himself a prisoner in one of the lodges of the
Dogrib Indians.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN THE HOUR OF NEED.

On reaching the Indian village Cheenbuk was firmly bound to a tree a
little way outside the camp, and left there to his meditations, while
his captors went to the old chief's tent to hold a council.

Meanwhile the women and children went to look at the captive.  Among
them were Adolay and her mother.  The moment the former set eyes on
Cheenbuk she recognised him as the youth who had rescued her mother from
drowning the previous year.

"Mother," she whispered, drawing her parent aside, "that is him!  Don't
you remember him?"

"I think it is," returned Isquay, gazing steadily at the Eskimo, who
looked at the crowd which surrounded him with a gaze of supreme
contempt, though he did not by any means feel contemptuous.

"Come, mother," said Adolay, with sudden earnestness, "he has not
recognised us in the crowd.  I must go and find out what the braves are
palavering."

As she spoke she drew her mother towards their own lodge, and there left
her while she hurried on to the council-tent.  In the shelter of some
bushes she crept as near to it as possible.

There was no difficulty in making out what was said, for the warriors
made no secret of their intentions, and spoke in loud tones.

"He shall die," was the remark of Alizay just as the girl came within
hearing, "he has killed one of our braves."

"Ay, and he shall die by torture," said Magadar, who was a relation of
the man that had been slain.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed most of the warriors in tones of approval, but there
were a few among them who were silent.  They leaned to mercy's side.

"Better to spare his life and make a slave of him," said one of these,
"we can keep him always tied like a bad dog till we need him; then we
can loose his legs and make him drag our sledges."

"The brave who has spoken is young," said the old chief.  "He does not
know much about men.  Will not the Eskimo watch for his chance, get free
from his bonds, kill some of us when we are off our guard, and, perhaps,
escape?"

"That is so.  He must be killed," remarked Magadar, with a glance of
scorn at the merciful youth, "and the sooner the better."

"Let us do it at once," said one of the blood-thirsty.

On hearing this the heart of Adolay beat anxiously, and for a few
moments she was undecided whether to run to the tree to which the Eskimo
was bound and set him free by cutting his bonds, or enter the
council-tent, tell the story of his having saved her mother's life, and
plead that the youth's might be spared.  Both courses, she knew, were
about equally desperate.  If she were to follow the first, all the
children would see her do it, and give the alarm, in which case the
Eskimo would be pursued and certainly recaptured, for a fugitive in a
strange country would have no chance with men well acquainted with every
nook and corner of their native land.  Besides which, she knew not what
terrible punishment might be inflicted on herself for making such an
attempt.  On the other hand, for a woman to violate the sanctity of a
council-tent was so unprecedented that she felt sure it would be sternly
resented, and, therefore, useless.

Fortunately she was saved the necessity of acting on either alternative
by the arguments of the next speaker, who was one of the blood-thirsty
braves.

"Let us not be in haste like women and children," he said; "if we leave
him bound to the tree all night he will have time to think of the fate
that is coming, and we shall have good sunlight in the morning, which
will enable even the oldest squaw to see well."

After some palaver it was agreed that the execution of Cheenbuk should
be postponed to the following day, and that a sentinel should be posted
beside him during the night to make sure that he did not manage to undo
his fastenings and escape.

On hearing this decision arrived at, Adolay crept back into the bush and
hastened to her mother's tent.

"They have fixed to kill him, mother," she exclaimed, anxiously, on
entering.

"I expected that, and I'm sorry," returned Isquay, "but we cannot help
it.  What can women do?  The men will not mind what I say.  If only
Nazinred was here they would listen to _him_, but--"

"Yes, they always listen to father," interrupted the girl, with an
anxious frown on her pretty brows, "but as father is not here you must
do what you can for the man."

"You are very fond of him!" said the squaw with a keen look at her
daughter.

"Yes, I am very fond of him," replied Adolay with an air of unblushing
candour, "and I think, mother, that you should be fond of him too."

"So I am, girl, so I am, but what can I do?"

"You can go and tell the story to the old chief.  He is not hard, like
some of the young men.  Perhaps he may help us."

Isquay shook her head, but nevertheless agreed to try her influence with
the old man, and went out for that purpose.

Meanwhile Adolay, who had not herself much faith in her mother's
advocacy of the poor Eskimo's cause, resolved upon a separate course of
action.  Throwing a blanket over her head and shoulders, she started for
the place where Cheenbuk stood, scornfully regarding the little boys who
surrounded and insulted him by flourishing knives and hatchets close to
his defenceless nose.  They did not, however, dare to touch him, as the
time had not yet arrived for actual torture.

Running forward, Adolay, who was a favourite with the young people,
drove them back.

"Keep clear of him," she cried with a fierce glare in her eyes--which
was wonderfully realistic, considering that it was a mere piece of
acting--"I want to speak to him--to terrify him--to fill him with
horror!"

This was quite to the taste of the wretched little creatures, who fell
back in a semi-circle and waited for more.

"Can you understand my speech?" she demanded as she turned on Cheenbuk
with flashing eyes.

The Eskimo thought he had never seen such magnificent eyes before, and
wished much that they would look on him more kindly.

"Yes," he replied, "I understand a little."

"Listen, then," cried Adolay in a loud tone, and with looks more furious
than before.  "You are to die to-morrow."

"I expected it would be to-night," replied Cheenbuk calmly.

"And you are to be tortured to death!"  At this the boys set up a howl
of delight.  At the same time the girl advanced a step nearer the
captive, and said in a low voice hurriedly:

"I will save you.  Be ready to act--to-night."  The softened look and
altered tone opened the eyes of the captive.  Although the blanket
partially concealed Adolay's face, Cheenbuk at once recognised the girl
whose mother he had saved the previous spring.

"I am awake!" he said quietly, but with a glance of bright intelligence.

"Yes, you are doomed to die," continued Adolay, when the boys' howling
had subsided, "and if you are to be tortured, we will all come to see
how brave you are."

As she said this she went close up to the captive, as if to make her
words more emphatic, and shook her little fist in his face.  Then--in a
low voice--"You see the cliff behind me, with the dead tree below it?"

"Yes."

"Run for that tree when you are free--and _wait_."

Turning round, as though her rage was satisfied for the time being,
Adolay left the spot with a dark frown on her face.

"Leave him now, boys," she said in passing.  "Give him time to think
about to-morrow."

Whether it was the effect of this advice, or the fact that the shades of
evening were falling, and a feeding-time was at hand, we cannot say, but
in a short time Cheenbuk was left to his meditations.  He was, however,
quite within sight of several of the lodges.  As the daylight gradually
faded a young brave left his tent, and, shouldering his gun, went to the
place where the captive was bound.  Examining the bonds to make sure
that they were secure, the youth carefully renewed the priming of his
weapon, shouldered it, and began to pace to and fro.  His mode of
proceeding was to walk up to the captive, take a look at him, turn
round, and walk about thirty or forty yards away from him, and so on to
and fro without halt or variation for upwards of two hours.  During all
that time he uttered no word to the Eskimo.

Cheenbuk, on his part, took no notice whatever of his guard, but stood
perfectly still and looked with calm, lofty indifference over his head--
which he was well able to do, being a considerably taller man.

As the night advanced the darkness deepened, and the poor captive began
to entertain serious misgivings as to his prospects.  Would the girl try
to carry out the plan, whatever it was?  Yes, he had not the slightest
doubt on that head, because, somehow, she had inspired him with a
confidence that he had never felt in woman before.  But would she be
able to carry out her plan?  That was quite another question.  Then, the
darkness had become so intense that he could barely see the outline of
the cliff towards which he was to run, and could not see the dead tree
at all.  Moreover, it occurred to him that it would be impossible even
to walk, much less to run, over unknown and perhaps rough ground in
darkness so great that he could hardly see the trees around him; and
could only make out the whites of the sentinel's eyes when he came close
up.

It was therefore with a feeling of relief that he at length observed a
faint glow of light in the sky, which indicated the rising of the moon.

Soon afterwards a dark figure was seen approaching.  It was Alizay, the
blood-thirsty brave, who had come to relieve guard.

CHAPTER NINE.

TRYING MOMENTS AND PERPLEXING DOUBTS.

The first thing that the new sentinel did was carefully to examine the
cords that bound the captive to the tree, and tie one or two additional
knots to make him more secure.  Then he turned to the other Indian, and
asked sharply:--

"Has he been quiet?"

"Quiet as the tree to which he is bound."

"Has he uttered speech?"

"No."

"Good.  You may go.  I will watch him till morning: after that he will
need no more watching."

Alizay looked sharply at the Eskimo while he uttered these words,
perhaps to ascertain whether he understood their drift, but Cheenbuk's
visage was immovable, and his eyes were fixed, as if in meditation, on
the moon, which just then was beginning to rise over the cliffs and shed
a softened light over the Indian village.

The new sentinel shouldered his gun and began his vigil, while the other
left them.

But other ears had listened to the concluding words of Alizay.

The tree to which the Eskimo was bound stood close to the edge of the
bush, or underwood.  In front of it was an open space, up and down which
the sentinel marched.  Had the Indian dreamed of a traitor in the camp
he would not have deemed the captive's position as secure as it should
be, but the idea of any one in the village favouring a contemptible
eater-of-raw-flesh never once entered his imagination.

Nevertheless, Adolay was in the bush behind the tree, and not only heard
his words, but saw his movements.  Watching her opportunity when the
sentinel had just turned and was marching away from the tree, she cut,
with a scalping-knife, the cord that bound Cheenbuk's right arm and
placed the knife in his hand.  Almost at the same moment she slipped
back into the bush.

Cheenbuk made no attempt, however, to free himself.  The sentinel's beat
was too short to permit of his doing so without being observed.  He
therefore remained perfectly motionless in his former attitude.

It was a trying moment when the Indian approached to within a couple of
feet and looked him straight in the face, as was his wont at each turn.
But Cheenbuk was gifted with nerves of steel.  His contemplation of the
moon was so absorbing, that a civilised observer might have mistaken him
for an astronomer or a lunatic.  Alizay suspected nothing.  He turned
round, and the Eskimo allowed him to take about five paces before he
moved.  Then, with the speed of lightning, he ran the sharp blade down
his side, severing all his bonds at one sweep.

Next moment he was free, but he instantly resumed his former position
and attitude until his guard was within a yard of him.  Then he sprang
upon him, dropped the knife and seized him by the throat with both
hands, so tightly that he was quite incapable of uttering a cry.

Alizay made a vigorous struggle for life, but he had no chance with the
burly Eskimo, who quickly decided the fight by giving his adversary a
blow with his fist that laid him insensible on the ground.

Springing over his prostrate form he ran straight for the cliff that
Adolay had pointed out to him, leaping over fallen trees, and across
what looked like young chasms, in a state of reckless uncertainty as to
whether he would plunge into ponds or land at the bottom of precipices.
With a feeling of absolute confidence that the girl with the lustrous
eyes would not have told him to run where the feat was impossible, he
held on until he reached the bottom of the cliff and stood beside the
dead tree unhurt, though considerably winded.

There he resolved to wait according to orders.  To most ordinary men,
waiting, when they are filled with anxiety, is much more trying than
energetic action.  But Cheenbuk was not an ordinary man, therefore he
waited like a hero.

Meanwhile Adolay, having seen the Eskimo fairly in grips with the
sentinel, ran swiftly back towards the village, intending, before going
to Cheenbuk at the cliff, to let her mother know what she had done, and
what she still purposed to do--namely to embark with the Eskimo in a
birch-bark canoe, guide him across the small lake that lay near the
village, and show him the rivulet that would lead him into the Greygoose
River.  But she had not gone far, when, on turning a bush, she almost
ran into the arms of a young Indian girl named Idazoo, an event which
upset all her plans and perplexed her not a little--all the more that
this girl was jealous of her, believing that she was trying to steal
from her the affections of Alizay, whom she regarded as her own young
man!

"Why run you so fast?" asked the girl, as Adolay stood panting before
her.  "Have you seen a bad spirit?"

"Yes, I have seen a bad spirit," answered Adolay, (thinking of Alizay),
"I have seen two bad spirits," she added, (thinking of Idazoo).  "But I
cannot stop to tell you.  I have to--to--go to see--something very
strange to-night."

Now it must be told that Idazoo was gifted with a very large bump of
curiosity, and a still larger one, perhaps, of suspicion.  The brave
Alizay, she knew, was to mount guard over the Eskimo captive that night,
and she had a suspicion that Adolay had taken advantage of that fact to
pay the captive--not the Indian, oh dear no!--a visit.  Unable to rest
quietly in her tent under the powerful influence of this idea, she
resolved to take a walk herself--a sort of moonlight ramble as it were--
in that direction.  As we have seen, she met her friend, not
unexpectedly, on the way.

"I will go with you," she said, "to see this strange thing, whatever it
be.  There may be danger; two are better than one, and, you know, I am
not easily frightened."

Poor Adolay was dismayed by this proposition, and hurried forward, but
Idazoo kept pace with her.  Suddenly she made up her mind, and, changing
her direction, made for the cliff at a rapid run, closely followed by
her jealous friend, who was resolved to see the mystery out.

She purposely led her companion round in such a way that they came
suddenly upon the waiting Eskimo, whose speaking visage betrayed his
surprise at seeing two girls instead of one.

On beholding Cheenbuk standing there unbound, Idazoo stopped short, drew
back, and gazed at him in alarm as well as surprise.

"You have now seen the strange sight I spoke of, but you must not tell
it in the lodges," said Adolay.

Without answering her, Idazoo turned to fly, but Adolay grasped her by
the wrist and held her tight--at the same time motioning with her hand
to Cheenbuk.

The Eskimo was prompt as well as intelligent.  He did not wait for
explanations or allow surprise to delay him.  With a bound he was beside
the girls, had grasped Idazoo, and looked to Adolay for further
instructions.

"Hold her till I tie up her hands," she said, drawing a stout line of
deerskin from a pocket in the breast of her dress.

With this she proceeded to bind her inquisitive friend's wrists.
Perceiving that she was to be made a captive, the girl opened her mouth
and began a shriek, which, had it been allowed full play, would no doubt
have reached her friends in the village, but Cheenbuk had observed the
intention, and before the first note had struggled into being, he
clapped his hand on her mouth and quenched it.  Idazoo wore round her
neck a brightly coloured cotton kerchief, such as the fur-traders of
those days furnished for barter with the Indians.  Cheenbuk quietly
plucked this off her neck and tied it firmly round her face and mouth so
as to effectually gag her.  This done they fastened her to the stem of
the dead tree.

The whole operation was performed without unnecessary rudeness, and with
great celerity.

"Now, Idazoo," said Adolay, when they had finished, "you have done me
great injury this night.  I am sorry to treat you in this way, but I
cannot help it.  You _would_ come with me, you know.  If I could trust
you even now, I would take the cloth off your mouth, but I dare not, you
might yell, and everybody knows you were never good at keeping your
promises.  But it does not matter much.  The handkerchief is not too
tight to prevent the air getting up your nose--and it will give your
tongue a rest, which it needs.  Besides, the night is not cold, and as
our braves pass here every morning when starting off to hunt, you will
soon be set free."

The Eskimo showed all his brilliant teeth from ear to ear while this
little speech was being made.  Then he accompanied Adolay through the
bush until they reached the shores of a small lake, beside which a
birch-bark canoe was lying, partly in the water.  At an earlier part of
that evening the girl had placed the canoe there, and put into it
weapons and provisions suitable for a considerable voyage.

"You have got this ready for me?" said Cheenbuk.

"Yes.  You saved my mother's life once, and I will save yours," replied
the girl, pointing to the bow of the canoe as if ordering him to embark.

"Are you going with me?" asked the youth, with a look of hopeful
surprise and a very slight flutter of the heart.

"You do not know the lake.  I will guide you to the place where the
little river runs out of it, and then, by following that, you will get
into Greygoose River, which I think you know."

The Eskimo's heart ceased to flutter, and the hope died out of his
expressive eyes as he said, still hesitating, "But--but--I am very heavy
and you are very light.  A canoe does not go well with its head deep in
the water.  Don't you think that I should sit behind and steer?"

"And where would you steer to?" asked Adolay, with a somewhat pert
smile.  "Besides, look there," she added, pointing to the stern of the
little craft, "do Eskimos not use their eyes?"

Cheenbuk used his eyes as directed, and saw that a heavy stone had been
placed in the stern so as to counteract the difference of weight.  With
an air of humility, therefore, he stepped into his allotted place, took
up a paddle and sat down.  Adolay pushed the craft into deeper water,
stepped lightly in, and, giving a vigorous shove, sent it skimming out
on the lake.  Then the two dipped their paddles with a will, and shot
over the water like an arrow.

Profound silence was maintained until the other end of the lake was
reached, when the moon came out from a bank of clouds and enabled the
girl to find the reedy source of the little river without difficulty.

"We will land here and lift the canoe past the reeds," she said,
steering the little craft to the side of a grassy bank.

Walking along this bank, and guiding the canoe with their hands, they
soon came to an open space in the forest, whence they could see the
rivulet winding like a thread of silver through the land in front of
them.

"This is the place where we must part," said Adolay with a sudden
determination of manner which surprised and puzzled the Eskimo.  "You
have now no further need for me.  You have only to go straight on with
the running of the water.  There are only two falls on the way, but you
will hear the noise before you come to them, and you have only to lift
the canoe a short way through the bush to the still water below the
falls.  Our braves often do that; you will find it quite easy."

"I know something of that," returned Cheenbuk; "we have no falls in our
great salt lake, but we have plenty big lumps of ice, and when these are
like to crush together we have to jump out of our kayaks and lift them
out of the water--ho! and we do it quick too, sometimes, or we get
squeezed flat.  But if I go on with the canoe how will you get home?
You cannot swim back."

"I can walk round the lake.  Are the Eskimo girls not able to walk, that
you ask such a question?" said the girl, raising her dark eyes with
something of an amused look to the face of her companion, who was
looking anxiously down at her.

"Oh yes, they can walk well.  Ay, and run too when needful.  But--but--
I'm sorry that we must part.  Must!--why must?"

The youth said this in a meditative tone, for it had occurred to him for
a moment that the girl was now in his power; that he could compel her to
get into the bow of the canoe, and might steer her to his home at
Waruskeek if he chose, whether she would or no.  But Cheenbuk's soul was
chivalrous.  He was far in advance of his kindred and his times.  He
scorned himself for having even thought of such a thing for a moment;
and it was with an air of profound humility that he continued--

"Must--of course you must.  One of the young braves would have a sore
heart if you did not return."

"No one that I know of," she replied quickly.  "I care not for the
braves; but my mother would have a sore heart if I did not return.  Yet
I fear to go back, for that Idazoo will tell, and perhaps they will kill
me for helping you to escape."

"Then you must _not_ go back," said the Eskimo stoutly.  "Come with me
and I will take good care of you."

"No, I cannot," returned the girl thoughtfully; I cannot forsake my
mother and father in such a way without even a word at parting.

"What is your name?" asked the youth promptly.  "Mine is Cheenbuk."

"They call me Adolay; that, in our language, means the summer-time."

"Well, Adolay, I don't know what my name, Cheenbuk, means--perhaps it
means winter-time.  Anyhow, listen to me.  If there is any chance of you
being killed you must _not_ go back.  I will take you to my mother's
igloe and you will live with her."

"Have you, too, got a mother?" asked Adolay with interest.

"Ho! yes; and a father too--and they're both fat and heavy and kind.
When they come to know that you have been so kind to me, they will
receive you with joy."

"No," said Adolay, shaking her small head decidedly, "I _will_ not go.
They may kill me if they like, but I will never forsake my mother."

"Are you determined?"

"Yes--for sure."

"Then so am I," said Cheenbuk, taking hold of the canoe and turning the
bow up-stream.  "Get in, Adolay, and we will return to the lodges of
your people and die together."

Cheenbuk had a way of saying and doing things that convinced his hearers
that he was thoroughly in earnest.  The Indian girl felt this, and
regretted much that she had said anything at all about her danger.  She
now tried to counteract the evil.

"What do you mean?" she said, anxiously.

"I mean that I am not afraid to go back and die with you."

"But it is not certain," she replied, "that they will kill me.  If my
father was at home they would not dare to do it, and perhaps they will
be afraid of his revenge when he comes back.  But for you there is no
chance at all.  They will be sure to kill you with slow tortures."

"I care not.  If I go back they will not be so likely to kill you.  But
listen to me, Adolay.  I have a thought.  If you come with me to my home
in Waruskeek I will take you safe to my father's igloe, and you shall
live with my mother and sister.  I will not ask you to be my squaw, but
you will stay with them till we collect a strong band of young men, when
we will go to visit your people and take you with us.  If they are
friendly--well, and we can traffic together.  If they receive us ill
there will be a fight--that is all.  I do not like fighting--but