tramp, tramp, tramp, is the order of the day.

OUTING.Vol. XV. DECEMBER, 1889. No. 3.

W A B U N A N U N G

BY F. HOUGHTON.

Chapter I.

ECEMBER10 th, 18—,6:30 a. m.Wind nor’-west, blow-ing f r e sh( –— s a y sd e v i l i s h

fresh! but thatdoes not soundsufficiently sci-entific, and is

slangy, to say the least).A few flakes of dry, pow-

dery snow falling. Thermometer 22° be-low zero. Hole as big as your head inthe tent; trying to shiver ourselves intoa perspiration, according to unscientificand slangy Blank; can just see four starsthrough the hole; handy thing a hole?— is lighting (or trying to light) thefire. Wants to know if I can hear histeeth chatter ing; — always was anass .

Thermometer, as I was saying, — —.Oh! this won’t do at all; too much likethe regulation Polar diary. So here goesfor a new departure (new departure, bythe way, is rather neat; saw it chalked upin a restaurant window; can’t say wherethey had newly departed to—probably tothe bankruptcy court or the next street).But all this is beside the question anddoes not interest us in the least.

Flowing into (Georgian Bay, Lake Hu-ron, about latitude 46° 15´, and longitude

—(nothing like putting in a latitude ora longitude, it is so very convincing, somathematically solid and correct!).

I, for my part, in my wildest railingagainst human deceit and nature in gener-al, never doubt the most romantic storiesthat begin with a latitude such and suchand longitude so and so; it is too muchlike throwing stones, which is dangerouswhen one lives in a nice little glass cot-tage of one’s own.

To continue. About the above-men-tioned latitude and longitude a riverempties itself through five different mouthsinto the bay. The name of this river isthe Mississauga, which being interpretedinto the brutal Saxon tongue signifies“a river with many mouths.”

The last mile of the eastern or mainbranch runs about due north and south.At the northern end of this stretch, on thewestern side, stands the Hudson Bay Com-pany’s post, consisting of the storehouse,a large frame building, and a low-lying,comfortable log cottage where the store-keeper and his family live.

The post is situated on an island form-ed by this main branch and a smallerone. It is a low-lying, flat piece of landcovered with second-growth birch, pop-lar and jack pine, and many a gameypartridge have I knocked over as it rosewith a whirr among these same birch andpoplars in the grand October days, whenthe leaves are pretty nearly all fallen, andwhat few remain are crumpled and with-

Copyright, 1889, by the Outing Publishing Company, Limited. All rights reserved.

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164 OUTING FOR DECEMBER.

ered to half their natural size and rustle marks the mud bank where you havesadly among the dry branches. Then startled some snipe at his breakfast. Andthe cover is not too thick and the birds later on, when the bays and streams havenot too tame. The ring of your double frozen across, the geese and waviesbarrel is sharp and clear in the bracing (white geese) come down from the Northautumn air, cool enough to color yourcheek and eye and give a spring to your

—then what stalking, wading and wettingyou get. What rejoicing there is at the

post when you are for-tunate and make a bag!How good everythingtastes—wavies especial-ly! daintiest of dishes!

“do not shoot,” said waburn. “cariboo are very close to-night.”

step. Ah! those are the days, lad, andthat is life! Do you know it? Haveyou hunted duck in the marshes, with themist hanging in great waves over the riceand bulrushes, seen the day in long crim-son shafts come creeping up in the east-ern sky? While now and then, as youpush your canoe along, a hoarse, ratherguttural ah-h-h, a-h-h and a little whirr

Ah! that is life, afterall. You are not perchedu p o n a three-leggedstool, of the comfortsof which—“Allah bep r a i s e d ” — I a m n ojudge; puzzl ing yourbrains, chewing your penhandle and destroyingyour chest and lungs inthe wild desire to writesomething both wittyand amusing for peoplewho merely yawn andwill not be amused. “Otempora! O mores!”

But this is not a wild-goose chase—I wish toheaven it were !—nor thed e s c r i p t i o n o f o n e ,though I might writepages on a subject soenthralling; but it can-not be. We are lookingfor big game now!

From the post youcan see three-quarters ofa mile about northeastup the river to where itbends around to the westof north.

Along the east shorethere are scattered In-dian dwellings, little logshanties, the most ofthem about twenty bytwenty-five feet, andstanding among them,relics and reminders of

former times, the regular Indian bark wig-wams. Shaggy dogs and no less shaggy,unkempt Indian ponies loiter about, whenthey are not at their usual employment—the dogs hauling fish on their little sleighsand the ponies wild hay from the marshesat the river mouth. Their masters, theIndians, seem very well off, and take lifeeasily; they are happy-go-lucky, honest

A LONG STRETCH OF OPEN WATER.

166 OUTING FOR DECEMBER.

and upright, till they become civilized,when they lie and steal on a par withthe rest of the flock.

In one of the shanties lives BoneyKewsh, their chief, a jolly, bow-legged,bent-up old chap, who loves a gossip aswell as any tea-drinking old lady, and,when he can get it, a little “Skillawaboo”(whiskey).

At the second bend of the river, and backfrom it a short distance. is a small clear-ing with two shanties on it; the smallerone, with a rough snake fence around it,is the stable; the occupants, a span ofwiry little oxen, stand munching beaverhay at the door. The larger one, a lowlog shanty like the former, perhaps a littlemore pretentious, having besides the doortwo windows, while from a rusty oldstove pipe through the roof a thin bluishwreath of smoke floats upward above thedark spruce background till it mingleswith and is lost in the deep blue of thesky.

This is the home of “Wabun Anung”(the Morning Star), a good hunter andthoroughbred Indian. Many a mile havewe tramped together through the greatsilent northern woods. Honest, obstinate,laughter-loving fellow, with his sturdybreadth of back and bull neck! If he isa trifle stout you will find, when you knowhim better, that he understands to per-fection the art of walking despite the su-perfluous flesh. A shy, reticent man tillhe is quite sure of you, when he is talka-tive enough, with a sailor’s love of a yarn,though, at times, I fear prone to exagger-ation.

But when we look back “Wassa nay-awgo” (to a day far behind), do we notsee, or fancy we see, a halo? The flicker-ing firelight hanging over those deadashes, buried beneath so many autumns’leaves, and by that light does not the faceof that jovial friend (with the stubble onhis chin) look handsomer by far, despitethe stubble, than it does to-day, at lunch,perchance, though his face is as smoothas a lady’s, his person clothed in purpleand fine linen, and a silver fork in hishand ? While in those days so long ago,lit for our special delectation by thatflickering, waning poplar fire, it was porkand hard tack in your fingers and a jorumof strong tea to wash it down, dished upwith appetite sauce, a digestion that acamel might be proud of, and a shortblack pipe as dessert—a dessert thatlasted well on into the night.

Is it any wonder that the range of theright and left at those two teal has in-creased from thirty to forty yards?

But there is a fellow feeling among alltrue sportsmen—God bless them! forthere are no other people like them in thewide world; they know, love and under-stand each other. They suck away attheir pipes with a jovial look in the cor-ners of their eyes, and do not care particu-larly if the range does increase a bit asthe years pass away and the leaves fall.

And “Wabun Anung” is one of them,and a good fellow, too, though his bow isa little long and the arrow flies a little toostraight.

However, this is all twaddle and besidethe question. I see my audience are be-coming impatient. It is not reminiscencentof “wild-goose chases” in the autumnor maudlin sentimentalisms of ashes andburied friendships (which none of us now-adays believe in) they came to hear. Itis a shot at big game they want! And ashot at big game they shall have, if theywill be patient and follow me!

I remember it was a raw, unpleasantevening, a wind from the northeast, coldand penetrating, that cut one to the mar-row, sweeping down the stretch of river,gathering the snow up in fine powderylittle drifts and flinging clouds of it inone’s face with stinging force. For it isvery cold up there, to the north of Georg-ian Bay, and we have breezes occasionally,cat’s paws, that wreck big steamers andmake the gulls scream.

I had made arrangements to stay thatnight—never mind what night—at WabunAnung’s shanty, as we were to start atsunrise the next morning to hunt cariboo.

So after supper at the post I made upmy pack, a gray blanket, with some pro-visions wrapt up in it, Indian fashion.With this on my back, and my rifle—aWinchester repeater .45 calibre—over myshoulder, I walked up to Wabun Anung’s.

I found the family all at home. WabunAnung’s wife, a very stout, not particu-larly lovely old squaw, though what herpersonal charms might have been whenhe wooed and won her I cannot say.

There she sat, however, looking stolidlycontented and happy, a short black claypipe in her mouth, busily engaged in mak-ing a pair of mocassins for her liege lord,who sat, also smoking, in an old rockingchair-by the way, the only one in theshanty. This, with a contempt sublimein its carelessness for the correctness of

WABUN ANUNG.

things, he did not offer his guest—yourhumble servant. He merely, on my en-trance, removed his pipe long enough toemit a cloud of smoke and the usual salu-tation, “Boochow” (good day), leavingme to shift for myself, which I did byselecting a corner, slinging down mypack, taking out my pipe and imitat-ing his lordship, which I flatter myselfI did to perfection.

But his squaw was not the only busyone in the room. His daughter, a girl ofabout fourteen years of age, was peelingpotatoes. She was quite as ugly as hermamma, and like her, even at so early anage, slightly inclining toward embonpoint.She took about as much notice of me asher mother did, which amounted to nonewhatever. This would have been crush-ing from a woman of any other nation-ality; but from a squaw—I shrug myshoulders! They were like the rest oftheir sex—puzzling, to say the least. Afig for beauty’s smiles, be they dark orfair. They are quite as sweet to Mr.Smith, who calls to-morrow. Cheeringreflection! So what need we care whileour limbs are strong, our digestion good—for there are cariboo browsing on thehills to the north! So just keep to lee-ward, lad; a steady hand, cool nerve anddogged resolution to follow will do therest. Let beauty smile as she will on Mr.Smith or Mr. Brown, for the matter ofthat; we will forget her smiles as quicklyas she does, and ho! for a good westwind and the snowshoeing not too heavy.

But there was one other person therewho found me interesting. I judge so bythe way he—for said person was a fat lit-tle boy—gamboled about and looked atme, with his head cocked first on one sideand then on the other, with his eyes jetblack like a squirrel’s, quite as quick andsparkling. Up he would come to me,sidling along, ready at my slightestmovement to scamper off to a safe dis-tance behind the fire. How he laughedand showed his white teeth, and howquickly he placed the protecting fire be-tween us when I called out, giving ajump as though I meant to catch him!“Boochow gitche nish nobbee” (goodday, big Indian). I did catch him atlast, the fat, little chap! and seated himon my knee, where he watched me, hishead cocked and white teeth and eyessparkling, not a bit afraid of the eho-gouosh (white man).

“Anisuena costa keen aquevasas?” (what

167

is your name, little boy?), and little boyanswered, in correspondingly little voice,“Ta-a-bid.”intonation!

Oh, that I could give the

“Neen cowin kekandou kem” (I donot understand you), I said. But “Ta-a-bid” was his name, and “Ta-a-bid” wasall I could get from him, though I dis-covered later on that he meant and triedvery hard to say David.

Then I persuaded him to stand whileI sketched him. It was rather difficult,for he would continually shift his positionfrom one leg to the other, removing hishands from his pockets and putting thembehind his back, then back to his pock-ets again, while every now and then hewould say, impatiently, in his soft littlevoice, “Wee-weep” (hurry up). I finishedat last and caught a certain likeness. Wa-bun Anung, his wife and daughter weretremendously tickled by it and laughedheartily.

Chapter II.—“Big Game.”Two hours before daylight next morn-

ing we were up, and, after arranging ourpacks, sat down to a breakfast of pork,potatoes, hard tack and black tea, afterwhich we sat by the fire, smoking, till wecould see by a faint whitish look in theeastern sky that day would soon break.Then, knocking the ashes out of ourpipes, we slung our packs on our backs,our rifles over our shoulders, and, puttingon our snowshoes at the shanty door, westarted for the hunting grounds along atrail leading due north through the woods.

There is very little talking done now,and will not be till camp is made for thenight. Tramp, tramp, tramp is the or-der of the day, and tramp it is with avengeance.

On entering the woods we each cut astick about three feet long; and veryuseful we find it to knock off the snowwhich balls on our shoes and the masseswhich hang on the low balsam branches,which otherwise we would dislodge onpassing, smothering ourselves for a mo-ment in a drift and sending a handful orso down our necks, or rather the neck ofthe man in front.

Hour after hour we walk along a trailwhich has been blazed out years before,a part of it being used for a winter roadto Green Lakes, where there is anotherHudson Bay post some one hundred milesfarther north.

The country through which we are

168 OUTING FOR DECEMBER.

passing is thickly covered with spruce, with only a trust in your luck to keep youcedar and balsam, with birch, poplar and on your legs. Down you go for a goodoccasional clumps of maple growing on three hundred feet till you reach a flatthe ridges. These ridges run about east covered with ash trees; in the middle ofand west at right angles to the trail: up,up we go, ever crossing them (they lie like

this winds and creeps the Pottogoosing,a sluggish stream about thirty feet wide.

i walked up to wabun.

ribs on the hillside), for the whole countryis a hill or a gentle slope rising from the

Wabun Anung has a mink trap here in a

Mississauga and reaching its greatesthollow old stump, covered by the last

height some four and a half miles north,snowfall.

when it suddenly drops off so steeply thatFinding the chain, he hauls it out and

finds it shut, with a little furry paw inyou have to catch at the trees to steady. it. With an expression of disgust heyourself as you plunge, slip and stumble throws it away—it is only the paw of a

WABUN ANUNG. 169

Another six miles is passed, and, goingdown a hill, a track crosses ours; it looksabout three or four days old and is al-most filled with snow, but they are stillplainly to be seen, those little hollows sofar apart leading along the hill side. Wa-bun Anung stops, looks at it a minute,then turning to me with a grin, pro-nounces that singular, soul-stirring word,“Moose!” with a guttural intonation.Moose tracks they are sure enough, awandering one, for there are really nonein the country, but the moose that leftthat trail is now no more, for Negickaus(the Little Otter) found it four days be-fore, and its flesh is now roasting in hislodge on the banks of the Mississauga.

However, it is a sign of big game. Soit brightens the next few miles.

Another mile and a half and we crossa lake on the further shore of which, ina little sheltered bay at its inlet, we haveour lunch. Wabun Anung cuts the woodand lights the fire, while I gather anarmful of brush and get a pail of water.There is very little sitting by the campfire done now, for our backs, wet withperspiration, are freezing, while our facesare roasting; so, swallowing our pork,hard tack and tea, and only staying longenough to light our pipes, we push onagain.

Another half mile brings us to Mo-

kooming Lake. Our direction is straightdown the middle to a low point in thedistance.

A half tumble, half scramble down asteep bank and we are on the ice. Look-ing down the lake we see a sight thatmakes us feel like sitting down upon ourpacks and weeping salt tears. We arestanding in a bay, right across the mouthof which, stretching from shore to shore,is a long line of open water, cold as thenorth wind, and black as ink it looksagainst that glittering sheet of snow,How the waves dance! seeming to laugh—inhuman merriment—at our weary, rue-ful faces, while the mountains, like agreat ruined wall, rising bluff from thedark water, circle the lake around.

We gaze and gaze again, shift ourrifles from one shoulder to the other, tryto imagine we are happy and love thedancing, rippling water that poets are sofond of writing about. I wonder if theywould continue to do so in their delight-fully pretty, enthusiastic way, if to escapethe leaping wavelets—I flatter myselfthat is poetically expressed—they wereobliged, as we were that afternoon, toclimb those eternal hills to reach that lowlying point, carrying heavy packs, whichwhenever you would stop suddenly,bringing up against a tree, ‘would slidefrom your shoulders, only prevented fromtaking part in the avalanche of snow,rapidly forming in front, by the tunk linecatching around your throat and halfstrangling you. Then readjusting yourpack you murmur something soft and ap-propriate to yourself, and with a sweet,sweet smile, while the perspiration tricklesdown your face, and the snow, from thetree you have collided with, meandersdown your neck, you seat yourself on theheels of your snowshoes and start a heybresto pop business in which you suddenlybecome the central figure in an avalanche;down, down, you go, while your smile andhappy thoughts increase, when, lo! yourmad career is stopped by sliding straddlelegs into a small balsam tree, which re-sponds gaily—if I may use the expression—by instantly depositing on your unpro-tected head about a ton and a half ofsnow-speaking very roughly. When thebalsam has annoyed and irritated you asmuch as it can, you dig your way out,taking as much snow as possible fromyour pockets, ears, etc., readjust yourpack for the twentieth time, collect yourscattered faculties, and if you are of an

squirrel. Indian curses on the wholerace!—but for it he might have had amink. So the little bright-eyed chapmay shiver his life out in some hollowstump, or be caught and eaten by a pinemarten for aught he cares. Let himlick the stump in his blood-dyed, leafynest, little chattering busybody!

It is a relief to throw down your packfor a few minutes while the trap is beingreset and pull in a long breath, whichseems to take the creases out of yourchest, for twenty-five pounds feels quitethat weight after an hour and a half ofhill climbing.

The trap is set all too soon and we areoff again, Wabun Anung in front, walkingwith a long, strong, swinging stride fromthe hip. One admires it in the morning, bynoon your admiration is somewhat toneddown, and in the evening as you, per-chance, are crossing the last lake with ahollow feeling in the region of your stom-ach, and a very decided sensation ofweariness about the legs, if you no longeradmire, you cannot but marvel, for theswing in the long stride remains.

OUTING FOR DECEMBER.170

easy-tempered, joyous disposition, yousay: “What fun!” “Grand sport!”Everybody doesn’t say this, but you may;it is quite allowable in cariboo hunting.

By this time your Indian has probablyreached the bottom of the hill and is dis-appearing into the swamp at its foot,necessitating a race to catch him, whichincreases a hundredfold your chance ofa headlong tumble. You reach the bot-tom at last, only to climb, very likely, amuch worse bluff than the one before.Thus we passed the afternoon, arriving atthe end of the lake with only sufficientdaylight left to make our camp for thenight.

Whilesuddenly

we were eating our supper weheard that well-known whirr,

then another and another, and three part-ridges flew into the top of a birch treejust above our heads, and sitting thereclearly outlined against the evening sky,made an excellent mark.

I picked up my rifle, intending to trymy hand and eye.

“Cowin buskeezo!” (do not shoot)Wabun Anung said quickly.oppeeche bay show tibecook” (caribooare very close to-night).

You may be sure I laid down my rifleas quickly as I had picked it up, andwe, partridge included, finished our mealquietly. Then the whirr sounded again,and one after the other they dived off intothe snow.

Wabun Anung piles more wood on thefire, and, stretching ourselves out on thebalsam brush, we light our pipes andpuff contentedly, gazing into the blazing,crackling camp fire.

What stories you will hear then! Howstraight his arrow flies and how long hisbow becomes! Kind-hearted, jovial oldchap, with the camp fire lighting up hiskeen dark face!

Is it any wonder that we sportsmen lovethose old times when our limbs are strong;love the sound, which, perchance, onlycomes to us now in dreams, of the creak,creak of the snowshoes to the long swing-ing tireless stride, in the crisp morningair . Hut here we wake and find our-selves not on a wholesome bed of brushwith the bright stars shining down uponus, but in one with white sheets; we groanand turn upon the snowy pillow, to fallasleep again thinking of the cariboobrowsing on the hill tops away to thenorth. But I am wandering too, andmust return to camp, for the night is cold.

Till about 9 o’clock we sit or lie by thecamp fire, “swapping” yarns and smok-ing, then we throw a few more logs onand rolling ourselves in our blankets aresoon again in the land of dreams.

Every two or three hours we wake, andgetting up throw more wood on the fire.A few nights of this kind of thing andyou learn to fall asleep almost the mo-ment you lie down.

The following morning we are upabout daylight, and after breakfast—atwhich, by the way, we are joined by thethree partridges in the same birch top—we light our pipes and start off again.

The country here is not mountainous,but rather low and rolling; every littleway we cross a slight knoll, generally withtop bare of trees, the rock coming to thesurface and covered with lichen. Thesides of these knolls are wooded withstunted jack pine, with spruce and cedarswamps, the home of the hare, between.Here we startle one, which goes zigzag-ing away in quick jumps, noiselessly,like a white phantom, its little tail flour-ished high in air; for fifty yards or so itspanic carries it, when quick as thought itcrouches in its form, regarding us withround, startled dark eyes and sensitiveears cocked up, till we are lost to view.

Another mile or two and Wabun Anungsuddenly stops. I am about a hundredfeet behind. Turning toward me, at thesame time pointing to the snow, he says:“Adick omah” (cariboo here).

There is not much doubt about that,for the snow is tramped down and inplaces scraped away. He examines thetracks, poking his stick into them, andtells me in a minute or two that theywere here two days before. Six or seveninches of snow have fallen since, so whatthey tell is to me a sealed book. RutWabun Anung can read and understandthat book, and I have faith. My heartgives a great leap, for I see by the tracksthat they are feeding and will in all prob-ability, unless they have been startled,which is not at all likely, be within acouple of miles of us at the furthest.

“Animanick adick?” (how many cari-boo) I ask Wabun Anung, who has laiddown his pack and is loading his gun.Glancing at the tracks for an instant, heanswers: “Godoswee” (six).

I slip the cover off my rifle and examineit to see that it is in proper workingorder. By this time Wabun Anung hashis gun loaded and his pack on his back.

W A B U N ANUNG. 1 7 1

is some twenty feet or so ahead.side of the hill he goes.

Up the

him start!Suddenly I see

Off go his mitts; he tears offhis gun cover, rushes to the hill top, anti,throwing up his gun, takes a rapid aimand fires!

Two seconds later I am beside him, myrifle full cook, and Wabun Anung load-ing like mad!

The buck he fired at I never see—norhe again; for with two leaps it is undercover of the woods and gone forever!

But seventy yards ahead, on the farside of a clump of jack pine, I see, plung-ing madly along, a sweeping, eddyingswirl of snow flying over and aroundthem, a small herd—all bunched together—of some four or five cariboo.

So we will off again to test the accuracyof his woodland lore.

These tracks are on one of the numer-ous little hills, and from one to anotherthe cariboo have traveled single file, onlystopping to feed on the tops.

For a mile or so we follow the trail,Wabun Anung walking ahead, every nowand then feeling the hoof marks throughthe loose snow with his stick. Then hestops again and, telling me that we are attheir last night’s feeding ground, slingsdown his pack and pulling his axe out ofhis belt leaves it beside it.

I follow his example, also leaving mymitts, which are too conspicuous, being abright scarlet.

And now the excitement begins. Nota twig must we break, for the cariboomay appear at any moment.

It is a proper day for still hunting, aslight wind—rather more than a breeze—blowing and snow falling, which deadenssound; occasionally we stop to listen andpeer about.

What is that sound we hear off to theright? We stop again and hold ourbreath. We can almost hear our heartsbeating in the great stillness. There it isagain! A rubbing, grating noise.

Only a tree or branch, rubbing againstanother. On we go. I tuck my rifleunder my arm, thrust my hands into mypockets and try to quiet the excitementwhich I feel is growing at all this watch-ful expectancy and straining of everynerve and sense, by watching WabunAnung’s face, which is a study, so dark,and his jet black eyes so quick and keen.

This expectancy is telling on him, too,as it will on any lover of sport and truehunter. It does not unnerve the hand; itsteadies it, I think, for it is not the trem-ulous, blinding, breathless excitement ofa novice. It is that longing to kill, thatsavage part in most men that will cometo the front at such times, though he maylove and admire the things he slays.

We are crossing an alder swale now,with a knoll before us. Wabun Anung

Right before them, twenty yards or so,is an open space in the direction they arerunning; they are sure to cross it. I willmake assurance doubly sure and wait tillthey do; if I fire now the bullet willprobably strike a tree or branch andglance. All this passes through my mindlike a flash. while Wabun Anung loads,saying: “Buskeesoo! buskeesoo!” (shoot,shoot).

Hut they never cross the open, it is ahill side with the woods running along totheir right. They turn—a whirl of snow,a plunge, and they too are under cover,and, like the buck, “gone forever!”

I draw a long breath—it is no time forwords, my heart is too full.

Slowly I uncock my rifle, and droppingthe butt on the toe of my shoe, I glanceat Wabun Anung. We grin at eachother in a feeble, heart-broken way andsay nothing.

We have bungled it all wretchedly andwe know it.

Wabun Anung recovers first, and go-ing over to the trail of the buck examinesit. But nothing has happened to takefrom the strength of those grand leaps.No red blood dyes the spotless whitenessof the snow. It is a clean miss, and along, narrow track in a drift shows thedirection of the bullet.

To be continued.