He says that this year the Caribou cows went north
as usual, but the bulls did not. The season was so late they did
not think it worth while; they are abundant yet at Artillery Lake.
He recognised me as the medicine man, and took an early opportunity
of telling me what a pain he had. Just where, he was not sure,
but it was hard to bear; he would like some sort of a pain-killer.
Evidently he craved a general exhilarator. Next morning we got
away at 7 A. M. after the usual painful scene about getting up in
the middle of the night, which was absurd, as there was no night.
Next afternoon we passed the Great White Fall at the mouth of Hoar
Frost River; the Indians call it Dezza Kya. If this is the Beverly
Falls of Back, his illustrator was without information; the published
picture bears not the slightest resemblance to it.
At three in the afternoon of July 27th, the twelfth day after we
had set out on the "three or four day run" from Resolution, this
exasperating and seemingly interminable voyage really did end, and
we thankfully beached our York boat at the famous lobstick that
marks the landing of Pike's Portage.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE LYNX AT BAY
One of the few rewarding episodes of this voyage took place on the
last morning, July 27. We were half a mile from Charleston Harbour
when one of the Indians said "Cheesay" (Lynx) and pointed to the
south shore. There, on a bare point a quarter mile away, we saw a
large Lynx walking quietly along. Every oar was dropped and every
rifle seized, of course, to repeat the same old scene; probably
it would have made no difference to the Lynx, but I called out:
"Hold on there! I'm going after that Cheesay."
Calling my two reliables, Preble and Billy, we set out in the canoe,
armed, respectively, with a shotgun, a club, and a camera.
When we landed the Lynx was gone. We hastily made a skirmishing line
in the wood where the point joined the mainland, but saw no sign of
him, so concluded that he must be hiding on the point. Billy took
the right shore, Preble the left, I kept the middle. Then we marched
toward the point but saw nothing. There were no bushes except a low
thicket of spruce, some 20 feet across and 3 or 4 feet high. This
was too dense to penetrate standing, so I lay down on my breast
and proceeded to crawl in under the low boughs. I had not gone six
feet before a savage growl warned me back, and there, just ahead,
crouched the Lynx. He glared angrily, then rose up, and I saw, with
a little shock, that he had been crouching on the body of another
Lynx, eating it.
