The Big Otter

“Shall you want my help to-morrow earlier than usual?” I asked.

“No—not till after breakfast.”

“Well then, as there is no necessity for my going to bed before my ordinary time, I’ll let you return alone, for I don’t feel at all disposed to give up this bear after tracking him so many hours. He’s only a small one, to judge from his footprints, and I am a pretty sure shot, you know.”

“Be it so, Max—but don’t be late, else I’ll have to send men to look for you!”

Lumley got up and left me—making a straight line for Fort Wichikagan, as we had named our outpost, and leaving me in a dreamy state of mind beside the spring.

It was a delightful afternoon in that most charming period of the American season which is styled the Indian summer; when mosquitoes, sand-flies, and all other insect-tormentors disappear, and the weather seems to take a last enjoyable fortnight of sunny repose before breaking into winter.

I fell into a pleasant reverie. The backwoods of the Great Nor’-west vanished from my mental view, and, with eyes half closed, I indulged in memories of home and all its sweet associations.

Bethinking me suddenly of my reason for remaining where I was, I sprang up, seized my gun, and began to follow the trail of the bear. Before descending from the eminence, however, I took a look round the landscape, and saw the figure of an Indian woman in the distance, proceeding towards our fort. Although too far-off to be distinguished by feature, I could clearly perceive the light-blue cotton kerchief which formed part of the dress of Waboose.

At once my interest in the bear vanished, and I began to follow the Indian girl instead. I had not seen her since the evening of our arrival at the lake, and I felt a strong desire to make further inquiries as to the circumstances of her father’s life among the Indians and his unfortunate death.

Waboose had not seen me. By making a wide and rapid détour I got in front of her and sat down on a fallen tree at a spot where she was sure to pass.

As she drew near, I could not fail to observe how graceful her port was, and how different from that of the other girls with whom her lot had been cast.

“Assuredly,” muttered I to myself, “her father was a gentleman!”

Leaving my gun on the bank on which I had been seated, I advanced to meet her. She showed a very slight symptom of surprise, and, I thought, of uneasiness, on seeing me, but made no remark until I had spoken. At first I was about to adopt the Indian style of address, and begin with “my red sister,” but the phrase, besides being false, appeared to me ridiculous; still, the ice had to be broken somehow, so I made a bungling plunge.

“Blue-eyes wanders far to-day from the wigwams of her—her—people?”

A gleam of surprise mingled with pleasure rippled over her pretty face when she found that I could speak to her in the native tongue.

“Yes,” she replied in the same language. “I have wandered far. I was the bearer of a message.”

As she volunteered no more I continued:

“If Waboose goes to her wigwam, will she object to the pale-face bearing her company?”

With something like a graceful inclination of the head, the Indian girl gave me to understand that she had no objection.

“An Indian!” thought I, “she’s a lady in disguise, as sure as I am a fur-trader!”

Of course I was careful not to give her, either by tone or look, the slightest hint of what was passing in my mind, and was about to continue my remarks, when a rustling in the bushes caused us both to look round quickly. The foliage parted next moment close to us, and before I had time to think a large brown bear bounded into the open space. It seemed to be taken as much by surprise as we were, and I have no doubt would have turned and fled if it had not been so near. It rose on its hind legs, however, to attack us, and then I perceived that it was not the small bear which Lumley and I had been tracking.

The blood rushed to my head when I remembered that the monster stood between me and the bank on which my gun was lying! Then the feeling that the helpless Indian girl was at its mercy filled me with feelings which are indescribable. Thought is swifter than the lightning-flash. Much more than I have written flashed through my brain during those two or three seconds, but one overmastering idea filled me—I would save her, or perish!

I glanced sharply round. To my surprise she had fled! So much the better. I could at least keep the creature engaged till she had got well away.

Drawing the small hatchet which like all Nor’westers I carried in my belt, I rushed at the bear and made a cut at its head with all the force that lay in my arm. Where the blow fell I know not, but apparently it was ineffective, for, with a quick vicious turn of its paw, the bear struck my weapon from my hand with such violence that it flew over the tree-tops as if shot from a catapult, and I stood unarmed—helpless—at the creature’s mercy!

The terrible feeling that death was so near almost unnerved me, but the thought of Waboose caused me to utter a roar of mingled rage and despair as I doubled my fist and launched it full against the monster’s nose!

At that moment a loud report at my ear deafened and almost stunned me. Next instant the bear lay dead at my feet. I looked round and beheld Waboose standing close to me with my gun in her hands!

“Noble heroine!” I exclaimed, but as I exclaimed it in English she did not understand. She had, indeed, a very slight smattering of that language—of which more hereafter—but “Noble heroine” was not at that time in her vocabulary!

Instead of trembling or looking pale, as I might have expected to see her, Waboose looked at me in the most composed manner, and with something on her lip that seemed to me like a smile of amusement. In some confusion, I thanked her for having saved my life.

She did not object to the thanks, but replied by asking me if it was the usual practice of white men to attack bears with their fists.

I could not help laughing at this.

“No, Waboose,” I replied, as I recharged my gun, “it is by no means usual; but when a man has no other weapon at hand, he is compelled to use his fists. And let me tell you,” I added, for I was somewhat nettled by the obvious laugh that nestled in the girl’s blue eyes,—“let me tell you that we English are pretty good at using our fists.”

“I know that,” she replied, becoming suddenly very grave as we walked on.

“You know that?” I repeated in surprise; “how came you to know that?”

“My dear father was English,” she answered in a low sad tone that smote me to the heart for having felt nettled—though I believe I did not show the feeling on my face or in my tone.

“Ah! Big Otter told me that,” said I, in an earnest tone of sympathy. “If it does not hurt her feelings too much to recall the past, I should like Waboose to tell me about her father.”

The girl looked at me in surprise. I had a fancy, at the time, that this was the result of the novel sensation of a man having any consideration for her feelings, for Indian braves are not, as a rule, much given to think about the feelings of their women. Indeed, from the way in which many of them behave, it is probable that some red-men think their women have no feelings at all.

In a low, melodious voice, and with some of that poetic imagery which marks the language, more or less, of all North American Indians, the girl began to speak—raising her eyes wistfully the while to the sky, as if she were communing with her own thoughts rather than speaking to me.

“My father was good—oh! so good and kind,” she said. “When I was small, like the foolish rabbit when it is a baby, he used to take me on his shoulders and run with me over the prairie like the wild mustang. Sometimes he put me in his bark canoe and skimmed with me over Lake Wichikagan till I fancied I was a grey-goose or a swan. Ah! those were happy days! No one can ever understand how much my father loved me. My mother loves me much, but she is not like my father. Perhaps it is the nature of the pale-faces to love more deeply than the red-men.”

Waboose uttered this last sentence as if she were questioning the sky on the point. I felt at the time that there was at least one pale-face who loved her better than all the red-men or women on earth, but a sense of justice caused me to repudiate the general idea.

“No, Waboose,” said I, firmly, “that is a mistake. Rough surroundings and a harsh life will indeed modify the heart’s affections, but the mere colour of the skin has nothing to do with it. The heart of the redskin can love as deeply as that of the white man—both were made by the same Great Master of Life.”

The girl cast her eyes meditatively on the ground and murmured simply, “It may be so.”

The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly, nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me. I had certainly none in comprehending her.

I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father’s death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from. She looked at me sadly as she replied—

“I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that. On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live; but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then. I shall never know it now.”

“At all events you must know his name, Waboose?”

“His name was Weeum,” replied the girl quickly.

“Was that all?”

“All,” she replied with a quick look, “was not that enough?”

“Well, perhaps it was,” I replied, scarce knowing what to say. “And why did he give you the name of Waboose?” I asked.

“Because when I was small I was round and soft,” replied the girl, with a slight smile, “like the little animal of that name. He told me that in his own language the animal is called rubbit.”

“Rabbit, not rubbit,” said I, with a laugh.

“My father taught me rubbit,” returned Waboose, with a simple look, “and he was always right.”

I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air—

“Yes, a leetil.”

“Why, you can speak English, Waboose,” I exclaimed, stopping and looking down at her with increasing interest.

“No—note mush, but me un’erstan’ good—deal,” she returned, with a hearty laugh at my expression.

I found on trial, however, that the girl’s knowledge of English was so slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back on the Indian tongue.

“I wish I had known your father, Waboose,” I said earnestly. “He must have been a very good man.”

She looked at me gratefully.

“Yes,” she returned, “he was very good.”

As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand; it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she said—

“My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my tribe, as they could not understand it—not even to my mother.”

“What is the secret, Waboose?” I asked, seeing that she hesitated again and looked at me with another of her searching glances.

“I do not know,” she replied.

“It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you don’t know it yourself,” I returned with a peculiar smile.

“It is a written secret, I believe, but I—I—do not know. He told me never to show it to any but a white man—to one whom I felt that I could trust. May I trust you?” she asked, looking me full in the face.

The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.

“You may trust me, Waboose,” I said earnestly, laying my hand involuntarily on my heart, “I would die rather than deceive or injure you.”

She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone—

“Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the hill-tops, and always happy—very happy! One day he looked sad. He took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, ‘I have sometimes longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,’ (he was fond of calling me by the English name), ‘but I cannot do so yet.’”

“‘Why not, my father?’ I asked.

“‘Because—because—’ he answered, ‘it could do no good, and it might do harm. No, my rubbit, the time may come, but not now—not yet. Listen; for your mother’s sake I left the home of the pale-faces and came to live with your tribe. For her sake I shall remain. But you know that life is uncertain. We cannot tell when the Great Master of Life may call us away. Sometimes he calls us suddenly and we are forced to leave our works unfinished. I may be called away thus, before the time comes when I may tell you what I want you to know. If so, you will find it all here.’

“My father took from the breast of his coat a small bundle wrapped in birch-bark and placed it in my hands.

“‘Do not open it,’ he said. ‘Do not show it to man or woman in the tribe. They could not understand, but if ever a white man comes here, whom you feel that you can trust, show it to him.’

“My father rose as he said this, and as he seemed to wish not to speak more about it, I did not trouble him, but I went and hid the parcel with care. It was almost immediately afterwards that my dear father was taken from me.”

We were suddenly interrupted at this point by the appearance of a man in the distance walking smartly towards us. I could perceive, as he drew near, that it was James Dougall.

“Well, well, Muster Maxby,” he said on coming up, “it’s gled I am to find you. I’ve been seekin’ you far an’ near.”

“Nothing wrong, I hope, Dougall,” said I with some anxiety, on observing that the man was perspiring and panting vehemently.

“No, no, nothin’ wrong, Muster Maxby, only it’s runnin’ aboot the wuds I’ve been, lookin’ for ye an’ skirlin’ like a pair o’ pipes. We’re aboot to draw the seine-net, ye see, an’ Tonald Pane said it would be a peety, says he, to begin when ye wur awa’, an’ Muster Lumley agreet wi’ um, an’ sent me oot to seek for ’ee—that’s a’.”

“Come along then, Dougall, we won’t keep them waiting.”

Nodding adieu to Waboose, I hurried away towards Fort Wichikagan, followed by the sturdy Highlander.