At the next he ceased work suddenly and went aside;
his stomach was upset. A few hours afterwards he told me he was
feeling ill. The engineer, who wanted him to cut wood, said to me,
"That man is shamming." My reply was short: "You have known him
for months, and think he is shamming; I have known him for hours
and I know he is not that kind of a man."
He told me next morning, "It's no use, I got my breast crushed by
the tug a couple of weeks ago, I have no strength. At Fort McKay
is a good man named Jiarobia, he will go with you."
So when the tug left us Bellalise refunded his advance and returned
to Chipewyan. He was one of those that made me think well of his
people; and his observations on the wild life of the country showed
that he had a tongue to tell, as well as eyes to see.
That morning, besides the calls of Honkers and Waveys we heard the
glorious trumpeting of the White Crane. It has less rattling croak
and more whoop than that of the Brown Crane. Bellalise says that
every year a few come to Chipewyan, then go north with the Waveys
to breed. In the fall they come back for a month; they are usually
in flocks of three and four; two old ones and their offspring,
the latter known by their brownish colour. If you get the two old
ones, the young ones are easily killed, as they keep flying low
over the place.
Is this then the secret of its disappearance? and is it on these
far breeding grounds that man has proved too hard?
At Lobstick Point, 2 P. M., October 13, the tug turned back and
we three continued our journey as before, Preble and Billy taking
turns at tracking the canoe.
Next day we reached Fort McKay and thus marked another important
stage of the journey.
CHAPTER XLIII
FORT McKAY AND JIAROBIA
Fort McKay was the last point at which we saw the Chipewyan style
of teepee, and the first where the Cree appeared. But its chief
interest to us lay in the fact that it was the home of Jiarobia, a
capable river-man who wished to go to Athabaska Landing. The first
thing that struck us about Jiarobia - whose dictionary name by the
way is Elzear Robillard - was that his house had a good roof and
a large pile of wood ready cut. These were extremely important
indications in a land of improvidence. Robillard was a thin, active,
half-breed of very dark skin. He was willing to go for $2.00 a day
the round-trip (18 days) plus food and a boat to return with. But
a difficulty now appeared; Madame Robillard, a tall, dark half-breed
woman, objected: "Elzear had been away all summer, he should stay
home now." "If you go I will run off into the backwoods with the
first wild Indian that wants a squaw," she threatened. "Now," said
Rob, in choice English, "I am up against it." She did not understand
English, but she could read looks and had some French, so I took
a hand.
"If Madame will consent I will advance $15.00 of her husband's pay
and will let her select the finest silk handkerchief in the Hudson's
Bay store for a present."
In about three minutes her Cree eloquence died a natural death;
she put a shawl on her head and stepped toward the door without
looking at me. Rob, nodded to me, and signed to go to the Hudson's
Bay store; by which I inferred that the case was won; we were going
now to select the present. To my amazement she turned from all the
bright-coloured goods and selected a large black silk handkerchief.
The men tell me it is always so now; fifty years ago every woman
wanted red things. Now all want black; and the traders who made
the mistake of importing red have had to import dyes and dip them
all.
Jiarobia, or, as we mostly call him, "Rob," proved most amusing
character as well as a "good man" and the reader will please note
that nearly all of my single help were "good men." Only when I had
a crowd was there trouble. His store of anecdote was unbounded and
his sense of humour ever present, if broad and simple. He talked
in English, French, and Cree, and knew a good deal of Chipewyan.
Many of his personal adventures would have fitted admirably into
the Decameron, but are scarcely suited for this narrative. One
evening he began to sing, I listened intently, thinking maybe I
should pick up some ancient chanson of the voyageurs or at least
a woodman's "Come-all-ye." Alas! it proved to be nothing but the
"Whistling Coon."
Which reminds me of another curious experience at the village of
Fort Smith. I saw a crowd of the Indians about a lodge and strange
noises proceeding therefrom. When I went over the folk made way for
me. I entered, sat down, and found that they were crowded around
a cheap gramophone which was hawking, spitting and screeching some
awful rag-time music and nigger jigs. I could forgive the traders
for bringing in the gramophone, but why, oh, why, did they not
bring some of the simple world-wide human songs which could at least
have had an educational effect? The Indian group listened to this
weird instrument with the profoundest gravity. If there is anything
inherently comic in our low comics it was entirely lost on them.
One of Rob's amusing fireside tricks was thus: He put his hands
together, so:
