The Big Otter

The elder savage shook his head.

“No, Mozwa. The white man never goes on the war-path, except to track down murderers. When he goes through the land he travels as the red-man’s friend. Nevertheless, it is well to be on our guard.”

As he spoke, the song, which had been increasing in strength every moment, suddenly burst forth with great power in consequence of the boat which bore the singers rounding a rocky point and coming into full view.

To sink into the grass, imitate the serpent and vanish from the scene, was the work of a few seconds on the part of Maqua and his son.

Meanwhile the boat, which I need scarcely say was ours, came sweeping grandly on, for the fineness of the evening, the calmness of the lake, the splendour of the scene, and the prospect of a good supper, to be followed by a good night’s rest lent fresh vigour to the arms as well as to the voices of our men.

“Hold on a bit, boys,” cried Jack Lumley, standing up in the stern and looking shoreward, “this seems a pretty good place to camp.”

“There is a better place a few yards further on,” said Big Otter, who pulled the stroke oar. “I know every foot of the country here. It is a soft—”

“What does Big Otter see?” asked Lumley, for the Indian had come to a sudden stop, and was gazing earnestly ahead.

“He sees the smoke of a fire.”

“Is it likely to be the fire of an enemy?”

“No—more like to be the camp of some of my people, but their wigwams are two days beyond this lake. Perhaps hunters are out in this direction.”

“We shall soon see—give way, lads!” said Lumley, sitting down.

In a few minutes the boat was on the beach. We sprang ashore, and hastened to the spot where a thin wreath of smoke indicated the remains of a camp-fire.

Of course we carried our arms, not knowing whom we should meet with.

After examining the spot carefully, Big Otter stood up and was about to speak to our chief, when a slight peculiar chirp was heard in the bushes. It is probable that we should have deemed it that of some small bird and paid no attention to it if our Indian had not suddenly bent his head on one side as if to listen. At the same time he replied to the chirp. Again the sound was heard, and Big Otter, turning round quickly, without uttering a word, entered the bushes and disappeared.

“Stand ready, lads!” said Lumley in a quiet voice, bringing forward the muzzle of his gun, “there’s no saying what may come of this.”

Scarcely had he spoken when a rustling was heard in the bushes. Next moment they were thrust aside and Big Otter reissued from them, followed by two Indians, whom he introduced to us as his brother and nephew. At the same time he gave us the gratifying information that his tribe had moved up from the region in which they usually dwelt for the purpose of hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood of the lake, and that the camp was not more than six or seven miles distant from the spot on which we stood.

To this Lumley replied by expressing his gratification at the news, and shaking hands with the two Indians, who, however, received the shake with some distrust and much surprise, until Big Otter explained the nature and meaning of the white man’s salutation. He also explained the meaning of “What cheer.” On hearing which Maqua, not to be outdone in politeness, extended his hand for another shake, and exclaimed “Watchee!” with profound gravity. Mozwa, with some hesitation, imitated his father’s example.

While we were thus pleasantly engaged, a sonorous trumpet sound was heard behind the clump of small trees near us. A moment later and two magnificent wild swans sailed over the tree-tops and above our heads. They made a tumultuously wild swoop to one side on discovering the near proximity of their enemy man but were too late. Almost before any of the party had time to move a muscle, two sharp cracks were heard, and both swans fell stone dead, with a heavy splash, at the margin of the lake.

It was our chief, Jack Lumley, who had brought them down with his double-barrelled fowling-piece. I have omitted to mention that Lumley was one of the noted crack-shots of the country at that time—noted not only for the deadly precision, but also for the lightning-like rapidity of his aim.

The Indians, albeit themselves pretty fair marksmen, were deeply impressed with this evidence of skill, and it went far to strengthen the influence which our chief’s manly proportions and genial countenance had already begun to exercise.

“That’s a good beginning, Lumley,” said I, “for it not only impresses our new friends favourably, but provides excellent fresh meat for supper.”

“Yonder comes better meat for supper,” he replied, pointing towards a neighbouring height, where we could see the forms of two men approaching, with the carcase of a deer between them.

It was Donald Bane and James Dougall who had been thus successful. These sons of the Scottish Highlands, being ardent sportsmen as well as good marksmen, had been appointed to the post of hunters to our party, and were frequently sent ashore to procure fresh meat.

“The country is swarmin’ wi’ game, Muster Lumley,” said Bane, as they came up, and flung down the deer. “Not only teer an’ rabbits, but tucks an’ geese, an’ all sorts o’ pirds. Moreover, Tougall, she got into a bog after wan o’ the peasts, an’ I thought I wass goin’ to lose him altogither. ‘Shames Tougall,’ says I, ‘don’t you go anither step till I come to you, or you’re a lost man,’ but Shames went on—he was always an obstinate loon—”

“Dat is true,” remarked Salamander.

“Hold yer noise!” said Bane. “Well, sur, Tougall went on, an’ sure enough the very next step down he went up to the neck—”

“No, Tonald,” interrupted Dougall, “it wass not up to the neck; it wass only to the waist. The nixt after that it wass up to the neck, but then I wass soomin’.”

“Ye would hey bin soomin’ yet, Shames, if I had not pulled ye oot,” said his friend.

“Oo ay, Tonald Pane. That iss true, but—”

“Well, Dougall,” interrupted Lumley at this point, “it will be better to dry your garments than discuss the question just now. We will encamp here, so go to work, boys.”

There was no need for more. During our long journey into these far-off wilds each man had fallen into his allotted place and work, and the force of habit had made us so like machines that I think if we had suddenly become a party of somnambulists we would have gone through the same actions each evening on landing.

Accordingly, Lumley and I gathered small branches and rekindled the Indians’ fire, which had by that time almost gone out. Marcelle Dumont being professionally a forger of axes, and Henri Coppet, being an artificer in wood, went off to cut down trees for firewood; and Donald Bane with his friend set about cutting up and preparing the venison, while Blondin superintended and assisted Salamander and the others in landing the cargo, and hauling up the boat.

“Max,” said Lumley to me that evening during an interval in our devotion to steaks and marrow-bones, “look around for a moment if you can tear your gross mind from the contemplation of food, and tell me what you see?”

He made a sweep with his arm to indicate the surrounding scenery, which was at the moment irradiated by the after-glow of the setting sun, as well as the brightening beams of the full moon.

“I see,” said I, looking up, “a lovely lake, dotted with islets of varied shape and size, with the pale moon reflected almost unbroken in its glassy waters.”

“What else do you see?” asked Lumley.

“I see around and beyond a prospect of boundless woodland, of plain, mound, hill, lake, and river, extending with a grand sweep that suggests ideas which can only be defined by the word Immensity. I see altogether a scene the like of which I never looked upon before—a scene of beauty, peacefulness, and grandeur which gladdens the eye to behold and fills the heart with gratitude to its Maker.”

“You say well, Max,” returned my friend, “and it seems to me that we may regard this Lake Wichikagan which we now look upon as our inheritance in the wilderness, and that the spot on which we now sit shall be, for some time at least, our future home.”

Chapter Nine.

A Bright Apparition—Followed by Rumours of War

While we were thus feasting and chatting on the green sward of the region which seemed destined to be our future home, an object suddenly appeared among the bushes, near the edge of the circle of light cast by our camp-fire.

This object was by no means a frightful one, yet it caused a sensation in the camp which could hardly have been intensified if we had suddenly discovered a buffalo with the nose of an elephant and the tail of a rattlesnake. For one moment we were all struck dumb; then we all sprang to our feet, but we did not seize our firearms—oh no!—for there, half concealed by the bushes, and gazing at us in timid wonder, stood a pretty young girl, with a skin much fairer than usually falls to the lot of Indian women, and with light brown hair as well as bright blue eyes. In all other respects—in costume, and humble bearing—she resembled the women of the soil.

I would not willingly inflict on the reader too much of my private feelings and opinions, but perhaps I may be excused for saying that I fell over head and ears in love with this creature at once! I make no apology for being thus candid. On the contrary, I am prepared rather to plume myself on the quick perception which enabled me not only to observe the beauty of the girl’s countenance, but, what is of far more importance, the inherent goodness which welled from her loving eyes. Yes, reader, call me an ass if you will, but I unblushingly repeat that I fell—tumbled—plunged headlong in love with her. So did every other man in the camp! There is this to be said in excuse for us, that we had not seen any members of the fair sex for many months, and that the sight of this brilliant specimen naturally aroused many pleasant recollections of cousins, sisters, nieces, aunts, mothers, grandmothers—well, perhaps I am going too far; though, after all, the tender, loving-kindness in this girl’s eyes might well have suggested grandmothers!

Before any of us could recover the use of our limbs, Big Otter had glided rapidly towards the girl. Grasping her by the hand, he led her towards Lumley, and introduced her as his sister’s daughter, Waboose.

The red-man was evidently proud as well as fond of his fair niece, and equally clear did it become in a short time that the girl was as fond and proud of him.

“Your relative is very fair,” said Lumley. “She might almost have been the daughter of a white man.”

“She is the daughter of a white man.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; her father was a white hunter who left his people and came to dwell with us and married my sister. He was much loved and respected by us. He lived and hunted and went on the war-path with us for many years—then he was killed.”