The Outpost, and Effect of a “Fuddle.”

Soon afterwards the expedition of the fur-traders reached the Ukon River, a comparatively insignificant stream, but, from its character and position with reference to the Indians of that region, well suited for the establishment of an outpost. At least so thought the natives who had reported upon it.

“There iss no doubt,” remarked MacSweenie, as he surveyed the banks of the river, “that the place is no’ that bad, but in my opeenion the summer will be short, whatever, an’ the winter it will be long.”

“Ye may be sure that you are not far wrong if it’s like the rest o’ this country,” replied Mowat.

“There now, look at that,” cried MacSweenie, who was a sketcher, and an enthusiast in regard to scenery; “did ever you see a prettier spot than that, Tonal’? Just the place for a fort—a wee burn dancin’ doon the hull, wi’ a bit fa’ to turn a grindstone, an’ a long piece o’ flat land for the houses, an’ what a grand composeetion for a pictur’,—wi’ trees, gress, water, sky, an’ such light and shade! Man, it’s magneeficent!”

“I’m thinkin’ that it’ll be a bad job if that keg o’ screw-nails we forgot at our last camp is lost—”

“Hoot, man, never mind the screw-nails. We can easy send back for it. But, wow! there’s a far grander place we’re comin’ in sight of—an’—iss that an Indian tent I see?”

“Ay, an’ there’s more than wan tent,” said Mowat, giving his steering oar a sweep that sent the boat farther out into the stream, and enabled them better to see what lay beyond the bend of the river in front of them.

“Hold on, lads; stop pullin’!”

The men lay on their oars and turned round to look ahead. The view presented there was indeed a pleasant and inspiring one, though it was scarcely entitled to the appellation “magneeficent,” which MacSweenie applied to it.

The river at that place made a wide sweep on the right, round a low cliff which was crowned with luxuriant foliage. The stream opened out into something like a miniature lake, and the water was so calm that the cliff and its foliage made a clear dark reflection. The left bank was edged by a wide grass plateau some fifty yards wide, beyond which was a background of bushes and trees, with another “wee burn,” which doubtless suggested to MacSweenie the useful as well as the picturesque. The distance was closed by ground varied in form as well as in character, indicating that a stream of considerable size joined the Ukon at that point.

But that which interested the beholders most of all was a number of Indian wigwams, which were pitched on the grassy plateau above referred to.

“Yonder are our frunds, I make no doubt,” said MacSweenie in high glee. “That man Mozwa iss as goot as his word; an’ I do believe they have chosen the spot an’ been waitin’ for us. Gif way, boys; an’, Tonal’, make for that landin’-slup—it must either be a naitural wan, or the Redskins hev made it for us.”

By that time the natives, having observed the boat, had launched several of their canoes. The first man who came alongside was Mozwa himself.

“What cheer? what cheer, Mozwa?” cried the trader as he reached over the side and shook the Indian heartily by the hand.

“Watchee! watchee!” repeated Mozwa, returning the shake with equal good-will, though undisturbed solemnity.

The trader’s surmise proved to be correct. Mindful of the prospect which had been held out to him and Nazinred, that an expedition might possibly be sent to establish an outpost and open up the fur trade in their immediate neighbourhood on the Ukon River, Mozwa had made more than one trip to the contemplated scene of operations, after the disappearance of his friend Nazinred, with the view of making himself well acquainted with the land, and ascertaining the best site for the new fort. He did not of course suppose that the pale-faces would be guided entirely by his opinion, but he thought it not unlikely that they might weigh that opinion, and, if acted on at once, much time might be saved during the very brief summer season they had in which to place themselves comfortably in winter quarters before the hard weather should set in.

“You are a wise man, Mozwa,” said MacSweenie, when the Indian had explained his views to him in the united smoke of their pipes and the camp-fire. “Your notion of a place for a fort iss not a bad one, an’ efter I hev had a look round I hev no doubt that I will agree wi’ you that this is the very best site in the neighbourhood. Tell him that, Tonal’, an’ say that I am fery much obleeged to him for all the forethought and trouble he hes taken.”

Whether Donald translated all this as it was delivered we know not. From the peculiar cast of his mind, however, coupled with the moderate depth of his knowledge of the Indian tongue, it is probable that his translation was neither literal nor comprehensive. Indeed, it is not unlikely that his subsequent remark to one of his comrades,—“we told Mozwa it was very good of him to come to meet us, an’ the place would do well enough,”—was more like the sentence to which he had reduced it. But whatever he said Mozwa seemed to be quite pleased with it.

“By the way, Tonal’, ask him about his friend Nazinred.”

The serious way in which the Indian shook his head showed that he had no good news to tell. In a short time he had related all that was known about the sudden departure of his friend.

While Mozwa was thus engaged with the leader of the expedition, their guide Bartong was wandering among the wigwams and making himself agreeable to the natives, who, because of his mixed blood and linguistic powers, regarded him as a half-brother.

“Who is this man Nazinred that our leader is always talking about?” he asked of the old chief while seated in his tent.

“He is one of our chiefs, one of our boldest braves—”

“But not so brave as he looks,” interrupted Magadar, who was present; “he is fonder of peace than of fighting.”

“Foolish man!” exclaimed Bartong, with a smile so peculiar that Magadar did not feel quite sure that his remark was sincere. “But has he not left your tribe? I heard our steersman say something about that.”

“He left us in the winter to seek for his daughter, who was carried off by an Eskimo and has never come back since. We don’t expect to see either of them again.”

Magadar said this with a grave countenance, for, however little he cared for the loss of the father, that of the daughter distressed him a little—not much, however; for could he not console himself with another wife?

Having questioned the old chief a little more on this point, he wandered off into other subjects, and finally left—intending to visit the wife of Nazinred on his way back to camp.

Isquay was sitting beside her niece Idazoo, embroidering a moccasin, when Bartong entered, squatted on a deerskin unceremoniously, and began to fill his pipe.

“What kind of a man is your husband?” asked the guide.

“A good man,” replied Isquay, who was tender-hearted, and could not speak of him without moist eyes. “He was a good hunter. None of the young men could equal him. And he was kind. He always had plenty of things to give me and Adolay.”

“They say he did not love war,” remarked Bartong.

“No; he hated it: but he was brave, and a good fighter—the best in the tribe. None of the young men dared to touch him.”

“Was the young brave Alizay afraid to touch him?” asked the guide, with a sly glance at the younger woman.

At this Idazoo flushed and looked up angrily.

“No,” she said sharply; “Alizay fears nothing.”

Bartong took no notice of the remark, but continued gravely to question the other.

“Was Nazinred very fond of his daughter?” he asked.

“Yes, very.”

“And was the girl fond of him and of you?”

“Yes,” replied the poor woman, beginning to weep gently.

“And she seems to have been very fond of this Eskimo, who, they tell me, saved your life once.”

“She was, but I did not think she would go away with him. It was not like her—she was always so good and biddable, and told me everything.”

“Why did your hus............