Chapter IX

SNOWDRIFT RETURNS TO THE BAND

As Snowdrift plodded mile after mile, in her flight from the mission, her brain busied itself with her problem, and the first night beside her little campfire she laid her plans for the future. In her heart was no bitterness against old Wananebish—only compassion that resolved itself into an intense loyalty and a determination to stay with her and to lighten the burden that the years were heaping upon her. For she knew of the old woman's intense love for her, and the hardships she willingly endured to keep her in school at the mission. The blame was the white man's blame—the blame of the man who was her father.

Her face burned hot and her eyes flashed as her hatred of white men grew upon her. Gladly would she have opened her veins and let out the last drop of white blood that coursed the length of them. At least she could renounce the white man's ways—his teachings, and his very language. From now on she was Indian—and yet, again came that fleetmemory—always, ever since she had been a little girl there had been the memory, and when it came she would close her eyes, and press her hands to her head and try and try in vain to grasp it—to bring the picture clean-cut to her mind. Then the memory would fade away—but it would return again, in a month—a year—always it would return—a log cabin—wind-tossed waters—a beautiful white woman who held her close—a big man with a beard upon his face like McTavish, the factor. At first she had told Wananebish of the memory, but she had laughed and said that it was the wives of the different factors and traders at the posts who were wont to make much of the little girl when the band came to trade. The explanation never quite satisfied Snowdrift, but she accepted it for want of a better. Was it a flash of memory from another existence? There was the book she had borrowed from Father Ambrose, the peculiar book that she did not understand, and that Father Ambrose said he did not understand, and did not want to understand, for it was all about some heathenish doctrine. She wondered if it could not be possible that people lived over and over again, as the book said, and if so, why couldn't they remember? Maybe last time she had been a white girl, and this time she was a half-breed, and the next time she would be an Indian—she wouldn't wait till next time! She was an Indian now. She hated the white men.

And so it went as hour on hour she worked her plans for the future. She knew that Wananebish was getting old, that she was losing her grip on the band. Many of the older ones had died, and many of the younger ones had deserted, and those who were left were dissatisfied, and always grumbling. There were only eighteen or twenty of them all told, now, and they preferred to hang about along the rivers, trapping just enough fur to make a scanty living and pay for the hooch that the free-traders brought in. They were a degenerate lot and old Wananebish had grown weary in trying to get them back into the barrens where there was gold. They scoffed at the gold. There had been so little of it found in so many years of trying—yet she had not been able to get them to leave the vicinity of the river. But, now, to the river had come news of the great gold strike beyond the mountains to the westward. Snowdrift reasoned that if there were gold to the westward there would be gold also to the eastward, especially as Wananebish knew that it was there—had even found some of it long years ago. Maybe they would go, now—far back into the barrens, far, far away from Henri of the White Water.

Upon the fourth day after her departure from the mission, the girl walked into the camp of the little band of non-treaty Indians. Straight to the tepee of Wananebish, she went—to the only mother she had ever known. The old squaw received her

The two prepared supper in silence, and in silence

And quick as a flash came the answer in the Indian tongue: "I hate the white men!" The suppressed passion behind the words brought a low inarticulate cry to the lips of the squaw. She reached for the sheath knife at her belt, and the sinews upon the back of the hand that grasped it stood out like whip cords. The black eyes glittered like the eyes of a snake, and the lips curled back in a snarl of hate, so that the yellow fangs gleamed in the wavering light of a tiny flame that flared from the smouldering fire.

Words came in a hoarse croak: "Who is he? I will cut his heart out!"

Then the hand of the girl was laid soothingly

The old squaw's muscles relaxed as she felt the arm of the girl steal about her shoulders. The knife slipped back into its sheath, as her body was drawn close against the girl's. For a long time they sat thus in silence, and then the girl rose, for she was very tired. At the door of the tepee she paused: "There are some good white men," she said, "Tell me again, was my father a good white man?"

Still seated beside the fire the old squaw nodded slowly, "A good white man—yes. He is dead."

The eyes of the girl sought with penetrating glance the face beside the fire. Was there veiled meaning in those last words? Snowdrift thought not, and entering the tepee she crept between her blankets.

When the sound of the girl's breathing told that she slept old Wananebish stole noiselessly into the tepee and, emerging a moment later with the old moss bag, she poked at the fire with a stick, and threw on some dry twigs, and seated herself in the light of the flickering flames. She thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew a packet from which she undid the wrappings. Minutes passed as she sat staring at the notebook of MacFarlane, and at the package of parchment deer-skin still secure in its original wrapping. For never had the squaw touched a dollar of the money left in her care for

And, now, tonight, she knew that the girl had been suddenly made to realize that she was one of those born out of wedlock, and the shame of it was heavy upon her. The old woman's heart beat warm as she realized that the girl held no blame for her—only an intense hatred for the white men, one of whose race had wrought the supposed wrong.

For a long time Wananebish sat beside the fire her heart torn by conflicting emotions. She knew right from wrong. She had not the excuse of ignorance of the ethics of conduct, for she, too, had been an apt pupil at the mission school. And for nearly nineteen years she had been living a lie. And during those years right had struggled against love a thousand times—and always love had won—the savage, selfish love that bade her keep the object of her affections with her in the Northland. Upon the death of her baby soon after the visit of MacFarlane, her whole life centered upon the tiny white child. In the spring when the band moved, she had left false directions in the caribou skull beside the river, and instead of heading for Lash

But now? What should she do now that the girl herself was suffering under the stigma of her birth? Should she tell her the truth and deliver to her the packet of her father? If she did would not the girl turn upon her with hatred, even as she had turned against the people of her own race? Should she remain silent, still living the lie she had lived all these years, and thus keep at her side the girl she loved with the savage mother love of a wild beast? Was it not the girl's right to know

Heart and soul, during the remaining days of the summer, Snowdrift threw herself into the work of regenerating the little band of Indians. News of the great gold strike on the Yukon had reached the Mackenzie and these rumors the girl used to the utmost in her arguments in favor of a journey into the barrens. At first her efforts met with little encouragement, but her enthusiasm for the venture never lagged and gradually the opposition weakened before the persistence of her onslaughts.

When the brigade passed northward, Henri of the White Water had promised the Indians he would return with hooch, and it was in anticipation of this that the young men of the band were holding back. When, in August, word drifted up the river that a patrol of the mounted from Fort Simpson had come upon a certain cache, and that Henri of the White Water was even then southward bound under escort, the last of the opposition vanished. Without hooch one place was as good as another and if they should find gold—why they could return and buy much hooch, from some other whiskey runner. But, they asked, how about debt? Already they were in debt to the company, and until the debt was paid they could expect nothing, and a long trip into the barrens would call for much in the way of supplies.

McTavish, the bearded trader at Fort Good Hope, listened patiently until the girl finished her recital, and then his thick fingers toyed with the heavy inkstand upon his desk.

"I do' no' what to say, to ye, lass," he began, "The Company holds me to account for the debt I give, an' half the band is already in my debt. Ye're mither, auld Wananebish is gude for all she wants an' so are you, for ye're a gud lass. Some of the others are gud too, but theer be some amongst them that I wad na trust for the worth of a buckshot. They've laid around the river too lang. They're a worthless, hooch-guzzlin' outfit. They're na gude."

"But that's just why I want debt," cried the girl, "To get them away from the river. There's no hooch here now, and they will go. I, myself, will stand responsible for the debt."

The Scotchman regarded the eager face gravely: "Wheer wad ye tak them?" he asked.

"Way to the eastward, beyond Bear Lake, there is a river. The trapping is good there, and there is gold——"

"The Coppermine," interrupted McTavish, "Always theer has been talk of gold on the Coppermine—but na gold has been found theer. However, as ye say, the trappin' should be gude. Yer Injuns be na gude along the river. They're lazy an' no account, an' gettin' worse. Theer's a bare chance ye can save 'em yet if ye can get 'em far into the

And so it was that upon the first day of September, the little band of Indians under the leadership of Snowdrift and Wananebish, loaded their goods into canoes and began the laborious ascent of Hare Indian River.