That morning we got 7 little Teal, so our lunch was sure, but
straight Teal without accompaniments is not very satisfying; we
all went very hungry. And with one mind we all thought and talked
about the good dinners or specially fine food we once had had.
Selig's dream of bliss was a porterhouse steak with a glass of foaming
beer; Jarvis thought champagne and roast turkey spelt heaven just
then; I thought of my home breakfasts and the Beaux-Arts at New
York; but Billy said he would he perfectly happy if he could have
one whole bannock all to himself. Preble said nothing.
CHAPTER XIX
WHITE MAN AND RED. MEAT, BUT NOTHING MORE
There was plenty of hollow hilarity but no word of turning back.
But hold! yes, there was. There was one visage that darkened more
each day, and finally the gloomy thoughts broke forth in words
from the lips of - our Indian guide. His recent sullen silence was
now changed to open and rebellious upbraiding.
He didn't come here to starve. He could do that at home. He was
induced to come by a promise of plenty of flour. "All of which was
perfectly true. But," he went on, "We were still 11 days from the
Buffalo and we were near the head of navigation; it was a case
of tramp through the swamp with our beds and guns, living on the
country as we went, and if we didn't have luck the Coyotes and
Ravens would."
Before we had time to discuss this prospect, a deciding step was
announced, by Jarvis, He was under positive orders to catch the
steamer Wrigley at Fort Resolution on the evening of July 10. It was
now mid-day of July 9, and only by leaving at once and travelling
all night could he cover the intervening 60 miles.
So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for
"Bezkya was a moose-hunter."
Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe.
We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat;
they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when
we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a
journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were
so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we
waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.
Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a
council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any
cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically,
I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the
outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days
had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on
foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food.
A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from
the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited
Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.
Nothing loath, he set off with Billy. I marked them well as they
went, one lithe, sinewy, active, animal-eyed; the other solid and
sturdy, following doggedly, keeping up by sheer blundering strength.
I could not but admire them, each in his kind.
Two hours later I heard two shots, and toward evening the boys came
back slowly, tired but happy, burdened with the meat, for Bezkya
was a moosehunter.
Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have been on that
moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have told it. These men, that
do it so well, never can tell it. Yet in the days that followed
I picked up a few significant phrases that gave glimpses of its
action.
Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son of the woods
had set out "straightaway west." A big track appeared crossing a
pool, seeming fresh. "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not
muddy." Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see bite alder.
Alder turn red in two hours; only half red." Follow long. "Look
out, Billy; no go there; wrong wind. Yes, he pass one hour; see
bit willow still white. Stop; he pass half-hour; see grass still
bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. Stand here, Billy.
He sleep in thick willow there."
Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long wait, the
betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that wagged furiously to
shake off the winged bloodsuckers. The shot, the rush, the bloody
trail, the pause in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from
both hunters, and the death.
Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, which lay conveniently
on the river bank. After pushing through the alders and poling up
the dwindling stream for a couple of hours we reached the place
two miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no bell, horns
only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across, the tips soft and
springy; one could stick a knife through them anywhere outside of
the basal half.
Bezkya says they are good to eat in this stage; but we had about
700 pounds of good meat so did not try. The velvet on the horns is
marked by a series of concentric curved lines of white hair, across
the lines of growth; these, I take it, correspond with times of
check by chill or hardship.
We loaded our canoe with meat and pushed on toward the Buffalo
country for two miles more up the river. Navigation now became very
difficult on account of alders in the stream.
