A Man in the Open. Roger Pocock
the door, out of reach, lest she should see me mighty near to cryin'.
It was all very well showing off brave before mother, but when I got outside, any excuse would have been enough for going back. I wished I'd left the matches behind, but I hadn't. I wished the snow would be too soft, but it was hard as sand. I wished I wasn't a coward, and the bush didn't look so wolfy, and what if I met up with the Eskimo devil! Oh, I was surely the scaredest lil' boy, and dead certain I'd get lost. There was nobody to see if I sat down and cried under father's lob-stick, but I was too durned frightened, because the upper branches looked like arms with claws. Then I went on because I was going, and there was father's trail blazed on past Bake-apple Marsh. The little trees, a cut here, a slash there, the top of a tree lopped and hanging, then Big Boulder, Johnny Boulder, Small Boulder, cross the crick, first deadfall, more lops, a number-one trap empty—how well I remember even now. The way was as plain as streets, and the sun shining warm as he looked over into the valley.
Then I saw a man's mitt, an old buckskin mitt sticking up out of the snow. Father had dropped his mitt, and without that his hand would be froze. When I found him, how glad he'd be to get it!
But when I tried to pick it up, it was heavy. Then it came away, and there was father's hand sticking up. It was dead.
Of course I know I'd ought to have dug down through the snow, but I didn't. I ran for all I was worth. Then I got out of breath and come back shamed.
It wasn't for love of father. No. I hated to touch that hand, and when I did I was sick. Still that was better than being scared to touch. It's not so bad when you dare.
I dug, with a snow-shoe for a shovel. There was the buckskin shirt smelling good, and the long fringes I'd used to tickle his nose with—then I found his face. I just couldn't bear that, but turned my back and dug until I came to the great, big, number-four trap he used for wolf and beaver. He must have stepped without seeing it under the snow, and it broke his leg. Then he'd tried to drag himself back home.
It was when I stood up to get breath and cool off that I first seen the wolf, setting peaceful, waggin' his tail. First I thought he was one of our own huskies, but when he didn't know his name I saw for sure he must be the wolf who lived up Two Mile Crick. Wolves know they're scarce, with expensive pelts, so neither father nor me had seen more'n this person's tracks. He'd got poor inspecting father's business instead of minding his own. That's why he was called the Inspector. It was March, too, the moon of famine. Of course I threw my ax and missed. His hungry smile's still thar behind a bush, and me wondering whether his business is with me or father. That's why I stepped on the snow-shoes, and went right past where he was, not daring to get my ax. Yes, it was me he wanted to see—first, but of course I wasn't going to encourage any animal into thinking he'd scared a man. Why, he'd scarce have let father even see his tracks for fear they'd be trapped or shot. So I walked slow and proud, leadin' him off from father—at least I played that, wishing all the time that mother's lil' boy was to home. After a while I grabbed down a lopped stick where father'd blazed, not as fierce as an ax, but enough to make me more or less respected.
Sometimes the Inspector was down wind 'specting my smell, times he was up wind for a bird's-eye view, or again on my tracks to see how small they looked—and oh, they did feel small!
From what I've learned among these people, wolves is kind to man cubs, gentle and friendly even when pinched with hunger, just loving to watch a child and its queer ways. They're shy of man because his will is strong compelling them, and his weapons magic. So they respects his traps, his kids, an' all belonging to him. Only dying of hunger, they'll snatch his dogs and cats, and little pigs, but they ain't known to hurt man or his young.
The Inspector was bigger than me, stronger'n any man, swifter'n any horse. I tell yer the maned white wolf is wiser'n most people, and but for eating his cubs, he's nature's gentleman.
The trouble was not him hunting, but me scared. Why, if he'd wanted me, one flash, one bite, and I'm breakfast. It was just curiosity made him so close behind like a stealthy ghost. When I'd turn to show fight, he'd seem to apologize, and then I'd go on whistling a hymn.
Thar he was cached right ahead in the deadfall, for a front view, if I'd known. But I thrashed with my stick in a panic, hitting his snout, so he yelped. Then he lost his temper. He'd a "sorry, but-business-is-business" expression on him. I ran at him, tripped on a stump, let out a yell, and he lep' straight at my throat.
And in the middle of that came a gunshot, a bullet grazed my arm, and went on whining. Another shot, and the Inspector ran. Then I was rubbing whar the bullet hurt, sort of sulky, too, with a grievance, when I was suddenly grabbed and nigh smothered in mother's arms. She'd come with the team of huskies followin' me; she'd been gunning, too, and I sure had a mighty close call.
She'd no tears left for father, so when I got through sobbin' we went to the body, and loaded it in the komatik for home. Thar's things I don't like to tell you.
It wasn't a nice trip exactly, with the Inspector superintending around. When we got back to the tilt, we daresn't take out the huskies, or unload, or even stop for grub. We had to drive straight on, mother and me, down the tickle, past our old empty home, then up the Baccalieu all night.
The sun was just clear of the ice when we made the Post, and we saw a little ball jerk up the flag halyards, then break to a great red flag with the letters H. BC It means Here Before Christ.
The air was full of a big noise, like the skirl of sea-gulls screaming in a gale, and there was Mr. McTavish on the sidewalk, marching with his bagpipes to wake the folk out of their Sunday beds. He'd pants down to his heels, just as father said, and fat bacon to eat every day of his life. He was strong as a team of bullocks, a big, bonny, red man, with white teeth when he turned, smiling, in a sudden silence of the pipes. Then he saw father's body, with legs and arms stiffened all ways, and the number-four trap still gripped on broken bones. Off came his fur cap.
Mother stood, iron-hard, beside the komatik.
"Factor," says she, "I've come to pay his debt."
"Nay, it's the Sabbath, ma'am. Ye'll pay no debts till Monday. Come in and have some tea—ye puir thing."
"You starved his soul to death, and now I've brought his body to square his debts. Will you leave that here till Monday?"
Mr. McTavish looked at her, then whispered to me. "B'y," said he, "we must make her cry or she'll be raving mad. Greet, woman, greet. By God, I'll make ye greet!"
He marched up and down the sidewalk, and through the skirl of gulls in a storm, swept a tune that made the meat shake on my bones.
Once mother shrieked out, trying to make him stop, but he went on pacing in front of her, to and fro, with his eyes on her all the time, peering straight through her, and all the grief of all the world in the skirl and the wail, and that hopeless awful tune. She covered her face with her hands, trying to hold while the great sobs shook her, and she reeled like a tree in a gale, until she fell on her knees, until she threw herself on the corpse, and cried, and cried.
CHAPTER II
THE HAPPY SHIP
Cap'n Mose of the Zedekiah W. Baggs 'e was a Sunday Christian. All up along 'e'd wear a silk hat, the only one on the Labrador. Yes. Sundays 'e'd be ashore talkin' predestination an' grace out of a book 'e kep' in 'is berth, but never a word about fish or the state of the ice. Mother'd been raised to a belief in Christians, so when Mose dropped in at her shack, admirin' how she cooked, she'd be pleased all up the back, and have him right in to dinner. He'd kiss me, talkin' soft about little children. Yes. That's how 'e got me away to sea as boy on a sealin' voyage, without paying me any wages.
Mother never knew