Part 19 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIII
THE CAMP ON THE COPPERMINE
It was mid-afternoon when Brent drank the last of the liquor and threw the bottle into the snow. He was very drunk, and with the utmost gravity, halted the outfit and commanded the Indian to turn the dogs and strike out on the trail of Claw. But Joe Pete merely shrugged, and started the dogs, whereupon Brent faced about and started over the back-trail. When he had proceeded a hundred yards the Indian halted the dogs, and strode swiftly after Brent, who was making poor going of it on his snowshoes. As Joe Pete understood his orders, the journey to the Mackenzie called for no side trips after hooch, and he made this fact known to Brent in no uncertain terms. Whereupon Brent cursed him roundly, and showed fight. It was but the work of a few moments for the big Indian to throw him down, tie him hand and foot and carry him, struggling and cursing, back to the sled, where he rode for the remainder of the day in a most uncomfortable position from which he hurled threats and malediction upon the broad back of the Indian.
The following morning Brent awoke long before daylight. His head ached fiercely and in his mouth was the bitter aftermath of dead liquor. In vain he sought sleep, but sleep would not come. Remorse and shame gripped him as it had never gripped him before. He writhed at the thought that only a day or two ago he had laughed at hooch, and had openly boasted that he was through with it and that he would not take a drink if he possessed a barrel of it. And, at the very first opportunity, he had taken a drink, and after that first drink, he had paid gold that was not his to use for such purpose for more hooch, and had deliberately drank himself drunk. The reviling and malediction which he had hurled at Joe Pete from the sled were words of gentle endearment in comparison with the terrible self-castigation that he indulged in as he tossed restlessly between his blankets and longed for the light of day. To be rid of the torture he finally arose, replenished the fire, and brewed many cups of strong tea. And when Joe Pete stepped from the tent in the grey of the morning it was to find breakfast ready, and Brent busy harnessing the dogs. In silence the meal was eaten, and in silence the two hit the trail. That day was a hard one owing to rough ice encountered upon the lower Gravel River, and the two alternated frequently between breaking trail and working at the gee-pole. The long snow trail had worked wonders for Brent physically, and by evening he had entirely thrown off the effects of the liquor. He ate a hearty supper, and over the pipes beside the fire the two men talked of gold.
As they turned in, Brent slapped Joe Pete on the back: ”Just forget what I said yesterday--I was a d.a.m.ned fool.”
The Indian shrugged: ”The hooch, she all tam' mak' de d.a.m.n fool. She no good. I ain' care w'at de hooch talk 'bout. Som' tam' you queet de hooch. Dat good t'ing. W'en you sober, you good man. You say, Joe Pete, you do lak dis. I do it. W'en de hooch say, Joe Pete you do lak som'
nodder way. I say go to h.e.l.l.”
At Fort Norman, Brent bought an additional dog team and outfitted for the trip to the Coppermine. Upon learning from Murchison, the factor, that the lower Coppermine, from Kendall River northward to the coast, had been thoroughly explored and prospected without finding gold, he decided to abandon the usual route by way of Dease Bay, Dease River, the Dismal Lakes, and the Kendall River, and swing southward to the eastern extremity of Conjuror Bay of Great Bear Lake, and then head straight across the barrens, to strike the upper reaches of the Coppermine in the region of Point Lake.
Murchison expressed doubt that there was gold upon any part of the Coppermine, ”If there is,” he added, ”No one's ever got any of it. An'
I'm doubtin' if there's any gold east of the Mackenzie. I've been on the river a good many years, an' I never saw any, except a few nuggets that an old squaw named Wananebish found years ago.”
”On the Coppermine?” asked Brent.
Murchison laughed: ”I don't know--an' she don't either. She found 'em, an' then her husband was drowned in a rapids and she pulled out of there and she claims she ain't never be'n able to locate the place since, an'
she's spent years huntin' for it an' draggin' a little band of worthless Injuns after her. They're over there now, somewhere. I heard they hit up Hare Indian River, along about the first of September. McTavish at Good Hope, give 'em debt to be rid of 'em. But I don't think they'll find any gold. The formation don't seem to be right on this side of the river.”
”Gold has been taken from the bottom of the sea, and from the tops of mountains,” reminded Brent, ”You know the old saying, 'Gold is where you find it.'”
”Aye,” answered Murchison, with a smile, ”But, east of the Mackenzie, gold is where you don't find it.”
The four hundred mile journey from Fort Norman to the Coppermine was accomplished in sixteen days. A permanent camp-site was selected upon the west bank of the river, and the two worked with a will in constructing a tiny log cabin, well within the shelter of a thick clump of spruce. Brent's eyes had lost the last trace of muddiness, the bloated unhealthy skin had cleared, and his flabby muscles had grown iron-hard so that he plunged into the work of felling and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees, and heaving at logs with a zest and enthusiasm that had not been his for many a long day. He had not even thought of a drink in a week.
When the cabin was finished and the last of the c.h.i.n.king rammed into place, he laughingly faced Joe Pete upon the trampled snow of the dooryard. ”Come on now, you old leather image!” he cried, ”Come and take your medicine! I owe you a good fall or two for the way you used me on the trail. You're heap _skook.u.m_, all right, but I can put you on your back! Remember you didn't handle the b.u.t.t ends of _all_ those logs!”
And thus challenged the big Indian, who was good for his two hundred pound pack on a portage, sailed in with a grin, and for ten minutes the only sounds in the spruce thicket were the sounds of sc.r.a.pping _mukluks_ on the hard-trampled snow, and the labored breathing of the straining men. Laughter rang loud as Brent twice threw the Indian, rolled him onto his back, and rubbed snow into his face, and then, still laughing, the two entered their cabin and devoured a huge meal of broiled caribou steaks, and pilot bread.
Supper over, Joe Pete lighted his pipe and regarded Brent gravely: ”On de trail,” he said, ”I handle you lak wan leetle baby. Now, you _skook.u.m tillic.u.m_. You de firs mans kin put Joe Pete on de back. De hooch, she no good for h.e.l.l!”
”You bet, she's no good!” agreed Brent, ”Believe me, I'm through with it. It's been a good while since I've even thought of a drink.”
Joe Pete seemed unimpressed: ”You ain't t'ink 'bout a drink cos you ain't got non. Dat better you keep 'way from it, or you t'ink 'bout it dam' queek.” And Brent, remembering that morning on the trail when he had said good bye to Claw, answered nothing.
For the next few days, while Joe Pete worked at the building of a cache, Brent hunted caribou. Upon one of these excursions, while following up the river, some three of four miles south of the cabin, he came suddenly upon a snowshoe trail. It was a fresh trail, and he had followed it scarcely a mile when he found other trails that crossed and recrossed the river, and upon rounding a sharp bend, he came abruptly upon an encampment. Three tiny log cabins, and a half-dozen tepees were visible in a grove of scraggling spruce that gave some shelter from the sweep of the wind. Beyond the encampment, the river widened abruptly into a lake.
An Indian paused in the act of hacking firewood from a dead spruce, and regarded him stolidly. Brent ascended the bank and greeted him in English. Receiving no response, he tried the jargon:
”_Klahowya, six?_”
The Indian glanced sidewise, toward one of the cabins, and muttered something in guttural. Then, the door of the cabin opened and a girl stepped out onto the snow and closed the door behind her. Brent stared, speechless, as his swift glance took in the details of her moccasins, deer-skin leggings, short skirt, white _capote_ and stocking cap. She held a high-power rifle in her mittened hand. Then their eyes met, and the man felt his heart give a bound beneath his tight-b.u.t.toned mackinaw.
Instantly, he realized that he was staring rudely, and as the blood mounted to his cheeks, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the cap from his head and stepped forward with hasty apology: ”I beg your pardon,” he stammered, ”You see, I had no idea you were here--I mean, I had not expected to meet a lady in the middle of this G.o.d-forsaken wilderness. And especially as I only expected to find Indians--and I hadn't even expected them, until I struck the trail on the river.” The man paused, and for the first time noted the angry flash of the dark eyes--noted, too, that the red lips curled scornfully.
”_I_ am an Indian,” announced the girl, haughtily, ”And, now you have found us--go!”