There was one more peculiarity of our guide that struck me forcibly.
He was forever considering his horse. Whenever the trail was very
bad, and half of it was, Sousi dismounted and walked--the horse
usually following freely, for the pair were close friends.

This, then, was the dark villain against whom we had been warned.
How he lived up to his reputation will be seen later.

After four hours' march through a level, swampy country, forested
with black and white spruce, black and white poplar, birch, willow,
and tamarack, we came to Salt River, a clear, beautiful stream,
but of weak, salty brine.

Not far away in the woods was a sweet spring, and here we camped
for the night. Close by, on a place recently burnt over, I found
the nest of a Green-winged Teal. All cover was gone and the nest
much singed, but the down had protected the 10 eggs. The old one
fluttered off, played lame, and tried to lead me away. I covered
up the eggs and an hour later found she had returned and resumed
her post.

That night, as I sat by the fire musing, I went over my life when
I was a boy in Manitoba, just too late to see the Buffalo, recalling
how I used to lie in some old Buffalo wallow and peer out over the
prairie through the fringe of spring anemones and long to see the
big brown forms on the plains. Once in those days I got a sensation,
for I did see them. They turned out to be a herd of common cattle,
but still I got the thrill.

Now I was on a real Buffalo hunt, some twenty-five years too late.
Will it come? Am I really to see the Wild Buffalo on its native
plains? It is too good to be true; too much like tipping back the
sands of time.




CHAPTER VII

THE BUFFALO HUNT



We left camp on Salt River at 7.45 in the morning and travelled
till 11 o'clock, covering six miles. It was all through the same
level country, in which willow swamps alternated with poplar and
spruce ridges. At 11 it began to rain, so we camped on a slope under
some fine, big white spruces till it cleared, and then continued
westward. The country now undulated somewhat and was varied with
openings.

Sousi says that when first he saw this region, 30 years ago, it
was all open prairie, with timber only in hollows and about water.
This is borne out by the facts that all the large trees are in such
places, and that all the level open stretches are covered with
sapling growths of aspen and fir. This will make a glorious settlement
some day. In plants, trees, birds, soil, climate, and apparently
all conditions, it is like Manitoba.

We found the skeleton of a cow Buffalo, apparently devoured
by Wolves years ago, because all the big bones were there and the
skull unbroken.

About two in the afternoon we came up a 200-foot rise to a beautiful
upland country, in which the forests were diversified with open
glades, and which everywhere showed a most singular feature. The
ground is pitted all over with funnel-shaped holes, from 6 to 40
feet deep, and of equal width across the rim; none of them contained
water. I saw one 100 feet across and about 50 feet deep; some expose
limestone; in one place we saw granite.

At first I took these for extinct geysers, but later I learned that
the whole plateau called Salt Mountain is pitted over with them.
Brine is running out of the mountain in great quantities, which
means that the upper strata are being undermined as the salt washes
out, and, as these crack, the funnels are formed no doubt by the
loose deposits settling.

In the dry woods Bear tracks became extremely numerous; the whole
country, indeed, was marked with the various signs. Practically
every big tree has bearclaw markings on it, and every few yards
there is evidence that the diet of the bears just now is chiefly
berries of Uva ursi.

As we rode along Sousi prattled cheerfully in his various tongues;
but his steady flow of conversation abruptly ended when, about 2
P. M., we came suddenly on some Buffalo tracks, days old, but still
Buffalo tracks. All at once and completely he was the hunter. He
leaped from his horse and led away like a hound.

Ere long, of course, the trail was crossed by two fresher ones;
then we found some dry wallows and several very fresh tracks. We
tied up the horses in an old funnel pit and set about an elaborate
hunt. Jarvis minded the stock, I set out with Sousi, after he had
tried the wind by tossing up some grass. But he stopped, drew a
finger-nail sharply across my canvas coat, so that it gave a little
shriek, and said "Va pa," which is "Cela ne va pas" reduced to its
bony framework. I doffed the offending coat and we went forward as
shown on the map. The horses were left at A; the wind was east. First
we circled a little to eastward, tossing grass at intervals, but,
finding plenty of new sign, went northerly and westward till most
of the new sign was east of us. Sousi then led for C, telling me to
step in his tracks and make no noise. I did so for long, but at
length a stick cracked under my foot; he turned and looked reproachfully
at me. Then a stick cracked under his foot; I gave him a poke in the
ribs. When we got to the land between the lake at D, Sousi pointed
and said, "They are here." We sneaked with the utmost caution that
way--it was impossible to follow any one trail--and in 200 yards Sousi
sank to the ground gasping out, "La! la! maintenon faites son portrait
au taut que vous voudrez." I crawled forward and saw, not one, but
half a dozen Buffalo. "I must be nearer," I said, and, lying flat
on my breast, crawled, toes and elbows, up to a bush within 75
yards, where I made shot No. 1, and saw here that there were 8 or
9 Buffalo, one an immense bull.

Sousi now cocked his rifle-I said emphatically: "Stop! you must not
fire." "No?" he said in astonished tones that were full of story
and comment. "What did we come for?" Now I saw that by backing
out and crawling to another bunch of herbage I could get within 50
yards.

"It is not possible," he gasped.

"Watch me and see," I replied. Gathering all the near vines
and twisting them around my neck, I covered my head with leaves
and creeping plants, then proceeded to show that it was possible,
while Sousi followed. I reached the cover and found it was a bed
of spring anemones on the far side of an old Buffalo wallow, and
there in that wallow I lay for a moment revelling in the sight. All
at once it came to me: Now, indeed, was fulfilled the long-deferred
dream of my youth, for in shelter of those flowers of my youth, I
was gazing on a herd of wild Buffalo. Then slowly I rose above the
cover and took my second picture.

But the watchful creatures, more shy than Moose here, saw the
rising mass of herbage, or may have caught the wind, rose lightly
and went off. I noticed now, for the first time, a little red calf;
ten Buffalo in all I counted. Sousi, standing up, counted 13. At
the edge of the woods they stopped and looked around, but gave no
third shot for the camera.

I shook Sousi's hand with all my heart, and he, good old fellow,
said: "Ah! it was for this I prayed last night; without doubt it
was in answer to my prayer that the Good God has sent me this great
happiness."

Then back at camp, 200 yards away, the old man's tongue was loosed,
and he told me how the chiefs in conference, and every one at the
Fort, had ridiculed him and his Englishmen--"who thought they
could walk up to Buffalo and take their pictures."

We had not been long in camp when Sousi went off to get some water,
but at once came running back, shouting excitedly, "My rifle,
my rifle!" Jarvis handed it to him; he rushed off to the woods. I
followed in time to see him shoot an old Bear and two cubs out of
a tree. She fell, sobbing like a human being, "Oh! Oh! Oh-h-h-h!"
It was too late to stop him, and he finished her as she lay helpless.
The little ones were too small to live alone, so shared her fate.

It seems, as Sousi went to the water hole, he came on an old Bear
and her two cubs. She gave a warning "koff, koff." The only enemies
they knew about and feared, were Buffalo, Moose, and Wolves; from
these a tree was a safe haven. The cubs scrambled up a tall poplar,
then the mother followed. Sousi came shouting in apparent fear;  I
rushed to the place, thinking he was attacked by something, perhaps
a Buffalo bull, but too late to stop the tragedy that followed.

That night he roasted one of the cubs, and as I watched the old
cannibal chewing the hands off that little baby Bear it gave me a
feeling of disgust for all flesh-eating that lasted for days. Major
Jarvis felt much as I did, and old Sousi had exclusive joy in all
his bear meat.



Next morning I was left at camp while Jarvis and Sousi went off to
seek for more Buffalo. I had a presentiment that they would find
none, so kept the camera and went off to the Lake a mile west, and
there made drawings of some tracks, took photos, etc., and on the
lake saw about twenty-five pairs of ducks, identified Whitewinged
Scoter, Pintail, Green-winged Teal, and Loon. I also watched the
manoeuvres of a courting Peetweet. He approached the only lady with
his feathers up and his wings raised; she paid no heed (apparently),
but I noticed that when he flew away she followed. I saw a large
garter snake striped black and green, and with 2 rows of red
spots, one on each side. It was very fat and sluggish. I took it
for a female about to lay. Later I learned from Sousi and others
that this snake is quite common here, and the only kind found,
but in the mountains that lie not far away in the west is another
kind, much thicker, fatter, and more sluggish. Its bite is fearfully
poisonous, often fatal; "but the Good God has marked the beast by
putting a cloche (bell) in its tail."

About 10 I turned campward, but after tramping for nearly an
hour I was not only not at home, I was in a totally strange kind
of country, covered with a continuous poplar woods. I changed my
course and tried a different direction, but soon was forced to the
conclusion that (for the sixth or seventh time in my life) I was
lost.

"Dear me," I said, "this is an interesting opportunity. It comes
to me now that I once wrote an essay on 'What To Do and What Not
To Do When Lost In the Woods.' Now what in the world did I say in
it, and which were the things not to do. Yes, I remember now, these
were the pieces of advice:

"1st. 'Don't get frightened.' Well, I'm not; I am simply amused.

"2d. 'Wait for your friends to come.' Can't do that; I'm too busy;
they wouldn't appear till night.

"3d. 'If you must travel, go back to a place where you were sure
of the way.' That means back to the lake, which I know is due west
of the camp and must be west of me now."

So back I went, carefully watching the sun for guidance, and soon
realised that whenever I did not, I swung to the left. After nearly
an hour's diligent travel I did get back to the lake, and followed
my own track in the margin to the point of leaving it; then, with
a careful corrected bearing, made for camp and arrived in 40 minutes,
there to learn that on the first attempt I had swung so far to the
left that I had missed camp by half a mile, and was half a mile
beyond it before I knew I was wrong. (See map on p. 46.)

At noon Jarvis and Sousi came back jubilant; they had seen countless
Buffalo trails, had followed a large bull and cow, but had left
them to take the trail of a considerable Band; these they discovered
in a lake. There were 4 big bulls, 4 little calves, 1 yearling, 3
2-year-olds, 8 cows. These allowed them to come openly within 60
yards. Then took alarm and galloped off. They also saw a Moose and
a Marten--and 2 Buffalo skeletons. How I did curse my presentiment
that prevented them having the camera and securing a really fine
photograph!

At 2 P. M. Sousi prepared to break camp. He thought that by going
back on our trail he might strike the trail of another herd off
to the south-east of the mountain. Jarvis shrewdly suspected that
our guide wanted to go home, having kept his promise, won the
reward, and got a load of Bear meat. However, the native was the
guide, we set out in a shower which continued more or less all day
and into the night, so we camped in the rain.

Next day it was obvious, and Sousi no longer concealed the fact,
that he was making for home as fast as he could go.

At Salt River I found the little Teal back on her eggs in the
burnt ground. At 3.30 we reached Smith Landing, having been absent
exactly 3 days, and having seen in that time 33 Buffalo, 4 of them
calves of this year, 3 old Buffalo skeletons of ancient date, but
not a track or sign of a Wolf, not a howl by night, or any evidence
of their recent presence, for the buffalo skeletons found were
obviously very old.

And our guide--the wicked one of evil ancestry and fame--he was
kind, cheerful, and courteous through out; he did exactly as he
promised, did it on time, and was well pleased with the pay we gave
him. Speak as you find. If ever I revisit that country I shall be
glad indeed to secure the services of good old Sousi, even if he
is a Beaulieu.




CHAPTER VIII

THOMAS ANDERSON



We were now back at Smith Landing, and fired with a desire to make
another Buffalo expedition on which we should have ampler time and
cover more than a mere corner of the range. We aimed, indeed, to
strike straight into the heart of the Buffalo country. The same
trouble about guides arose. In this case it was less acute, because
Sousi's account had inspired considerably more respect. Still it
meant days of delay which, however, I aimed to make profitable by
investigations near at hand.

After all, the most interesting of creatures is the two-legged one
with the loose and changeable skin, and there was a goodly colony
of the kind to choose from. Most prominent of them all was Thomas
Anderson, the genial Hudson's Bay Company officer in charge of
the Mackenzie River District. His headquarters are at Fort Smith,
16 miles down the river, but his present abode was Smith Landing,
where all goods are landed for overland transport to avoid the long
and dangerous navigation on the next 16 miles of the broad stream.
Like most of his official brethren, he is a Scotchman; he was born
in Nairn, Scotland, in 1848. At 19 he came to the north-west in
service of the company, and his long and adventurous life, as he
climbed to his present responsible position, may be thus skeletonised:


He spent six months at Fort Temiscamingue,
1 year at Grand Lac,
3 years at Kakabonga,
5 years at Hunter's Lodge, Chippeway,
10 years at Abitibi,
3 years at Dunvegan, Peace River,
1 year at Lesser Slave Lake,
2 months at Savanne, Fort William,
10 years at Nipigon House,
3 years at Isle a la Crosse,
4 years on the Mackenzie River, chiefly at Fort Simpson,
6 months at Fort Smith.


Which tells little to the ears of the big world, but if we say that
he spent 5 years in Berlin, then was moved for 3 years to Gibraltar,
2 years to various posts on the Rhine, whence he went for 4 years
to St. Petersburg; thence to relieve the officer in charge of
Constantinople, and made several flying visits to Bombay and Pekin,
we shall have some idea of his travels, for all were afoot, on
dogsled, or by canoe.

What wonderful opportunities he had to learn new facts about the
wood folk--man and beast--and how little he knew the value of the
glimpses that he got! I made it my business to gather all I could
of his memories, so far as they dwelt with the things of my world,
and offer now a resume of his more interesting observations on
hunter and hunted of the North. [Since these notes were made, Thomas
Anderson has "crossed the long portage."]

The following are among the interesting animal notes:

Cougar. Ogushen, the Indian trapper at Lac des Quinze, found tracks
of a large cat at that place in the fall of 1879 (?). He saw them
all winter on South Bay of that Lake. One day he came on the place
where it had killed a Caribou. When he came back about March he saw
it. It came toward him. It was evidently a cat longer than a Lynx
and it had a very long tail, which swayed from side to side as
it walked. He shot it dead, but feared to go near it believing it
to be a Wendigo. It had a very bad smell. Anderson took it to be
a Puma. It was unknown to the Indian. Ogushen was a first-class
hunter and Anderson firmly believes he was telling the truth. Lac
des Quinze is 15 miles north of Lake Temiscamingue.

Seals. In old days, he says, small seals were found in Lake Ashkeek.
This is 50 miles north-east from Temiscamingue. It empties into
Kippewa River, which empties into Temiscamingue. He never saw one,
but the Indians of the vicinity told of it as a thing which commonly
happened 50 or 60 years ago. Ashkeek is Ojibwa for seal. It is
supposed that they wintered in the open water about the Rapids.

White Foxes, he says, were often taken at Cree Lake. Indeed one or
two were captured each year. Cree Lake is 190 miles south-east of
Fort Chipewyan. They are also taken at Fort Chipewyan from time to
time. One was taken at Fondulac, east end of Lake Athabaska, and
was traded at Smith Landing in 1906. They are found regularly at
Fondulac, the east end of Great Slave Lake, each year.

In the winter of 1885-6 he was to be in charge of Nipigon House,
but got orders beforehand to visit the posts on Albany River. He
set out from Fort William on Lake Superior on his 1,200-mile trip
through the snow with an Indian whose name was Joe Eskimo, from
Manitoulin Island, 400 miles away. At Nipigon House he got another
guide, but this one was in bad shape, spitting blood. After three
days' travel the guide said: "I will go to the end if it kills me,
because I have promised, unless I can get you a better guide. At
Wayabimika (Lake Savanne) is an old man named Omeegi; he knows the
road better than I do." When they got there, Omeegi, although very
old and half-blind, was willing to go on condition that they should
not walk too fast. Then they started for Osnaburgh House on Lake
St. Joseph, 150 miles away. The old man led off well, evidently knew
the way, but sometimes would stop, cover his eyes with his hands,
look at the ground and then at the sky, and turn on a sharp angle.
He proved a fine guide and brought the expedition there in good
time.

Next winter at Wayabimika (where Charley de la Ronde [Count de la
Ronde.] was in charge, but was leaving on a trip of 10 days) Omeegi
came in and asked for a present--"a new shirt and a pair of pants."
This is the usual outfit for a corpse. He explained that he was to
die before Charley came back; that he would die "when the sun rose
at that island" (a week ahead). He got the clothes, though every
one laughed at him. A week later he put on the new garments and
said: "To-day I die when the sun is over that island!" He went
out, looking at the sun from time to time, placidly smoking. When
the sun got to the right place he came in, lay down by the fire,
and in a few minutes was dead.

We buried him in the ground, to his brother's great indignation
when he heard of it. He said: "You white men live on things that
come out of the ground, and are buried in the ground, and properly,
but we Indians live on things that run above ground, and want to
take our last sleep in the trees."

Another case of Indian clairvoyance ran thus: About 1879, when
Anderson was at Abitibi, the winter packet used to leave Montreal,
January 2, each year, and arrive at Abitibi January 19. This year
it did not come.  The men were much bothered as all plans were upset.
After waiting about two weeks, some of the Indians and half-breeds
advised Anderson to consult the conjuring woman, Mash-kou-tay
Ish-quay (Prairie woman) a Flathead from Stuart Lake, B. C. He
went and paid her some tobacco. She drummed and conjured all night.
She came in the morning and told him: "The packet is at the foot
of a rapid now, where there is open water; the snow is deep and
the travelling heavy, but it will be here to-morrow when the sun
is at that point."

Sure enough, it all fell out as she had told. This woman married
a Hudson's Bay man named MacDonald, and he brought her to Lachine,
where she bore him 3 sons; then he died of small-pox, and Sir
George Simpson gave orders that she should be sent up to Abitibi
and there pensioned for as long as she lived. She was about 75 at
the time of the incident. She many times gave evidence of clairvoyant
power. The priest said he "knew about it, and that she was helped
by the devil."

A gruesome picture of Indian life is given in the following incident.

One winter, 40 or 50 years ago, a band of Algonquin Indians at
Wayabimika all starved to death except one squaw and her baby; she
fled from the camp, carrying the child, thinking to find friends
and help at Nipigon House. She got as far as a small lake near
Deer Lake, and there discovered a cache, probably in a tree. This
contained one small bone fish-hook. She rigged up a line, but had
no bait. The wailing of the baby spurred her to action. No bait,
but she had a knife; a strip of flesh was quickly cut from her
own leg, a hole made through the ice, and a fine jack-fish was the
food that was sent to this devoted mother. She divided it with the
child, saving only enough for bait. She stayed there living on fish
until spring, then safely rejoined her people.

The boy grew up to be a strong man, but was cruel to his mother,
leaving her finally to die of starvation. Anderson knew the woman;
she showed him the sear where she cut the bait.

A piece of yet, more ancient history was supplied him in Northern
Ontario, and related to me thus:

Anderson was going to Kakabonga in June, 1879, and camped one
night on the east side of Birch Lake on the Ottawa, about 50 miles
north-east of Grand Lake Post.

He and his outfit of two canoes met Pah-pah-tay, chief of the Grand
Lake Indians, travelling with his family. He called Anderson's
attention to the shape of the point which had one good landing-place,
a little sandy bay, and told him the story he heard from his people
of a battle that was fought there with the Iroquois long, long ago.

Four or five Iroquois war-canoes, filled with warriors, came to
this place on a foray for scalps. Their canoes were drawn up on
the beach at night. They lighted fires and had a war-dance. Three
Grand Lake Algonquins, forefathers of Pah-pah-tay, saw the dance
from, hiding. They cached their canoe, one of them took a sharp
flint--"we had no knives or axes then"--swam across to the canoes,
and cut a great hole in the bottom of each.

The three then posted themselves at three different points in the
bushes, and began whooping in as many different ways as possible.
The Iroquois, thinking it a great war-party, rushed to their canoes
and pushed off quickly. When they were in deep water the canoes
sank and, as the warriors swam back ashore, the Algonquins killed
them one by one, saving alive only one, whom they maltreated, and
then let go with a supply of food, as a messenger to his people, and
to carry the warning that this would be the fate of every Iroquois
that entered the Algonquin country.




CHAPTER IX

MOSQUITOES



Reference to my Smith Landing Journal for June 17 shows the following:

"The Spring is now on in full flood, the grass is high, the trees
are fully leaved, flowers are blooming, birds are nesting, and the
mosquitoes are a terror to man and beast."

If I were to repeat all the entries in that last key, it would make
dreary and painful reading; I shall rather say the worst right now,
and henceforth avoid the subject.

Every traveller in the country agrees that the mosquitoes are
a frightful curse. Captain Back, in 1833 (Journal, p. 117), said
that the sand-flies and mosquitoes are the worst of the hardships
to which the northern traveller is exposed.

T. Hutchins, over a hundred years ago, said that no one enters the
Barren Grounds in the summer, because no man can stand the stinging
insects. I had read these various statements, but did not grasp the
idea until I was among them. At Smith Landing, June 7, mosquitoes
began to be troublesome, quite as numerous as in the worst part of
the New Jersey marshes. An estimate of those on the mosquito bar
over my bed, showed 900 to 1,000 trying to get at me; day and night,
without change, the air was ringing with their hum.

This was early in the season. On July 9, on Nyarling River, they
were much worse, and my entry was as follows:

"'On the back of Billy's coat, as he sat paddling before me, I
counted a round 400 mosquitoes boring away; about as many were on
the garments of his head and neck, a much less number on his arms
and legs. The air about was thick with them; at least as many
more, fully 1,000, singing and stinging and filling the air with
a droning hum. The rest of us were equally pestered.

"'The Major, fresh, ruddy, full-blooded, far over 200 pounds in
plumpness, is the best feeding ground for mosquitoes I (or they,
probably) ever saw; he must be a great improvement on the smoke-dried
Indians. No matter where they land on him they strike it rich,
and at all times a dozen or more bloated bloodsuckers may be seen
hanging like red currants on his face and neck. He maintains that
they do not bother him, and scoffs at me for wearing a net. They
certainly do not impair his health, good looks, or his perennial good
humour, and I, for one, am thankful that his superior food-quality
gives us a corresponding measure of immunity."

At Salt River one could kill 100 with a stroke of the palm and
at times they obscured the colour of the horses. A little later
they were much worse. On 6 square inches of my tent I counted 30
mosquitoes, and the whole surface was similarly supplied; that is,
there were 24,000 on the tent and apparently as many more flying
about the door. Most of those that bite us are killed but that
makes not the slightest perceptible difference in their manners
or numbers. They reminded me of the Klondike gold-seekers. Thousands
go; great numbers must die a miserable death; not more than one in
10,000 can get away with a load of the coveted stuff, and yet each
believes that he is to be that one, and pushes on.

Dr. L. 0. Howard tells us that the mosquito rarely goes far from
its birthplace. That must refer to the miserable degenerates they
have in New Jersey, for these of the north offer endless evidence
of power to travel, as well as to resist cold and wind.

On July 21, 1907, we camped on a small island on Great Slave Lake.
It was about one-quarter mile long, several miles from mainland,
at least half a mile from any other island, apparently all rock,
and yet it was swarming with mosquitoes. Here, as elsewhere, they
were mad for our blood; those we knocked off and maimed, would
crawl up with sprained wings and twisted legs to sting as fiercely
as ever, as long as the beak would work.

We thought the stinging pests of the Buffalo country as bad as
possible, but they proved mild and scarce compared with those we
yet had to meet on the Arctic Barrens of our ultimate goal.

Each day they got worse; soon it became clear that mere adjectives
could not convey any idea of their terrors. Therefore I devised a
mosquito gauge. I held up a bare hand for 5 seconds by the watch,
then counted the number of borers on the back; there were 5 to 10.
Each day added to the number, and when we got out to the Buffalo
country, there were 15 to 25 on the one side of the hand and
elsewhere in proportion. On the Nyarling, in early July, the number
was increased, being now 20 to 40. On Great Slave Lake, later that
month, there were 50 to 60. But when we reached the Barren Grounds,
the land of open breezy plains and cold water lakes, the pests
were so bad that the hand held up for 5 seconds often showed from
100 to 125 long-billed mosquitoes boring away into the flesh. It
was possible to number them only by killing them and counting the
corpses. What wonder that all men should avoid the open plains,
that are the kingdom of such a scourge.

Yet it must not be thought that the whole country is similarly and
evenly filled. There can be no doubt that they flock and fly to
the big moving creatures they see or smell. Maybe we had gathered
the whole mosquito product of many acres. This is shown by the
facts that if one rushes through thick bushes for a distance, into
a clear space, the mosquitoes seem absent at first. One must wait
a minute or so to gather up another legion. When landing from a
boat on the Northern Lakes there are comparatively few, but even
in a high wind, a walk to the nearest hilltop results in one again
moving in a cloud of tormentors. Does not this readiness to assemble
at a bait suggest a possible means of destroying them?

Every one, even the seasoned natives, agree that they are a terror
to man and beast; but, thanks to our flyproof tents, we sleep immune.
During the day I wear my net and gloves, uncomfortably hot, but a
blessed relief from the torment. It is easy to get used to those
coverings; it is impossible to get used to the mosquitoes.

For July 10 I find this note: "The Mosquitoes are worse now than
ever before; even Jarvis, Preble, and the Indians are wearing face
protectors of some kind. The Major has borrowed Preble's closed net,
much to the latter's discomfiture, as he himself would be glad to
wear it."

This country has, for 6 months, the finest climate in the world,
but 2 1/2 of these are ruined by the malignancy of the fly plague.
Yet it is certain that knowledge will confer on man the power to
wipe them out.

No doubt the first step in this direction is a thorough understanding
of the creature's life-history. This understanding many able mien
are working for. But there is another line of thought that should
not be forgotten, though it is negative--many animals are immune.
Which are they? Our first business is to list them if we would
learn the why of immunity.

Frogs are among the happy ones. One day early in June I took a
wood-frog in my hand. The mosquitoes swarmed about. In a few seconds
30 were on my hand digging away; 10 were on my forefinger, 8 on my
thumb; between these was the frog, a creature with many resemblances
to man--red blood, a smooth, naked, soft skin, etc.--and yet not a
mosquito attacked it. Scores had bled my hand before one alighted
on the frog, and it leaped off again as though the creature were
red hot. The experiment repeated with another frog gave the same
result. Why? It can hardly be because the frog is cold-blooded,
for many birds also seem, to be immune, and their blood is warmer
than man's.

Next, I took a live frog and rubbed it on my hand over an area
marked out with lead pencil; at first the place was wet, but in a
few seconds dry and rather shiny. I held up my hand till 50 mosquitoes
had alighted on it and begun to bore; of these, 4 alighted on the
froggy place, 3 at once tumbled off in haste, but one, No. 32, did
sting me there. I put my tongue to the frog's back; it was slightly
bitter.

I took a black-gilled fungus from a manure pile to-day, rubbed a
small area, and held my hand bare till 50 mosquitoes had settled
and begun to sting; 7 of these alighted on the fungus juice, but
moved off at once, except the last; it stung, but at that time the
juice was dry.

Many other creatures, including some birds, enjoy immunity, but
I note that mosquitoes did attack a dead crane; also they swarmed
onto a widgeon plucked while yet warm, and bored in deep; but I
did not see any filling with blood.

There is another kind of immunity that is equally important and
obscure. In the summer of 1904, Dr. Clinton L. Bagg, of New York,
went to Newfoundland for a fishing trip. The Codroy country was,
as usual, plagued with mosquitoes, but as soon as the party crossed
into the Garnish River Valley, a land of woods and swamps like the
other, the mosquitoes had disappeared. Dr. Bagg spent the month of
August there, and found no use for nets, dopes, or other means of
fighting winged pests; there were none. What the secret was no one
at present knows, but it would be a priceless thing to find.

Now, lest I should do injustice to the Northland that will some
day be an empire peopled with white men, let me say that there are
three belts of mosquito country the Barren Grounds, where they are
worst and endure for 2 1/2 months; the spruce forest, where they
are bad and continue for 2 months, and the great arable region of
wheat, that takes in Athabaska and Saskatchewan, where the flies
are a nuisance for 6 or 7 weeks, but no more so than they were in
Ontario, Michigan, Manitoba, and formerly England; and where the
cultivation of the land will soon reduce them to insignificance,
as it has invariably done in other similar regions. It is quite
remarkable in the north-west that such plagues are most numerous
in the more remote regions, and they disappear in proportion as
the country is opened up and settled.

Finally, it is a relief to know that these mosquitoes convey no
disease--even the far-spread malaria is unknown in the region.

Why did I not take a "dope" or  "fly repellent," ask many of my
friends.

In answer I can only say I have never before been where mosquitoes
were bad enough to need one. I had had no experience with fly-dope.
I had heard that they are not very effectual, and so did not add
one to the outfit. I can say now it was a mistake to leave any means
untried. Next time I carry "dope." The following recipe is highly
recommended:


Pennyroyal,      one part,
Oil of Tar,         "   "
Spirits of Camphor, "   "
Sweet Oil, or else vaseline, three parts.


Their natural enemies are numerous; most small birds prey on them;
dragon-flies also, and the latter alone inspire fear in the pests.
When a dragon-fly comes buzzing about one's head the mosquitoes
move away to the other side, but it makes no considerable difference.

On Buffalo River I saw a boatman or water-spider seize, and devour
a mosquito that fell within reach; which is encouraging, because,
as a rule, the smaller the foe, the deadlier, and the only creature
that really affects the whole mosquito nation is apparently a small
red parasite that became more and more numerous as the season wore
on. It appeared in red lumps on the bill and various parts of the
stinger's body, and the victim became very sluggish. Specimens
sent to Dr. L. 0. Howard, the authority on mosquitoes, elicited
the information that it was a fungus, probably new to science.
But evidently it is deadly to the Culex. More power to it, and the
cause it represents; we cannot pray too much for its increase.

Now to sum up: after considering the vastness of the region
affected--three-quarters of the globe--and the number of diseases
these insects communicate, one is inclined to say that it might be
a greater boon to mankind to extirpate the mosquito than to stamp
out tuberculosis. The latter means death to a considerable proportion
of our race, the former means hopeless suffering to all mankind;
one takes off each year its toll of the weaklings the other spares
none, and in the far north at least has made a hell on earth of
the land that for six months of each year might be a human Paradise.




CHAPTER X

A BAD CASE



My unsought fame as a medicine man continued to grow. One morning
I heard a white voice outside asking, "Is the doctor in?" Billy
replied: "Mr. Seton is inside." On going forth I met a young American
who thus introduced himself: "My name is Y------, from Michigan.
I was a student at Ann Arbor when you lectured there in 1903. 1
don't suppose you remember me; I was one of the reception committee;
but I'm mighty glad to meet you out here."

After cordial greetings he held up his arm to explain the call and
said: "I'm in a pretty bad way."

"Let's see."

He unwound the bandage and showed a hand and arm swollen out of all
shape, twice the natural size, and of a singular dropsical pallor.

"Have you any pain?"

"I can't sleep from the torture of it."

"Where does it hurt now?"

"In the hand."

"How did you get it?"

"It seemed to come on after a hard crossing of Lake Athabaska. We
had to row all night."

I asked one or two more questions, really to hide my puzzlement.
"What in the world is it?" I said to myself; "all so fat and puffy."
I cudgelled my brain for a clue. As I examined the hand in silence
to play for time and conceal my ignorance, he went on:

"What I'm afraid of is blood-poisoning. I couldn't get out to a
doctor before a month, and by that time I'll be one-armed or dead.
I know which I'd prefer."

Knowing, at all events, that nothing but evil could come of fear,
I said: "Now see here. You can put that clean out of your mind.
You never saw blood-poisoning that colour, did you?"

"That's so," and he seemed intensely relieved.

While I was thus keeping up an air of omniscience by saying nothing,
Major Jarvis came up.

"Look at this, Jarvis," said I; "isn't it a bad one?

"Phew," said the Major, "that's the worst felon I ever saw."

Like a gleam from heaven came the word felon. That's what it was,
a felon or whitlow, and again I breathed freely. Turning to the
patient with my most cock-sure professional air, I said:

"Now see, Y., you needn't worry; you've hurt your finger in
rowing, and the injury was deep and has set up a felon. It is not
yet headed up enough; as soon as it is I'll lance it, unless it
bursts of itself (and inwardly I prayed it might burst). Can you
get any linseed meal or bran?"

"Afraid not."

"Well, then, get some clean rags and keep the place covered with
them dipped in water as hot as you can stand it, and we'll head
it up in twenty-four hours; then in three days I'll have you in
good shape to travel." The last sentence, delivered with the calm
certainty of a man who knows all about it and never made a mistake,
did so much good to the patient that I caught a reflex of it myself.

He gave me his good hand and said with emotion: "You don't know
how much good you have done me. I don't mind being killed, but I
don't want to go through life a cripple."

"You say you haven't slept?" I asked.

"Not for three nights; I've suffered too much."

"Then take these pills. Go to bed at ten o'clock and take a pill;
if this does not put you to sleep, take another at 10.30. If you are
still awake at 11, take the third; then you will certainly sleep."

He went off almost cheerfully.

Next morning he was back, looking brighter. "Well," I said, "you
slept last night, all right."

"No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't
there?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out
in my sober senses, without any drugs."

"Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian
fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills,
he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real
American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have
you sound as a dollar."

Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make
some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock,"
I said, thinking how very professional it sounded.

The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more
important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's
brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution.

He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy."

"I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my
mettle."

"'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to
take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances.

"Are you ready?"

He laid his pudding-y hand on the table.

"You better have your Indian friend hold that hand."

"I'll never budge," he replied, with set teeth, and motioned the
Indian away. And I knew he would not flinch. He will never know
(till he reads this, perhaps) what an effort it cost me. I knew only
I must cut deep enough to reach the pus, not so deep as to touch
the artery, and not across the tendons, and must do it firmly, at
one clean stroke. I did.

It was a horrid success. He never quivered, but said: "Is that all?
That's a pin-prick to what I've been through every minute for the
last week."

I felt faint, went out behind the cabin, and--shall I confess
it?--took a long swig of brandy. But I was as good as my promise:
in three days he was well enough to travel, and soon as strong as
ever.

I wonder if real doctors ever conceal, under an air of professional
calm, just such doubts and fears as worried me.




CHAPTER XI

THE SECOND BUFFALO HUNT



Though so trifling, the success of our first Buffalo hunt gave us
quite a social lift. The chiefs were equally surprised with the
whites, and when we prepared for a second expedition, Kiya sent
word that though he could not act as guide, I should ride his own
trained hunter, a horse that could run a trail like a hound, and
was without guile.

I am, always suspicious of a horse (or man) without guile.
I wondered what was the particular weakness of this exceptionally
trained, noble, and guileless creature. I have only one prejudice
in horseflesh--I do not like a white one. So, of course, when
the hunter arrived he was, white as marble, from mane to tail and
hoofs; his very eyes were of a cheap china colour, suggestive of
cataractine blindness. The only relief was a morbid tinge of faded
shrimp pink in his nostrils and ears. But he proved better than he
looked. He certainly did run tracks by nose like a hound, provided I
let him choose the track. He was a lively walker and easy trotter,
and would stay where the bridle was dropped, So I came to the
conclusion that Kiya was not playing a joke on me, but really had
lent me his best hunter, whose sepulchral whiteness I could see would
be of great advantage in snow time when chiefly one is supposed to
hunt.

Not only Kiya, but Pierre Squirrel, the head chief, seemed to harbour
a more kindly spirit. He now suddenly acquired a smattering of
English and a fair knowledge of French. He even agreed to lead us
through his own hunting grounds to the big Buffalo range, stipulating
that we be back by July 1, as that was Treaty Day, when all the
tribe assembled to receive their treaty money, and his presence as
head chief was absolutely necessary.

We were advised to start from Fort Smith, as the trail thence was
through a dryer country; so on the morning of June 24, at 6.50, we
left the Fort on our second Buffalo hunt.

Major A. M. Jarvis, Mr. E. A. Preble, Corporal Selig, Chief Pierre
Squirrel, and myself, all mounted, plus two pack-horses, prepared
for a week's campaign. Riding ahead in his yellow caftan and black
burnoose was Pierre Squirrel on his spirited charger, looking most
picturesque. But remembering that his yellow caftan was a mosquito
net, his black burnoose a Hudson's Bay coat, and his charger an
ornery Indian Cayuse, robbed the picture of most of its poetry.

We marched westerly 7 miles through fine, dry, jack-pine wood,
then, 3 miles through mixed poplar, pine, and spruce, And came to
the Slave River opposite Point Gravois. Thence we went a mile or
so into similar woods, and after another stretch of muskegs. We
camped for lunch at 11.45, having covered 12 miles.

At two we set out, and reached Salt River at three, but did not
cross there. It is a magnificent stream, 200 feet wide, with hard
banks and fine timber on each side; but its waters are brackish.

We travelled north-westerly, or northerly, along the east banks
for an hour, but at length away from it on a wide prairie, a mile
or more across here, but evidently extending much farther behind
interruptions of willow clumps. Probably these prairies join, with
those we saw on the Beaulieu trip. They are wet now, though a horse
can go anywhere, and the grass is good. We camped about six on a dry
place back from the river. At night I was much interested to hear
at intervals the familiar Kick-kick-kick-kick of the Yellow Rail
in the adjoining swamps. This must be its northmost range; we did
not actually see it.

Here I caught a garter-snake. Preble says it is the same form as
that at Edmonton. Our guide was as much surprised to see me take
it in my hands, as he was to see me let it go unharmed.

Next morning, after a short hour's travel, we came again to Salt
River and proceeded to cross. Evidently Squirrel had selected the
wrong place, for the sticky mud seemed bottomless, and we came near
losing two of the horses.

After two hours we all got across and went on, but most of the horses
had shown up poorly, as spiritless creatures, not yet recovered
from the effects of a hard winter.

Our road now lay over the high upland of the Salt Mountain, among
its dry and beautiful woods. The trip would have been glorious but
for the awful things that I am not allowed to mention outside of
Chapter IX.

Pierre proved a pleasant and intelligent companion; he did his
best, but more than once shook his head and said: "Chevaux no good."

We covered 15 miles before night, and all day we got glimpses of
some animal on our track, 300 yards behind in the woods. It might
easily have been a Wolf, but at night he sneaked into camp a forlorn
and starving Indian dog. Next day we reached the long looked-for
Little Buffalo River. Several times of late Pierre had commented on
the slowness of our horses and enlarged on the awful Muskega that
covered the country west of the Little Buffalo. Now he spoke out
frankly and said we had been 21 days coming 40 miles when the road
was good; we were now coming to very bad roads and had to go as
far again. These horses could not do it, and get him back to Fort
Smith for July 1--and back at any price he must be.

He was willing to take the whole outfit half a day farther westward,
or, if we preferred it, he would go afoot or on horseback with the
pick of the men and horses for a hasty dash forward; but to take
the whole outfit on to the Buffalo country and get back on time
was not possible.

This was a bad shake. We held a council of war, and the things that
were said of that Indian should have riled him if he understood.
He preserved his calm demeanour; probably this was one of the
convenient times when all his English forsook him. We were simply
raging: to be half-way to our goal, with abundance of provisions,
fine weather, good health and everything promising well, and then
to be balked because our guide wanted to go back. I felt as savage
as the others, but on calmer reflection pointed out that Pierre
told us before starting that he must be back for Treaty Day, and
even now he was ready to do his best.

Then in a calm of the storm (which he continued to ignore) Pierre
turned to me and said: "Why don't you go back and try the canoe
route? You can go down the Great River to Grand Detour, then portage
8 miles over to the Buffalo, go down this to the Nyarling, then up
the Nyarling into the heart of the Buffalo country; 21 days will
do it, and it will be easy, for there is plenty of water and no
rapids," and he drew a fairly exact map which showed that he knew
the country thoroughly.

There was nothing to be gained by going half a day farther.

To break up our party did not fit in at all with our plans, so, after
another brief stormy debate in which the guide took no part, we
turned without crossing the Little Buffalo, and silently, savagely,
began the homeward journey; as also did the little Indian dog.

Next morning we crossed the Salt River at a lower place where was
a fine, hard bottom. That afternoon we travelled for 6 miles through
a beautiful and level country, covered with a forest of large poplars,
not very thick; it will some day be an ideal cattle-range, for it
had rank grass everywhere, and was varied by occasional belts of
jack-pine. In one of these Preble found a nest with six eggs that
proved to be those of the Bohemian Chatterer. These he secured,
with photograph of the nest and old bird. It was the best find of
the journey.

The eggs proved of different incubation--at least a week's
difference--showing that the cool nights necessitated immediate
setting.

We camped at Salt River mouth, and next afternoon were back at Fort
Smith, having been out five days and seen nothing, though there
were tracks of Moose and Bear in abundance.

Here our guide said good-bye to us, and so did the Indian dog.




CHAPTER XII

BEZKYA AND THE PILLS



During this journey I had successfully treated two of the men for
slight ailments, and Squirrel had made mental note of the fact.
A result of it was that in the morning an old, old, black-looking
Indian came hobbling on a stick to my tent and, in husky Chipewyan,
roughly translated by Billy, told me that he had pains in his head
and his shoulder and his body, and his arms and his legs and his
feet, and he couldn't hunt, couldn't fish, couldn't walk, couldn't
eat, couldn't lie, couldn't sleep, and he wanted me to tackle
the case. I hadn't the least idea of what ailed the old chap, but
conveyed no hint of my darkness. I put on my very medical look
and said: "Exactly so. Now you take these pills and you will find
a wonderful difference in the morning." I had some rather fierce
rhubarb pills; one was a dose but, recognising the necessity for
eclat, I gave him two.

He gladly gulped them down in water. The Indian takes kindly to
pills, it's so easy to swallow them, so obviously productive of
results, and otherwise satisfactory. Then, the old man hobbled off
to his lodge.

A few hours later he was back again, looking older and shakier
than ever, his wet red eyes looking like plague spots in his ashy
brown visage or like volcanic eruptions in a desert of dead lava,
and in husky, clicking accents he told Billy to tell the Okimow
that the pills were no good--not strong enough for him.

"Well," I said, "he shall surely have results this time." I gave
him three big ones in a cup of hot tea. All the Indians love tea,
and it seems to help them. Under its cheering power the old man's
tongue was loosened. He talked more clearly, and Billy, whose
knowledge of Chipewyan is fragmentary at best, suddenly said: "I'm
afraid I made, a mistake. Bezkya says the pills are too strong.
Can't you give him something to stop them?