Ralph took the bag and weighed it in his hand.
“More,” he said. “Ther’s fi’ poun’ o’ weight ther’.”
“Guess them bags together means fifteen to twenty thousan’ dollars, sure,” said Nick, his eyes shining at the thought.
“I don’t rightly know,” said Ralph. “It’s a goodish wad, I ’lows.”
Nick returned the store to the chest which Ralph relocked.
“Where?” asked Nick, glancing round the hut in search of a secure hiding-place.
“We’ll dig a hole in the floor under my blankets,” said Ralph after a pause. “Maybe it’ll be tol’ble safe there.”
And for greater security the chest was so disposed. The work was quickly done, and the clay floor, with the aid of water, was smeared into its usual smooth appearance again. Then the brothers sought their rest.
At daybreak came the start. Nick harnessed the dogs, five great huskies who lived in the shelter of a rough shed outside the hut when it stormed, and curled themselves up in the snow, or prowled, baying the moon, when the night was fine. Fierce-looking brutes these with their long, keen muzzles, their high shoulders and deep chests, their drooping quarters which were massed with muscle right down to the higher sinews of their great feet. Their ferocity was chiefly the animal antagonism for their kind; with Nick they were easy enough to handle, for all had been well broken beneath the heavy lash which the man knew better than to spare.
While the dogs were being hitched into their places Ralph secured the door of the dugout. There were no half measures here. The door was nailed up securely, and a barrier of logs set before it. Then, when all was ready, the men took their poles and Nick broke out the frost-bound runners of the sled. At the magic word “Mush!” the dogs sprang at their breast-draws, and the sled glided away down the slope with Nick running beside it, and Ralph following close behind.
Down they dropped into the depths of the silent valley, Nick guiding his dogs by word of mouth alone. The lead dog, an especially vile-tempered husky, needed nothing but the oft-repeated “Gee” and “Haw” where no packed path was, and when anything approaching a trail was struck Nick issued no commands. These creatures of the wild knew their work, loved it, lived for it, as all who have seen them labouring over snow and ice must understand.
By the route they must take it was one hundred miles to Little Choyeuse Creek. One hundred miles of mountain and forest; one hundred miles of gloomy silence; one hundred miles of virgin snow, soft to the feet of the labouring dogs, giving them no foothold but the sheer anchorage of half-buried legs. It was a temper-trying journey for man and beast. The dogs snapped at each other’s heels, but the men remained silent, hugging their own thoughts and toiling amidst the pleasure of anticipation.
Skirting the forests wherever possible, and following the break of the mammoth pine-trees when no bald opening was to hand they sped along. The dogs hauled at the easy running sled, while, with long, gliding strides, the two men kept pace with them. The hills were faced by the sturdy dogs with the calm persistence of creatures who know their own indomitable powers of endurance, while the descents were made with a speed which was governed by the incessant use of Nick’s pole.
The evening camp was pitched in the shelter of the forest. The dogs fed voraciously and well on their raw fish, for the journey was short and provisions plentiful. The two men fared in their usual plain way. They slept in their fur-lined bags while the wolfish burden-bearers of the North first prowled, argued out their private quarrels, sang in chorus as the northern lights moved fantastically in the sky, and finally curled themselves in their several snow-burrows.
The camp was struck at daylight next morning and the journey resumed. The dogs raced fresh and strong after their rest, and the miles were devoured with greedy haste. The white valleys wound in a mazy tangle round the foot of tremendous hills, but never a mistake in direction was made by the driver, Nick. To him the trail was as plain as though every foot of it were marked by well-packed snow; every landmark was anticipated, every inch of that chaotic land was an open book. A “Gee,” or a sudden “Haw” and a fresh basin of magnificent primeval forest would open before the travellers. And so the unending ocean of mountain rollers and forest troughs continued. No variation, save from the dead white of the open snowfields to the heavy shadows of the forest. Always the strange, mystic grey twilight; the dazzling sparkle of glinting snow; the biting air which stung the flesh like the sear of a red-hot iron; the steady run of dogs and men. On, on, with no thought of time to harass the mind, only the destination to think of.
And when they came to Little Choyeuse Creek they were welcomed in person by Victor Gagnon. He awaited them at his threshold. The clumsy stockade of lateral pine logs, a relic of the old Indian days when it was necessary for every fur store to be a fortress, was now a wreck. A few upright posts were standing, but the rest had long since been used to bank the stoves with.
The afternoon was spent in barter, and the time was one of beaming good nature, for Victor was a shrewd dealer, and the two brothers had little real estimate of the value of money. They sold their pelts in sets, regardless of quality. And when the last was traded, and Victor had parted the value in stores and cash, there came a strong feeling of relief to the trappers. Now for their brief holiday.
It was the custom on the occasion of these visits to make merry in a temperate way. Victor was never averse to such doings for there was French blood in his veins. He could sing a song, and most of his ditties were either of the old days of the Red River Valley, or dealt with the early settlers round the Citadel of Quebec. Amongst the accomplishments which he possessed was that of scraping out woful strains upon an ancient fiddle. In this land, where life was always serious, he was a right jovial companion for such men as Nick and Ralph, and the merry evenings in his company at the store were well thought of.
When night closed down, and supper was finished, and the untidy living-room which backed the store was cleared by the half-breed, the business of the evening’s entertainment began. The first thing in Victor’s idea of hospitality was a “brew” of hot drink. He would have called it “punch,” but the name was impossible. It was a decoction of vanilla essence, spiced up, and flavoured in a manner which, he claimed, only he understood. The result was stimulating, slightly nauseating, but sufficiently unusual to be enticing to those who lived the sober life of the mountain wild. He would have bestowed good rum or whiskey upon these comrades of his, only his store of those seductive beverages had long since given out, and was not likely to be replenished until the breaking of spring. The variety of strong drink which falls to the lot of such men as he is extensive. His days of “painkiller,” which he stocked for trade, had not yet come round. The essences were not yet finished. Painkiller would come next; after that, if need be, would come libations of red ink. He had even, in his time, been reduced to boiling down plug tobacco and distilling the liquor. But these last two were only used in extremis.
The three men sat round and sipped the steaming liquor, the two brothers vying with each other in their praises of Victor’s skill in the “brew.”
The first glass was drunk with much appreciation. Over the second came a dallying. Nick, experiencing the influence of the spirit, asked for a tune on the fiddle. Victor responded with alacrity and wailed out an old half-breed melody, a series of repetitions of a morbid refrain. It produced, nevertheless, an enlivening effect upon Ralph, who asked for another. Then Victor sang, in a thin tenor voice, the twenty and odd verses of a song called “The Red River Valley;” the last lines of the refrain were always the same and wailed out mournfully upon the dense atmosphere of the room.
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