The Bungalow Boys North of Fifty-Three

Then, as they neared the other party, which had come to a halt awaitingthem, old Joe breathed a caution.

  "Let me do zee talking. Boosh! Indians are hard to talk unless you knowdem, and den--not always easy. Tiens!"

  Old Joe did not drive right up to the Indians, who were squatting downon their sled. Instead, he halted at some little distance. Therefollowed an exchange of greetings in the Black River dialect, and thenpipes were produced and both sides, squaws and all, smoked gravely for atime. The boys looked on, much amused at all this ceremony, which,however, as old Joe knew, was necessary. To quote an old proverb, "Thelongest way round is the shortest way home," with an Indian.

  The Indian was a short, squat fellow with straight black hair. He wasvery dirty, but otherwise very like Pegic in appearance. One of thesquaws was old and very hideous. The other was a younger woman and notuncomely in a way. She was evidently considered a belle, for she washung lavishly with beadwork, while the homely old squaw did not displayany ornaments.

  Old Joe was the first to speak, addressing the man in his own dialect.We will translate the conversation that followed into "the King'sEnglish."

  "It is very fine weather. The traveling is very pleasant and the windgods sleep."

  The Indian nodded gravely.

  "It is even so, my white friend," said he. "The sky is soft as the cheekof a baby and the storm slumbers like an old man by the fire. But therewill come a change before long. Early to-day the river smoked, the frostwas low on the trees and the wind stirred in its dreams. Before long weshall get much snow and the wind, too, will awake and set out upon thetrail."

  "What you say may well be true," rejoined old Joe. "The same signs haveI noticed. But who are we that we should control the winds or thesnows?"

  Old Joe paused. The Indian did not reply, and for some moments they bothsmoked on in silence. Blue wreaths rose almost straight from their pipesin the still air. The cracking of the ice on the river alone broke thesilence.

  Then the Indian removed his pipe and spoke once more in his slow,measured tones.

  "The owl was abroad in the night and at daybreak my squaw's mother, theill-favored one yonder, did see one with a weasel in its claws. Whatthink you is the meaning of that sign, my white brother?"

  Old Joe shrugged his shoulders expressively.

  "No man can read the owl, my friend," he replied. "Tell me, how do youinterpret the sign?"

  "That ere long a white man--the weasel that my squaw's ill-favoredmother did see--shall be caught by the bearded white man and the twounbearded boys that do travel with him."

  This was a typically Indian way of stating a conclusion, and old Joeappeared to feel highly flattered at the comparison of himself to anowl. He smiled and said:

  "It is even so. The owl that is Joe Picquet does pursue the weasel thatis a thieving white man, a robber of trappers, a despoiler of cabins inthe woods."

  "Then ere long you will catch him," the Indian assured him gravely, "forso do the signs read and no man may gainsay them."

  The moment in these roundabout negotiations had now arrived when old Joedeemed he could diplomatically ask a direct question.

  CHAPTER XIV--SWAPPING STORIES.

  "It is as you have said," rejoined old Joe, "the signs are seldom in thewrong. But I have been thinking, my friend, that perhaps on your way youhave seen this weasel of a white man whom the owl and the two younghares pursue?"

  But, to Joe's disappointment, the Indian shook his head.

  "I did meet no white man who is as the weasel and whom the owl and thetwo young hares pursue," he rejoined; "neither, till I met you, have Imet any man, either white or Indian, since I left Blue Hare Lake."

  "You do not come from the way of the setting sun, then?" For the trailof the fleeing thief had so far led west.

  Another negative sign was the reply as the Indian said:

  "We come from the north. But some half day's journey back I crossed atrail which was even as the trail you now follow."

  "I am sorry," said old Joe. "The weasel must travel as the wind."

  "It may well be even so," rejoined the Indian. "But hasten, my brother,if you would still follow the trail, for the snows are awakening and thewind stirs in its sleep."

  They bade the Indian and his two silent women "Good day," and pushed on.Now there was good reason for haste. Indians are rarely or nevermistaken in their weather prophecies, and if the snow came before thepursuers had caught up with the thief, they stood a fair chance oflosing him altogether, for the snow would infallibly blot out his trail.

  That night they came to a small trading post kept by a tall, ganglingAmerican, by name Ephraim Dodge. He had a thin, hatchet face and abobbing goatee, and on either side of his prominent bridged nosetwinkled a shrewd, although kind, eye.

  Yes, Ephraim had seen the man they were pursuing and "allowed he waspretty badly tuckered out." He had stopped at his post and purchasedsome canned goods and oatmeal. Then he had pressed straight on. No, hehad not offered any skins for sale, and, according to Ephraim, was an"ornery-lookin' cuss, anyhow."

  When he heard their story Ephraim was sympathetic, but he could notoffer much in the way of consolation except to assure them that theywere bound to catch the man, for he appeared to be "right poorly." Therewas no possibility of their pushing on that night, for old Joe, anxiousas he was to continue the pursuit, decided that his dogs must have rest.So they spent the evening with Ephraim, who brought out an old violinand amused them by executing jigs and double shuffles while his oldfiddle squeaked out the "Arkansas Traveler" and other lively airs.

  After Ephraim had exhausted his repertoire they sat about the big stoveand talked. Ephraim was a lively companion, and was frankly glad ofcompany. He "allowed it was plum lonesome with nothing but Injuns andmamelukes fer company." It was not necessary to attempt to join in hisincessant flow of talk. He talked like a man who has pent up histhoughts and words for months and lets them go in a flood ofconversation.

  The talk turned to California, which Ephraim "'lowed was a white man'scountry, fer sure." He wished he was back there. What a climate it was!What wonderful air!

  "Why," declared Ephraim, "that air out thar is so wonderful deceivingthat two fellers who set out fer the mountains from a plains town,thinking the hills weren't but two miles away, rode two days withoutgettin' any closer to 'em. Then they come at last to a river. One of 'emwas fer crossing it, but the other, he 'lowed they wouldn't. 'It don'tlook to be more'n a few feet across,' says he, 'but in this climate it'sliable ter be Christmas afore we ford it,' an' so they come back ag'in,"he concluded.

  "'Nother time I've got in mind," he went on, while his auditors gasped,"a friend of mine went fishin'. He was known as the most truthful man inthe San Juaquin Valley, so there ain't no reason ter suppose that hisword wasn't gospel truth and nothin' else. Anyhow, he was known as amighty good shot and right handy with his shootin' iron, so nobody everwas hearn to doubt his word.

  "Well, sir, as I'm a-saying, William Bing--that was his name, gents,William Bing--went a fishin'. He went up in the mountains, where the airis even clearer than it is on the plains. Bing, he moseyed along,lookin' fer a likely place and totin' his pole, when all at once hehappened ter look down over a bluff, and what do you think he seen?Right below him thar was a fine hole in a big creek, and right in thathole, gents, William Bing, he seen hundreds and hundreds of trout andblack bass swimming about so thick they was regularly crowdin' oneanother.

  "Bing says he could see their gills pumpin' an' their fins wavin' jes'like they was a-sayin', 'Hello, Bill! We're waitin' fer you. Throw usdown a line and a bite ter eat, old sport.' Waal, Bing, he didn't loseno time in lettin' down his line. He figgered it was erbout a hundredfeet down to that hole, and he had a hundred and fifty feet on his pole.But he fished and fished all that mornin' without getting a bite, noteven a nibble. An' thar below he could see all them fish swimmin' aboutand every now and then looking up at him sort of appealin' like. Bingsays it looked jes' as if they wan
ted to be caught and was reproachinghim fer not doin' the job an' doin' it quick.

  "Bing, he reckoned something was wrong, so he changed his bait. Butstill nary a bite. Then he changed it again. Not a flicker, and therewas those fish jumping around like peas on a griddle. It was plumaggervatin', Bing 'lowed, and he couldn't figger it out noways.

  "He ate his lunch up thar on the top of the bluff, and then he decidedthat he'd kinder investigate the mystery of why those fish didn't bite.He kind of pussyfoots around on the top of the bluff fer a while, andthen he finds a place whar he reckons he can climb down right by thatpool and dig inter the mystery in due and legal form.

  "He sticks his pole in the bluff, leaving his bait on the end of theline, thinking that maybe he'll git a bite while he's carryin' on hisinvestigations. Then Bing, he starts to climb down. Waal, sirs, he clumband clumb, did William Bing, and at last he got to the bottom. And thenwhat do you suppose he found out?

  "That clear air had fooled him. Made a plum jackass out'n him. Instid ofbein' a hundred feet high, that bluff was all of three hundred! Then helooked down in that hole whar the trouts and bass were swimming about.Gee whillakers, sirs, that thar hole 'peared to be more'n a hundred feetdeep! And thar was all them fish per-ambulatin' and circumambulatin'erbout in it an' looking up at William Bing's bait that was danglin' inthe air a good hundred and fifty feet above that thar gosh almightyhole. Yes, sirs," concluded Ephraim, "that Californy air is some air."

  "I should say so," laughed Tom. "I don't see how they can field a ballin it without being gone for a week on the journey."

  "Waal, that may hev happened, too," rejoined Ephraim gravely, "but Inever hearn tell on it. Leastways, not frum any reliable source such asWilliam Bing."

  "Boosh!" exclaimed old Joe. "Long time 'go I out West. An' you talk'bout cleefs! In one part of zee country dere ees beeg cleef. More bigdan Beeng's cleef. Bien, I had a friend dere. His name Clemente Dubois.He ver' fine man, Clemente. But, poor fel', he dead long time ago."

  "How'd he die?" inquired Ephraim.

  "Poor Clemente, he fall off'n dat cleef. Oh, he beeg cleef, more'nt'ousand feet high!"

  "Mashed plum ter mush, I reckon?" queried Ephraim, while the boys, whohad caught a twinkle in old Joe's eye, listened to see the storekeeper'sdiscomfiture.

  "No, Clemente, he not mashed to pieces. Leesten, I tell you how Clementedie. He was miner. Ver' well. One day Clemente take peek, shofel an' hego to aidge of dis cleef. Clemente, he have on one beeg pair rubbaireboots. Oh, ver' beeg rubbaire boots. Bien! Clemente, he work an' teenkhe strike fine colors. Zee colors of gold. He get ver' excited. He deegan' deeg, an' bimeby he deeg so hard zee aidge of zee cleef geev way.

  "Bang! Clemente, over he go right into zee air. He land on zee groundbelow, but den hees rubbaire boots begin to work. Clemente, he bounceback. Jus' lak zee rubbaire ball. He bounce up and down, up and down andno one can stop Clemente. He bounce all zee day, and once in a whilesome of zee boys from zee camp zey t'row heem biscuits to keep Clementefrom starving. But Clemente, he no can catch zem. Two days he bounce upand down and no stop.

  "Den zee head man of zee camp, he say: 'Boys, Clemente, he starve if weno do someteeng. We have to put heem out of zee misery of die lak datway. Somebody have to shoot Clemente.' Everybody say, 'No, no,' but zeeboss, he make dem draw lot. Man name Beeg Terry, he be zee one as drawlot to shoot Clemente. Everybody feel ver' bad, but no can be help. BeegTerry, he shoot Clemente zee next mornin'. Poor fellow, it was hard onheem, but it was better dan starving to deat' in meed-air. After dat,nobody go near zee cleef wiz rubbaire boots on zeer feet."

  This truly remarkable and pathetic narrative brought the evening to aclose, as a glance at Ephraim's alarm clock showed that it was almosteleven o'clock. With old Joe still chuckling triumphantly over themanner in which he had "capped" Ephraim's brief and truthful story, theyturned in, sleeping in regular beds for the first time since they hadtaken to the trail.

  CHAPTER XV--TOM ON "THE DOGS OF THE NORTH."

  The next morning old Joe was occupied for some time repairing sundryworn places in harness and sleds. The boys seized the opportunity towrite some letters home.

  Both lads penned newsy epistles teeming with facts gleaned by them aboutthe region in which they were traveling. As a sidelight on theirexperiences, we may take a peep over their shoulders while their pensare flying and learn something of their impressions.

  From Tom's letter to a school chum we can detach some interestingremarks on the "steeds" of the northern wilds, the faithful mamelukesupon whom the hunter and trapper's success and even life may depend.

  "There are said to be two seasons in this land," wrote Tom, "winter andJune-July-and-August. We are now in the midst of the latter, as you, ofcourse, know.

  "During the summer the mamelukes--the Alaskan dogs I told you somethingabout in a former letter--run wild. They mostly forage for themselvesand become very bold and ferocious.

  "But as soon as the winter sets in the canine free-lances are rounded upand led off into captivity by straps, strings and wires. Sometimes oneowner gets into a dispute with another concerning his four-footedproperty, and then there are lively times indeed.

  "After their long holiday the dogs, especially the puppies, are verywild. In some cases they have to be broken into their work all overagain.

  "This is no picnic for the dogs, for some of the drivers are verybrutal. But they don't dare abuse the dogs too much for fear of injuringtheir own property.

  "The dogs used by the government for transporting the mails--a team ofwhich will haul this very letter--are splendid looking brutes. They arecalled Labrador 'huskies' and are very large and heavy-coated.

  "Some of them are, without exaggeration, as big as young calves. Theycarry the mail over vast, snowy wildernesses, and even sometimes toDawson, when the air is not too nippy. That is to say, when thethermometer is not more than thirty degrees below.

  "The dog drivers have almost a language of their own, like the 'muleskinners' of our western plains. When a group of them gets together youcan hear some tall stories of the feats each man's team has performed.And, wild as some of these yarns may seem to an 'outsider,' they are notso incredible as they appear.

  "The big, well-furred, long-legged Labrador Huskies are the mostpowerful, as well as the fiercest, of the sledge dogs. A load of onehundred and fifty pounds to each dog is the usual burden--and no lightone, when you consider the trails over which they travel.

  "As a rule, seven to eight or nine dogs are hitched to a sledge. Theharness is of the type called the 'Labrador.' It consists of a singletrace. Other traces are attached to it, so that the dogs are spread outfan-shaped from the sledge. This is done to keep them from interferingwith each other, for they will fight 'at the drop of a hat.' And whenthey do fight--well, fur flies!

  "And here is where the driver's job comes in. His main care is to keephis animals--some of them worth more than one hundred dollars each, frommaiming each other. Nor do his troubles end here, for he has to see toit that the dogs don't turn on him. You must recall that some of the'huskies' are as savage as wolves, and an iron hand is required to keepthem disciplined.

  "Nearly every driver carries a stout club and a ferocious looking whipof seal-hide. He uses both impartially and unmercifully. If the dogsthought for a moment that you were afraid of them they would turn on youlike a flash and probably kill you. That is the reason for the driver'sseeming brutality. He literally dare not be kind, except in someinstances where, as with our present companion, Joe Picquet, he has anexceptionally gentle team.

  "Then, too, the dogs are forever attacking each other. Every once in awhile there will be a desperate battle, which can only be stopped by afree use of the whip. But in their wolflike fury the dogs sometimescannot be quieted even by these means.

  "Another curious bit of dog lore is this: In each team--just as in a bigschool of boys--there is always one unfortunate that appears to be thebutt of the others. They take every opportunity to st
eal his food andmake life miserable for him. Sometimes the whole pack will make anonslaught on the poor beast and, if not stopped in time, will tear hisflesh and rip him open, although they rarely eat him.

  "Then, too, some of the dogs are mischievous in the extreme. They willshow an almost human intelligence in making life miserable for theirdriver. It is their delight, sometimes, to spill the sledge and thedriver, and gallop madly off, overturning the pack and losing the mail.I hope that will not happen to this letter, for I am writing it undersome difficulties and want you to get it.

  "When this happens it's tough luck for the driver. It means that he hasto wade miles through the snow, tracking the runaways. He usually findsthem at the next post-house, unless the sledge has become entangled inbrush or trees. When this latter occurs the dogs scoop out snug-holesfor themselves in the snow and go to sleep!

  "The class of dog most used by the ordinary traveler is different fromthe giant huskies. These are the mamelukes or the native Indian dog.They are supposed to have wolf blood in them, and they certainly act upto the supposition!

  "The mamelukes are usually harnessed all in a line, one before theother. They are shorter-haired, more active, faster and ten times meanerthan the husky--and that's going some, let me tell you.

  "Their chief delight is to get into a regular Donnybrook fight. Whenthis happens there is only one way to stop them, and that is to clubthem till they are knocked insensible. Sounds brutal, doesn't it? but itis the only way to quell one of these disturbances.

  "If they get a chance to they'll bite through their harness with one nipof their long teeth. Then, having gained their liberty, off they willgallop and sometimes not be caught again for days.