The reconciled foes being both adepts in the art of cookery, and—one of them at least—in woodcraft, it was not long before a large fire was blazing under a convenient fir-tree, and the grey goose soon hissed pleasantly in front of it. They were a quiet and self-contained couple, however, and went about their work in profound silence. Not that they lacked ideas or language—for each, being naturally a good linguist, had somehow acquired a smattering of the other’s tongue,—but they resembled each other in their disinclination to talk without having something particular to say, and in their inclination to quietness and sobriety of demeanour.
Here, however, the resemblance ceased, for while the Eskimo was free and easy, ready to learn and to sympathise, and quick to see and appreciate a joke, the Indian was sternly conservative, much impressed with his own rectitude of intention, as well as his capacity for action, and absolutely devoid of the slightest tinge of humour. Thus the Eskimo’s expression varied somewhat with the nature of the subjects which chased each other through his mind, while that of the red man never changed from the calm of dignified immobility—except, of course, when, as during the recent struggle, his life was in danger.
While the goose was roasting, the erstwhile foes sat down to watch the process. They had not to watch long, for the fire was strong and neither of them was particular. Indeed, the Eskimo would gladly have eaten his portion raw, but waited patiently, out of deference to what he deemed his companion’s prejudices.
“You are alone?” said the Eskimo interrogatively.
“Yes—alone,” returned the Indian.
To such men, this was mental food for at least a quarter of an hour. By the end of that time one side of the bird was sufficiently done. The Indian turned the stick on which it was impaled, drew his scalping-knife, and commenced on the side that was ready while the other side was being done. Cheenbuk drew his stone knife, cut a large slice of the breast, and also fell to work. They ate vigorously, yet the process was not soon over, for the goose was large and their appetites were strong. Of course they had no time or inclination for conversation during the meal. When it was finished, the grey goose was reduced to a miserable skeleton. Then both men sighed the sigh of contentment, wiped their knives on the grass, and looked gravely at each other.
Cheenbuk seemed as if about to speak, but was arrested in his intention by the strange and unaccountable proceedings of his companion, who now drew forth a gaily decorated bag which hung at his belt behind him. From this he extracted a whitish implement with a little bowl at one end, and having leisurely filled it with a brown substance, also drawn from the bag, he put the other or small end of the instrument between his teeth. Then he took up a burning stick and applied it to the bowl.
The Eskimo had been gazing at him with ever-widening eyes, but at this his mouth also began to open, and he gave vent to a gentle “ho!” of unutterable surprise, for immediately there burst from the Indian’s lips a puff of smoke as if he had suddenly become a gun, or fire-spouter and gone off unexpectedly.
There was profound interest as well as astonishment in the gaze of our Eskimo, for he now became aware that he was about to witness a remarkable custom of the red men, of which he had often heard, but which he had never clearly understood.
“Does it not burn?” he asked in breathless curiosity.
“No,” replied his friend.
“Do you like it? Hi—i!”
The exclamation was induced by the Indian, who at the moment sent a stream of smoke from each nostril, shut his eyes as he did so, opened his mouth, and otherwise exhibited symptoms of extreme felicity.
“Would you like to try it?” he asked after one or two more whiffs.
Cheenbuk accepted the offer and the pipe, drew a voluminous whiff down into his lungs and exploded in a violent fit of coughing, while the tears overflowed his eyes.
“Try again,” said the Indian gravely.
For some minutes the Eskimo found it difficult to speak; then he returned the pipe, saying, “No. My inside is not yet tough like yours. I will look—and wonder!”
After being admired—with wonder—for a considerable time, the Indian looked at his companion earnestly, again offered him the pipe, and said, “Try again.”
The obliging Eskimo tried again, but with the caution of a child who, having been burnt, dreads the fire. He drew in a little smoke by means of the power of inhalation and choked again slightly, but, being now on his mettle, he resolved not to be beaten. The Indian regarded him meanwhile with grave approval. Then it occurred to Cheenbuk to apply the power of suction instead of inhalation. It was successful. He filled his mouth instead of his lungs, and, in his childlike delight at the triumph, he opened his mouth to its full extent, and sent forth a cloud with a gasp which was the combined expression of a puff and a “ho!” Again he tried it, and was again successful. Overjoyed at this, like a child with a new toy, he went in for quite a broadside of puffs, looking round at his friendly foe with a “ho!” between each, and surrounding his head with an atmosphere of smoke.
Suddenly he stopped, laid down the pipe, rose up, and, looking as if he had forgotten something, retired into the bush.
The Indian took up the discarded pipe, and for the first time displayed a few wrinkles about the corners of his eyes as he put it between his lips.
Presently Cheenbuk returned, somewhat paler than before, and sat down in silence with a look, as if of regret, at the skeleton-goose.
Without any reference to what had passed, the Indian turned to his companion and said, “Why should the men of the ice fight with the men of the woods?”
“Why?” asked Cheenbuk, after a few moments’ profound meditation, “why should the men of the woods attack the men of the ice with their fire-spouters?”
This question seemed to puzzle the Indian so much that he proceeded to fill another pipe before answering it. Meanwhile the Eskimo, being more active-minded, continued—
“Is it fair for the men of the woods to come to fight us with fire-spouters when we have only spears? Meet us with the same weapons, and then we shall see which are the best men.”
The Indian looked at his companion solemnly and shook his head.
“The strongest warriors and the best fighters,” he said, “are not always the best men. He who hunts well, keeps his wives supplied with plenty of food and deerskin robes, and is kind to his children, is the best man.”
Cheenbuk looked suddenly in the face of his sententious companion with earnest surprise in every feature, for the sentiments which had just been expressed were in exact accordance with his own. Moreover, they were not what he expected to hear from the lips of a Dogrib.
“I never liked fighting,” he said in a low voice, “though I have always been able to fight. It does nobody any good, and it always does everybody much harm, for it loses much blood, and it leaves many women and children without food-providers—which is uncomfortable for the men who have enough of women and children of their own to hunt for. But,” continued the youth with emphasis, “I always thought that the men of the woods loved fighting.”
“Some of them do, but I hate it!” said the Indian with a sudden look of such ferocity that the Eskimo might have been justified in doubting the truth of the statement.
The flash, however, quickly disappeared, and a double wreath of smoke issued from his nose as he remarked quietly, “Fighting lost me my father, my two brothers, and my only son.”
“Why, then, do you still come against us with fire-spouters?” asked Cheenbuk.
“Because my people will have it so,” returned the red man. “I do what I can to stop them, but I am only one, and there are many against me.”
“I too have tried to stop my people when they would fight among themselves,” returned the Eskimo in a tone of sympathy; “but it is easier to kill a walrus single-handed than to turn an angry man from his purpose.”
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