At 8.30 A. M., 10 miles from the portage, we came to the Clew-ee,
or White Fish River; at 6.30 P. M. made the Sass Tessi, or Bear
River, and here camped, having covered fully 40 miles.
Now for the first time we were all together, with leisure to
question our guide and plan in detail. But all our mirth and hopes
were rudely checked by Corporal Selig, who had entire charge of
the commissary, announcing that there were only two days' rations
left.
In the dead calm that followed this bomb-shell we all did some
thinking; then a rapid fire of questions demonstrated the danger
of having a guide who does not speak our language.
It seems that when asked how many days' rations we should take on
this Buffalo hunt he got the idea how many days to the Buffalo. He
said five, meaning five days each way and as much time as we wished
there. We were still two days from our goal. Now what should we
do? Scurry back to the fort or go ahead and trust to luck? Every
man present voted "go ahead on half rations."
We had good, healthy appetites; half rations was veritable hardship;
but our hollow insides made hearty laughing. Preble disappeared
as soon as we camped, and now at the right time he returned and
silently threw at the cook's feet a big 6-pound Pike. It was just
right, exactly as it happens in the most satisfactory books and plays.
It seems that he always carried a spoon-hook, and went at once to
what he rightly judged the best place, a pool at the junction of
the two rivers. The first time he threw he captured the big fellow.
Later he captured three smaller ones in the same place, but evidently
there were no more.
That night we had a glorious feast; every one had as much as he
could eat, chiefly fish. Next morning we went on 4 1/2 miles farther,
then came to the mouth of the Nyarling Tessi, or Underground River,
that joins the Buffalo from the west. This was our stream; this
was the highway to the Buffalo country. It was a miniature of the
river we were leaving, but a little quicker in current. In about
2 miles we came to a rapid, but were able to paddle up. About 6
miles farther was an immense and ancient log-jamb that filled the
stream from bank to bank for 190 yards. What will be the ultimate
history of this jamb? It is added to each year, the floods have no
power to move it, logs in water practically never rot, there is no
prospect of it being removed by natural agencies. I suspect that
at its head the river comes out of a succession of such things,
whence its name Underground River.,
Around this jamb is an easy portage. We were far now from the haunts
of any but Indians on the winter hunt, so were surprised to see on
this portage trail the deep imprints of a white man's boot. These
were made apparently within a week, by whom I never learned. On the
bank not far away we saw a Lynx pursued overhead by two scolding
Redsquirrels.
Lunch consisted of what remained of the Pike, but that afternoon
Bezkya saw two Brown Cranes on a meadow, and manoeuvring till they
were in line killed both with one shot of his rifle at over 100
yards, the best shot I ever knew an Indian to make. Still, two
Cranes totalling 16 pounds gross is not enough meat to last five
men a week, so we turned to our Moosehunter.
"Yes, he could get a Moose." He went on in the small canoe with
Billy; we were to follow, and if we passed his canoe leave a note.
Seven miles above the log-jamb, the river forked south and west;
here a note from the guide sent us up the South Fork; later we
passed his canoe on the bank and knew that he had landed and was
surely on his way "to market." What a comfortable feeling it was to
remember that Bezkya was a moose-hunter! We left word and travelled
till 7, having come 11 miles up from the river's mouth. Our supper
that night was Crane, a little piece of bread each, some soup, and
some tea.
At 10 the hunters came back empty-handed. Yes, they found a fresh
Moose track, but the creature was so pestered by clouds of - - - -
that he travelled continually as fast as he could against the wind.
They followed all day but could not overtake him. They saw a Beaver
but failed to get it. No other game was found.
Things were getting serious now, since all our food consisted of
1 Crane, 1 tin of brawn, 1 pound of bread, 2 pounds of pork, with
some tea, coffee, and sugar, not more than one square meal for
the crowd, and we were 5 men far from supplies, unless our hunting
proved successful, and going farther every day.
Next morning (July 9) each man had coffee, one lady's finger
of bread, and a single small slice of bacon. Hitherto from choice
I had not eaten bacon in this country, although it was a regular
staple served at each meal. But now, with proper human perversity,
I developed an extraordinary appetite for bacon. It seemed quite
the most delicious gift of God to man. Given bacon, and I was ready
to forgo all other foods. Nevertheless, we had divided the last of
it. I cut my slice in two, revelled in half, then secretly wrapped
the other piece in paper and hid it in the watch-pocket of my
vest, thinking "the time is in sight when the whole crowd will be
thankful to have that scrap of bacon among them." (As a matter of
fact, they never got it, for five days later we found a starving
dog and he was so utterly miserable that he conjured that scrap
from the pocket next my heart.)
We were face to face with something like starvation now; the game
seemed to shun us and our store of victuals was done.
