Part 24 (2/2)
Then they led the way, not into one of the small huts, but into the large central one.
”We are making him fit and warm and good,” they explained, ”for our big 'Melican masta. He come directly. To-day we see his boat not far off-- a two-stick boat, with plenty mooch sail.”
The ”two-stick boat” which the chiefs referred to was a saucy little Yankee yacht, that on this very morning was cruising off the island.
Our heroes spent several hours in the hut, seated by the blazing logs, listening delightedly to a description of the strange country these chiefs called their home--a country that few white men have ever yet visited, and where certainly none have ever wintered.
But I cannot repeat all the strangers told them about the manners and customs of their countrymen, the dress of the men and women, their fis.h.i.+ng and hunting exploits, their fierce though petty wars with other tribes, and the wonderful life they lead throughout the summer and during the long, drear, sunless season of winter.
”Ah!” said Rory, with a bit of a sigh, ”I do like to hear these men talk about their wild land in the Far West. We must come again and make them tell us a deal more. I've half a mind to set out with them when they return, and live among them for some months. I say, Ray, wouldn't it be glorious to go surging over the ice-fields drawn by a hundred fleet-footed hounds?”
”Drawn by a hundred hounds!” cried Allan, laughing. ”Draw it mild, Rory.”
”Well,” said Rory, ”more or less, you know.”
”Besides,” Ralph put in, ”these are not hounds, Rory; there is more of the wolf about them than the hound.”
”Och, botheration?” replied Rory; ”you're too particular. But if I went with these men, and dwelt among their tribes for a time, then I'd go to press when I came back to old England.”
”A book of adventure?” said Allan.
”Ah, yes!” said Rory; ”a book, if you please, but not dry-as-dust prose, my boys! I'd write an epic poem.”
Talking thus, away they went on an exploring expedition, Rory riding the high horse, building any number of castles in the air, and giving the reins to his wonderful imagination.
”I reckon, Mr Rory,” said Seth, ”that you'd make the fortune of any publisher that liked to take you up. You try New York, I guess that'd suit you; and, if you like, you shall write the life of old trapper Seth.”
”Glorious!” cried Rory; ”'A Life in the Forests of the Far West.'
Hurrah! I'll do it! You wait a bit. Look, look! What is that?”
”It's a white fox,” said Seth, bowling the animal over before the others had time to draw a bead on it.
But that white fox, with a few loons, and five guillemots--which, by the way, when skinned, are excellent eating--were all they bagged that day.
McBain and Stevenson had better luck though, they had seen a gigantic bear prowling around among the rough ice beneath the cliffs, and had called away a boat and gone after it.
”O! sah!” cried Freezing Powders, running up to McBain as he was going over the side. ”Don't go, sah! I can see de yellow bear's moder and two piccaninnies on de ice. She is one berry bad woman. She make you dance to please de piccaninnies, den she gobble your head off. Don't you go, sah! You not look nice widout a head. Dat am my impression, sah.”
There was nothing of the sensational about McBain's adventure with the bear, but something of the sad. The captain of the _Arrandoon_ was not the man to take the life of even a bear while in company of her young ones, but he well knew how terrible and how bloodthirsty such an animal is, and how cunning in her ferocity. He shuddered as he thought of Allan or Rory heedlessly pa.s.sing the cave or creva.s.se in the rocks where she lay concealed, and being pounced upon and dragged in to be torn limb from limb. So he determined she must die.
Once landed, they almost immediately sighted her, and gave chase. Alone she might have escaped; but in dread terror the young ones leapt on her back and thus hampered her movements. [She-bears with young ones are easily got up to and killed on this account.] She then turned fiercely at bay, coming swiftly on to the attack, bent upon a fearful vengeance if she could only accomplish it.
”Stand by, Stevenson,” cried McBain, dropping on one knee, ”to fire if I don't kill at once.”
The monster held her head low as she advanced, and a less experienced hunter would have made this the target. McBain knew better. He aimed at the lower part of the neck, and the bear fell pierced through the great artery of the heart. Yet so near had he allowed the animal to come before firing, that Stevenson, trembling for his safety, had brought his own rifle to the shoulder.
Then those two poor young bears stood up to fight for their dead dam, giving vent to growls of grief and rage.
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