On account of the storms.
It had been regularly travelled in the old days when the Indians of
the interior traded at Northwest River post; but since the
diversion of their trade to the St. Lawrence it had fallen into
disuse.
There was much talk of our prospective meeting with the Nascaupees
which I did not understand; and it was not until the evening of
August 14th, as I sat after supper at the camp fire, that I became
conscious of the real concern with which the men were looking
forward to the event.
For two precious days we had been unable to move on account of the
storms. The rain had fallen steadily all day, changing to snow
towards evening, and now, though the downpour had ceased, the black
clouds still fled rolling and tossing over head before the gale,
which roared through the spruce forest, and sent the smoke of the
big camp fire whirling now this way, now that, as it found its way
into our sheltered nook.
George and Joe were telling amusing stories of their boyhood
experiences at Rupert's House, the pranks they played on their
teacher, their fights, football, and other games, and while they
talked I bestowed some special care upon my revolver. Job sat
smoking his pipe, listening with a merry light in his gleaming,
black eyes, and Gilbert lounged on the opposite side of the fire
with open-mouthed boyish attention.
The talk drifted to stories of the Indians, tributary to Rupert's
House, and the practical jokes perpetrated on them while camped
about the post to which they brought each spring from the far
interior their winter's catch of furs. There were stories of
Hannah Bay massacre, and the retribution which followed swift and
certain; and of their own trips inland, and the hospitality of the
Indians. The talk ended with an anxious "If it were only the
Hudson Bay Indians we were coming to, there would be no doubt about
the welcome we should get."
Turning to me, George remarked, "You are giving that revolver a
fine rubbing up to-night."
"Yes," I replied, laughing a little: "I am getting ready for the
Nascaupees."
"They would not shoot you," he said gravely. "It would be us they
would kill if they took the notion. Whatever their conjurer tells
them to do, they will do."
"No," asserted Gilbert, who boasted some traditional knowledge of
the Nascaupees, "they would not kill you, Mrs. Hubbard. It would
be to keep you at their camp that they would kill us."
I had been laughing at George a little, but Gilbert's startling
announcement induced a sudden sobriety. As I glanced from one to
the other, the faces of the men were all unwontedly serious. There
was a whirl of thoughts for a moment, and then I asked, "What do
you think I shall be doing while they are killing you?
