By the time the boys’ canoe had reached the mouth of the river, the other canoes had already reached the brink of this maelstrom. Denikazi led the way down an oily funnel of water at the head of the first rapid. His canoe hung poised for an instant, then, as if plucked up and flung by a giant hand, the frail bark vessel shot forward and disappeared into a thundering mass of spray. It reappeared a moment later racing downstream at breakneck speed, and twisting and turning like a frightened fish. Then, while the boys stared in horror, the canoe emerged unharmed in a quiet eddy at the foot of the rapids.
The others followed without hesitation. Jamie felt a hard, tight knot forming in his stomach.
“Think we can make it?” he asked feebly.
Awasin looked grim. “We’d better!” he replied shortly.
They eased their canoe into the channel. Suddenly the rocky banks began to shoot past like twin express trains on either side. The canoe appeared motionless while the world went crazy. A frothing caldron of foam leaped up in front of Jamie and he flailed his paddle desperately in order to swing the nose of the canoe away. Instantly a row of black rocks raced at him, and with frantic heaves he thrust the canoe back to the right again. He was startled when the canoe suddenly came to a level keel, and the shore stopped flashing past.
It was over. The Chipeweyans waited nearby.
The first rapid on a new river always seems the worst. Once it has been conquered, the rest are easier. By mid-afternoon the boys had run three formidable rapids and a dozen smaller ones. They were cocky and full of high spirits when they camped that night. In the morning they would again be on open water—on Idthen-tua, at whose northern end they were certain they would meet the deer at last.
CHAPTER 5
Of Eskimos and Indians
WHEN MORNING CAME IT BROUGHT with it heavy cloud and flying rain-scud. Despite the fact that it was still summer, there was a chill in the air.
The boys hastened to a tiny willow fire where the seven hunters were huddled together trying to get dry. Denikazi was not there. Suddenly Awasin pointed, and nudged Jamie.
On a hillock a hundred yards from camp the chief stood against the gray sky like a squat, powerful monument of rock. His hands were uplifted and his voice cried out over the dark landscape. Denikazi was calling on his gods—ancient gods—for help in finding the deer. Denikazi was worried. Already he had been gone for more than a week and he had found no sign of the deer herds.
It was not that the country ahead was unfamiliar. Denikazi knew the plains well enough to find his way about. There was another thing which worried him—the Eskimos.
But he was a brave man, and he had to go on if his people were to be saved from death. All that morning he prayed to his gods and meditated. At noon his decision was made.
He would go on. He would drive north until he found the deer. He would ignore the danger of the Eskimos.
Denikazi called the two boys before him and explained his plan. He told them in detail of the Eskimo danger. He made it clear that from this moment on he and his men would not have a moment to spare for the boys. He threatened that if they got left behind, they would have to look after themselves.
But if he thought the boys would be frightened and choose to wait at the south end of Idthen-tua, he was mistaken.
“Tell him we’re not afraid of any Eskimos,” Jamie said.
Awasin translated Jamie’s words while Denikazi listened stolidly. He looked at Jamie and there was a hint of humor in his black eyes.
“A fool you may well be,” he said slowly, “but a brave fool. You may come to the head of Idthen-tua, but no farther. Follow the east shore of the lake. You will not have me to guide you for I wait for no one now.”
When the boys crawled out from their sleeping robes the next morning they found the camp deserted. Denikazi’s canoes had already vanished in the broad sweep of water to the north.
They hurried their morning meal and took to the water, anxious to close the gap between themselves and the only other friendly human beings in the waste of rock and moss.
Hugging the rocky eastern shore, the canoe crawled northward. The boys stared intently at the land about for signs of life, but nothing moved except the birds. Muskeg succeeded muskeg, and Jamie noticed that these expanses of sodden moss appeared to have been cut up into millions of tiny squares and rectangles by dark streaks. It was a mystery, until noon when the boys landed to make tea. Then the mystery explained itself. The muskegs were crisscrossed by countless paths made by the hoofs of the deer. Jamie’s imagination was stunned as he tried to visualize the size of the herds that must have passed this way each year for centuries. Both he and Awasin felt now that come what might they must see with their own eyes those almost legendary hordes of caribou. They hurried back to the canoe and continued north with new energy and enthusiasm. At this very moment the herds might be sweeping down upon the north end of the lake.
Toward evening the lake began to narrow rapidly until it was only a few miles across and the land to the west was taking shape. Knowing that they must be near their goal, the boys paddled wearily on until nearly midnight, when a flicker of orange flame against the shadows ahead told them they had reached Denikazi’s camp.
Jamie was so tired he stumbled out of the canoe. With Awasin he made his way toward the fire.
The Chipeweyans were grouped morosely about a tiny flame. Denikazi, sitting to one side, had his head in his hands. No one spoke to the two boys.
They did not need to ask if the deer had come. The atmosphere of gloom and depression in the camp spoke louder than words. The boys said nothing, but returned to their canoe and curled up under it to sleep the dreamless sleep of complete exhaustion.
This camp had been pitched at a spot known to the ancient Chipeweyan hunters as the Killing Place. But during the two days which followed there were no deer at the river, and none on the plains about. The skies clouded over and a steady rain beat down. Food was running low. The Indians set a net at the mouth of the Kazon, but the total catch for three days was a single sucker.
Denikazi remained silent. Once he walked to the crest of a nearby hill, and through a gap in the low clouds Jamie saw him standing there with his arms upraised to the dark sky. But the deer did not come.
On the third day the skies cleared. Denikazi called the men and the boys about him.
“There have been great changes in the way of things since I was a youth,” he began slowly, “and it seems that the deer too have changed their ways. Perhaps they will come to the Killing Place in time—but we cannot wait for them. By Kasmere Lake my people starve. And to the north, somewhere there is meat. Therefore I shall go north and find that meat. It is better for hunters to die on the trail than to wait like children in the camps.”
Then Denikazi told them of his plan. He and three of his men would go back down Idthen-tua to the western arm, then up it to its end. Old tribal legends told of a chain of lakes that led northward from there to the high blue hills of To-bon-tua—the lake that never thaws. The River of the Frozen Lake began under those hills—one of which could be clearly seen from the present camp.
This hill loomed up almost due north of the Killing Place, perhaps thirty or forty miles away. Beyond it to the west the River of the Frozen Lake lay in a great valley down which—so it was said—all the deer of the entire northern plains came pouring in the fall.
Denikazi was certain that if he could reach the valley he would be able to fill his canoes with meat.
Jamie listened fascinated as Awasin explained Denikazi’s plan. Then he asked a question.
“Wouldn’t it be quicker and easier to reach the valley simply by going north up the Kazon, then portaging west to the mountain we can see from here?” he asked.
“Beyond this camp the Kazon belongs to the Eskimos,” Denikazi replied. “We stand on the very edge of their lands and to go farther into it would mean an end to all our hunting.”
Denikazi looked at Jamie and Awasin. “As for you,” h
e said, “you will stay here. Telie-kwazie and Etzanni will remain with you, and for six days you will wait at the Killing Place for the deer. If they do not come within that time, you will travel south to the mouth of the western arm of Idthen-tua and wait for me there. If, in fifteen days, my canoe does not come to you, then you will go home—alone. And at Kasmere Lake you will tell my people that we hunted a good hunt before we died.
“You will not try to follow me,” Denikazi continued. “And should you see any signs of Eskimos you will abandon this camp as if the devil Wendigo was on your heels, and flee into the south.”
When the chief and his five companions had left the camp, and their canoes were only tiny black spots on the distant water, Jamie spoke his mind to Awasin. “We promised we wouldn’t follow him, but that doesn’t mean we can’t look for the deer on our own. Anyway I’m not going to sit here for six days just looking at those two Chipeweyans!”
It was very rarely that Awasin grew angry. This time he did. “Sometimes you chatter like a child!” he exclaimed. “You know nothing about this land, but Denikazi knows it well. You are like the weasel that climbed into the cook-stove to see if it was hot, and got roasted for his trouble!”
Realizing that Awasin was seriously annoyed with him, Jamie changed the subject. But he did not change his mind. “Let’s go for a little hunt,” he suggested the next day, “not far—just to see if we can shoot some ducks.”
Awasin accepted this idea and he explained it to the two Chipeweyans who had been left behind. They were young men, hardly in their twenties, disgusted at being left out of the deer hunt. They sat sullenly beside the fire and sulked.
But when the boys returned, the two Chipeweyans greeted them with enthusiasm. Jamie had shot two ptarmigan—arctic partridge—and Awasin a third. The Idthen men were hungry for fresh meat and the boys gave each a whole bird.
After the meal the four sat about the fire feeling well fed for the first time in many days. Telie-kwazie was rather a talkative man—for a Chipeweyan—and Awasin prodded him into telling a story.
Between sentences Awasin translated for Jamie, who was particularly interested in the legends about the country. Telie-kwazie told of a hunter who discovered the spirit Wendigo’s trail in the snow. Jamie asked where this had taken place.
Telie-kwazie pointed up the Kazon. “I do not know for certain,” he said, “but I have heard it was near the Great Stone House, a day’s journey to the north.”
“What is the Great Stone House?” Jamie immediately wanted to know.
“I have not seen it,” Telie-kwazie replied, “but it is said that by the Kazon-dee-zee stands a house made of big stones. It is shaped like the wooden houses that the white men build, but it is much older than any white man. In ancient times it marked the boundary between our hunting lands and the country of the Eskimos. No one knows when it was built, or by what manner of men.”
As the boys lay under their blankets that night, Jamie whispered, “Awasin! Let’s go have a look at that stone house!”
Awasin had been half expecting this, and he was ready for it.
“No!” he said firmly. “If we go anywhere it will be back south when the six days are up. Forget about it.”
Jamie sighed. “Oh well,” he said, “maybe the deer will come tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
No Man’s Land
THE DEER DID NOT COME THE NEXT day, nor the day after. The boys put in long hours fishing but they caught nothing. They walked for miles over the plains, but they saw no more game. By the third day even Awasin was restless.
The two Chipeweyans went hunting during the afternoon and by suppertime had not yet returned to camp, so the boys ate alone. As the sun sank close to the horizon, Jamie drained his mug of tea, and spoke. “I’m going to check the nets. Maybe there’ll be some fish for breakfast.”
He strolled down to the canoe. With a quick movement he flipped it over and shoved it half into the water. Whistling casually, he put the paddles aboard and then, choosing a moment when Awasin wasn’t looking, he hurriedly lifted two bundles that had been lying under the canoe, and stowed them aboard. Then with great nonchalance he picked up his rifle, climbed in and shoved the canoe out from the beach. He paddled a dozen feet, then let the canoe drift idly.
“I may be a while looking for the nets!” he shouted. “First I have to go and see about a stone house—down the river!”
Awasin dropped the tea-can, and came down the slope at a run. “Jamie!” he yelled. “Jamie, come back! You can’t go down-river alone!”
Balancing the paddle on his knees, Jamie grinned. “I don’t want to go alone,” he said.
Awasin knew that he was beaten, and secretly he was rather glad. His desire to explore down-river had been almost as great as Jamie’s, though tempered with caution and the knowledge that he was responsible for both of them. Now the decision was taken out of his hands.
“All right!” he shouted. “I’ll go!”
Jamie laughed as he paddled to the beach. “I’ll bet you want to go as much as I do!”
“Perhaps,” Awasin said. He paused. “We must leave a message for the Chipeweyans.”
There was a little square of rough sand near where the canoes were kept, and here Awasin drew an arrow in the sand pointed north. Beyond it he placed a tiny pile of little stones that vaguely looked like a house. Under the arrow he drew the universal symbol for two days’ time—two suns with rays radiating from them. Then he climbed into the canoe.
Of all the great rivers that flow through the arctic, the Kazon is among the mightiest. Under its rolling surface there is a deep and unseen power that defies the puny strength of men. Coming down it from Kazba Lake, the boys had felt no fear of the river, for they had been traveling with men who know how to respect its power. Now they were alone, and in the shrinking twilight the great river had an awesome majesty. The water was black and heavy and the thrust of the current seemed to pass right through the canoe into the boys’ bodies, so that they felt almost as if they were riding upon the back of some gigantic prehistoric monster.
The boys had no way of knowing for certain how far they had come from camp, nor how fast. The low banks slid past like shapeless masses of dark clouds. After what seemed like hours of tense waiting for the mood of the river to change, Jamie spoke. His voice was little more than a whisper, as if he were afraid to speak out loud in that murmuring silence. “We must have gone miles by now,” he said softly. “How about making camp till morning?”
Awasin shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied.
The canoe drifted on and the darkness became heavier. Then Awasin’s straining ears caught the faintest warning sound. Faintly, so faintly it was hardly real, he heard the sound again and this time he recognized the menace of its warning.
“Rapid!” he shouted, and his shoulders hunched as he dug his paddle into the water and drove the canoe furiously toward the dim shadows of the bank. Jamie responded at once with the short, savage strokes used only in emergency. Seconds later the bow grated on the shore rocks and Jamie leaped out, knee-deep in the cold current, and dragged the canoe to safety on the bank. Awasin joined him, and together they made their way up to the level plains above.
The brief arctic night was already ending. The eastern sky glowed angrily and the few stars paled and disappeared. As the boys walked downstream an arctic fox flitted shadowlike from the rocks at their feet. They paid no attention to it. Their minds were filled with the rising roar of the rapid ahead. Even in the semidarkness of early dawn they could clearly see the broad expanse of shimmering whiteness where the waters, torn to fury by the unseen rocks, boiled up with a sullen, angry roar.
“It looks—pretty bad,” Jamie said.
Awasin too was filled with uncertainty, but he would not show it. “Wait for the daylight,” he said, “then we’ll see.”
They returned to the canoe for a brief nap, then waking, gathered a few handfuls of moss and willow twigs, and brewed up tea. Sipping the hot
brew they watched the world awake.
The edge of the sun tipped a distant ridge and light flowed over the darkened plains like a flood of yellow metal. The sky faded from blood-red, through yellow, to a vivid green. A single goose beat heavily out of the grass-colored sky and its sad cry echoed over the wakening world. Flights of old squaw ducks got up hurriedly from tundra pools and winged off to the big lakes. It was morning.
The boys got stiffly to their feet and returned to their lookout point. A high bluff thrust its blunt nose out into the seething current. The river narrowed here, and for half a mile ran down a steep and rocky stairway, with the uncontrolled violence of a stampeding herd of buffalo.
Carefully they studied the rapid. At the top the oily waters drew in as if about to plunge down a huge funnel, and at this point there was the beginning of a channel. A narrow strip of racing current, a broken ribbon of dark water, twisted and twined down through the foam-capped waves and whirling eddies.
“There’s the channel!” Jamie shouted above the roar.
Awasin was already following it with his eyes, carefully planning the course, and weighing up the chances of success.
“We could portage around it, Jamie, but we’ve run worse than this before, and it would be a hard carry over the muskeg. Suppose we run it. See that big black boulder halfway down? We’ll have to double back against the current there, or else be carried over the next ledge.”
“Okay,” Jamie said. But despite himself, he shivered.
It was true they had run worse rapids before, but in the forest country, where a wrecked canoe probably meant nothing worse than a day’s walk to the nearest Indian settlement. Here it was different. One miscalculation or one second’s carelessness and they would be afoot (if they weren’t drowned) on the unfamiliar Barrens, a hundred miles north of the forests. There could be no mistakes on the Kazon.